by Mark Nolan
“No problem.” Roxanne ended the call, looked at Beth, and shook her head. “Where’s the nearest place to buy a blender?”
Chapter 40
A wealthy British criminal known by the code name “Chairman Banks” was riding in the backseat of his brand-new limousine. He was looking on his phone at some of the San Francisco restaurants he wanted to try. Pressing a control and lowering the window between him and his driver, he said, “Abhay, be a good lad and get me a dinner reservation at this restaurant.” He held up his phone so Abhay could see the display. “I want to try their wood-grilled octopus as an appetizer. For the main course I’ll have roasted baby goat, along with calf’s brain ravioli in a lemon cream sauce, and some crusty slices of rosemary and olive bread. For dessert they offer an intriguing dish made of pig’s blood cooked with dark chocolate to create a mousse that is layered between slices of white cake, drizzled with blackberry sauce and served with a cup of Turkish coffee.”
“I’ll do my best to get you a table on such short notice, sir,” Abhay said.
“Money is no object. Bribe the maître d’ with an outrageous sum if you must.”
“But of course, sir.”
Banks was surprised when his encrypted phone vibrated with a call. Hardly anybody had the number, and most of those who did had died recently and quite violently. It was from an unknown caller so he let it go to voicemail. No message was left. Moments later, he received a text.
Hello, Mr. Banks. You’re being followed by the FBI. A black helicopter is above you, and a matching SUV is behind you. Answer my call if you wish to avoid being arrested and sent to a federal penitentiary. My guess is that you have less than three minutes to decide.
Banks used a silk handkerchief to mop the sweat from his brow. His phone vibrated again, and he reluctantly thumbed the answer icon. “Hello?”
“Look out the back window of your vehicle. Do you see a black SUV, five cars back, behind a silver Benz?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the FBI. Their helicopter is above you. Look up through your moonroof.”
Banks looked up at the sky above and saw the helicopter flying there. “How do you know this?”
“Because I’ve had a drone following you for some time now.”
Banks gripped his phone tighter. “May I politely inquire as to why?”
“I was planning to kill you, but now I’d like us to work together. No hard feelings.”
Banks felt his blood pressure rising. “Is that so? And what sort of work do you propose?”
“Making money from criminal enterprises, of course—what you do best.”
“Flatterer. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”
“I’m Elena, the friend of a mutual friend.”
“And what is the name of this mutual friend?”
“He was killed by a man who has meddled in your business and mine.”
“I need names. Your name, our mutual friend’s name, and the name of the man you claim is meddling.”
“Jake Wolfe is the man who killed our mutual friend, and he’s the one meddling in our affairs,” Elena said. “That should tell you what you want to know.”
Banks hesitated a moment. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name.”
“Liar. I’ll let you go now. It will be fun to watch on my drone cam while the FBI agents arrest you.”
“Now you’re going to tell me there’s only one way it can be avoided, and you hold the magic key to my escape.”
“You’re a bright boy. Do you want to hear the idea?”
“Not especially, but tell me anyway.”
“You’ll drive into an underground parking garage, switch cars, and drive out. I’ll make the FBI believe that you’re still in your limousine, and involved in a shoot-out.”
“You expect the FBI to swallow that?”
“Yes, because the video will be shown on their own dashboard computers in their vehicles. It will show your limousine being shot by hundreds of rounds and bursting into flames.”
“That might offer some convincing visual stimulation,” Banks said.
“After you exit your limousine, two of my associates will pour gasoline all over it and shoot it with an automatic weapon loaded with tracer rounds.”
“I imagine they’ll cause quite a flaming mess of my car.”
“They’ll transmit a video of the scene, and I’ll route it to the FBI computers as if it’s coming from security cams at the parking garage,” Elena said.
“And you believe the federal agents will rush to the fire, like moths to a flame?”
“Yes. They want to take you alive, interrogate you and send you to prison.”
“You might be leading me into a death trap.”
“Look up at the helicopter again. It’s descending to the pinch point, where you’ll be stopped and arrested.”
Banks looked up and saw the helicopter approaching fast. He looked out the back window and saw the same black SUV, but now there were no cars between it and his limousine.
“You can’t really believe I’d abandon my limousine and get into a strange car based upon a phone call from an unknown person.”
“Enjoy prison life and your new friends there. If you change your mind, you’ll find the coordinates on your phone.”
Elena then texted a code that only Banks and his former paid killer had known. The code to send payment to one of the killer’s secret offshore bank accounts.
Banks stared at the code in shock. She’d hacked the dead assassin’s bank passwords? That meant she had millions of dollars at her fingertips. The call ended. He received another text, showing a map and the address of a hotel that was three blocks ahead of his current location.
The SUV following him came up close on the limousine’s bumper. The helicopter appeared above and in front of his car and hovered dangerously close to the street and buildings.
Abhay said, “Sir, a vehicle is closing in on us from behind, and a helicopter is dropping into attack position ahead.”
Banks took a deep breath. “Be a good lad and look for a hotel parking entrance up ahead on the right.” He recited the address.
Blue and red lights began flashing from behind the front grille of the SUV, and a voice crackled over a loudspeaker. “Attention, driver of the black limousine. This is the FBI. Stop your car, open your door, and put your hands behind your head.”
Banks was sweating in fear as he said, “There’s the garage. Turn in and go down to the second level. Go!”
Abhay obeyed, and the SUV followed behind them. As they passed the first level, a pickup truck pulled out behind the limousine and blocked the path of the following SUV.
“Go quickly now,” Banks said.
They roared through the garage with tires squealing. A man waved at them and pointed at a white four-door family sedan.
“Stop the car, Abhay.”
“Sir, I suggest that we—”
“Sorry, but I’m leaving this car behind now. I invite you to come with me and continue to be my driver, but as of this moment, you are under no further obligation.”
Abhay raised his eyebrows, but stopped the car and got out. He opened the door for his boss and gestured toward the other car. “Let’s be on our way, sir.”
“Good lad, carry on.”
They got into the family sedan. Banks found a white blanket in the backseat that matched the white interior color scheme. “Brilliant.”
Abhay looked on the dashboard and saw a baseball hat, glasses, an ugly sweater, and a stick-on mustache. He put on the disguise and drove up to parking level one.
Banks stretched out prone on the backseat and covered himself with the blanket.
They exited the hotel’s underground parking area, just a few minutes after they’d entered. An FBI agent looked at the car as it drove past, but the vehicle and the sole occupant didn’t match the descriptions on his dashboard computer.
In the garage, the limo was in flames and being fired upon by tracer roun
ds. All the FBI agents saw it on their car computers and phones. They raced to the burning car and used fire extinguishers to put out the flames. The man who’d driven the pickup truck and fired the tracer rounds was nowhere to be found.
After the flames were extinguished, the car remained sizzling hot, smelling like barbecued meat. An agent managed to get a back door opened, and they all saw a burned and smoldering carcass, prone on the backseat.
Upon closer inspection, one agent said, “That’s a side of beef. Somebody played a trick on us.”
Chapter 41
Elena called Banks. “I’m pleased you went along with the plan instead of going to prison. Here’s video of your car in flames, with the FBI agents surrounding it.”
“A ghastly scene.”
“I have a stock tip to help further our new business relationship.” Elena texted a stock chart to his phone.
Banks studied the chart. “What am I looking for?”
“The price of that stock is going to drop like a rock today, and most of tomorrow. Then it will make a recovery and shoot up to new highs.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I’m working hard at stock manipulation.”
“Impressive.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And your particular method?”
“One you’d appreciate—the accidental death of a few key people.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve used it myself in the past.”
“Keep an eye on that stock. Sell short, then buy low and watch it rise.”
“I’ll use stock options on this bet. Puts and calls.”
“Good idea. Less risk and more leverage.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“A percentage of your profits. You have vast sums available to invest. Your profits will be staggering.”
Elena ended the call and studied her laptop. Her plan for the “accidental death” of key people began moving ahead on schedule.
A vehicle struck a pedestrian when he crossed the street. Sandeep was a humble genius engineer with a new theory of an internet algorithm profit model that might provide free Wi-Fi to the entire world while still earning millions from advertisers. He worked on the secret project in his home office, and kept a backup copy on a USB drive he carried with him everywhere.
A woman ran up to Sandeep as he lay on the pavement, dying. She acted as if she was trying to help, but she secretly reached into the coin pocket of his jeans and removed the small USB drive.
A few blocks away, an accomplice broke into Sandeep’s apartment and stole his computer. In a few minutes, the young genius was dead and his work had disappeared—until one day in the future when a corporation would “invent” it, again.
Moments later, in Presidio Heights, a woman sat out on the back deck of her hillside home, with a latte and a laptop. She made her living by investing in local start-up companies.
San Francisco was a city of dreamers with big ideas. Billions of dollars in funding were available to promising new start-ups. Yet out of every hundred companies, there might be five success stories and ninety-five flameouts. It was high-stakes gambling with incredible risks, and astronomical financial rewards to the fortunate few who bet on the right idea.
She was one of the few. The ventures she invested in earned healthy incomes, and were often bought out for giant sums of money. Many went broke later, but she didn’t care. One person’s loss was another’s gain.
Suddenly, she heard a strange mechanical whine and saw what looked like a remote-controlled toy fire truck rolling toward her. The bright red RC truck was about the size of a shoe box, with four fat black tires. The strange thing stopped in front of her, and a mechanical arm rose up and fired a shot.
She was surprised to be hit with a dart, and she felt like she was having a heart attack. Her heartbeat increased and her blood pressure shot up. She began shaking as she tried to use her phone, but instead she bit down on her tongue and foamed at the mouth as she experienced a heart attack and a seizure.
The toy truck approached her and the mechanical arm reached out and plucked the dart from her body. The truck then retreated and drove away, back the way it had come.
The woman went into convulsions, fell over onto the deck and rolled into the swimming pool. She died as she spasmed and inhaled the chlorinated water.
In the affluent Sea Cliff neighborhood, a man slept late, and when he awoke with a hangover, he remained in bed as he turned on the big-screen TV to watch the financial news. He saw Elena’s face instead. She glared at him in anger and said, “Try to change the channel.”
He pressed the remote, but her angry face was on every channel.
“You’re a bright boy. If you look closely at the remote, you’ll see why it doesn’t work.”
He stared at it closely, and it blew up in his face, spraying a liquid polymer onto him that resulted in a thick plastic-like coating over his face, nose and mouth. He tried to pull the mask off, but it hardened in seconds and stuck to him like glue. He choked to death, while trying to scream but only making a muffled sound as his eyes pleaded for life.
Elena’s image on the TV screen cackled with laughter as she watched him suffocate and die.
Chapter 42
On their way to buy a red blender, Beth drove the police surveillance van while Roxanne tapped and swiped on a tablet.
“I’ve got something,” Roxanne said. “This is new and unproven tech, but it says the targeted computer is located in a nearby building.”
“Location?” Beth said.
“The corner of Market Street and Montgomery.”
Beth turned on her lights and took side streets and shortcuts to avoid traffic as she drove toward the financial district.
Roxanne continued typing as her software searched for an individual computer connected to the internet.
“It’s one of these high-rise towers.” Roxanne pointed. Take a left at the next street. Now keep going, two more blocks. Pull over—it’s that building on the right.”
Beth stopped the car in front of a glass-and-steel skyscraper. She parked illegally in a loading zone and tossed the police parking permit onto the dashboard.
Roxanne got out of the van. She held a device up in front of her and thumbed the screen as she walked. Beth followed behind and scanned the street for threats.
“This might be wrong, but it says the targeted computer is located at the top of this building,” Roxanne said.
They badged the doorman, got into an elevator and held the side rails as it rocketed upwards, making their stomachs drop. When they arrived at the top floor and stepped into the hall, a sign said Penthouse Suites. Roxanne walked down the hall, stopping in front of a door. “This is it.”
Beth pounded her fist on the door. “San Francisco police! Open up, I have a search warrant!”
Nobody answered the door. Roxanne looked at Beth in confusion. “What warrant?”
Someone inside the suite was cursing in Russian.
Beth motioned for Roxanne to stand aside. “It sounds to me like someone in there is calling out for help.” She backed down the hall several yards, got a running start and slammed her shoulder and body weight against the door.
The door burst open and Beth saw a brunette woman wearing the kind of “wingsuit” that helps you fly through the air like a kite.
The woman gave them the finger, then jumped off the balcony into the air and dropped out of sight.
Beth ran out the open sliding door and looked down. The fugitive was flying between high-rise buildings like a bird or a paper airplane.
Roxanne appeared by Beth’s side, grabbed her by the arm and yelled, “Get out! Run! Now!”
A laptop computer sat on the dining table, and an automated female voice said, “Self-destruct initiated. Explosion in ten … nine … eight …”
“Go!—go!—go!” Roxanne said as she pulled on Beth’s arm.
They ran to the stairwell and pounded down the steps to the next floor. Th
ere was a tremendous thunder clap and the building shook. Roxanne stumbled, tripped and almost fell headfirst down the stairs before Beth reached out and caught her. Concrete dust rained down on both of them.
Beth used her handheld radio to call for backup and firefighters.
Roxanne cursed. “I have to get inside that penthouse before the evidence burns up.” She ran up the stairs, grabbed a fire extinguisher from the stairway wall, and opened the door to the top floor a few inches. Flames rushed into the stairwell, but she stood behind the hot metal door, the heat radiating to her shoulder while she sprayed the fire extinguisher through the narrow opening. Flames licked her hair and singed her shirtsleeves but she continued spraying until the canister was empty.
Once she had partial control of an area of the hallway, she ran in and grabbed the fire hose from the wall. Flames were crawling up the walls, but she sprayed them with a torrent of cold water.
Beth appeared behind her. “Good job. Now spray into the apartment.”
Roxanne blasted water through the open door of the apartment and onto the carpet and furniture.
“Give me the hose—you find the evidence,” Beth said.
They entered the living room as Beth began spraying the floor, walls, and ceiling.
Roxanne held her sleeved elbow over her mouth, darted down a hallway, and found the master bedroom. Thankfully, it wasn’t as damaged as the living room. A docking station with various devices being charged sat on a nightstand next to the bed.
She grabbed a pillowcase and began tossing items into it. She opened drawers and dumped them out, lifted the bed mattress and looked underneath, and checked the closet, inside pockets of jackets and coats, and behind furniture. Next she searched the bathroom.
When she finished, she ran back to the living room and left the apartment along with Beth as they coughed due to the foul smoke from burning sheetrock, plastics, and carpet.
The fire department arrived and insisted that the police leave the penthouse floor while they put out the flames.
