Watch Dogs

by John Shirley

  It was Verrick’s turn to shrug. “Little bit of something in my side. Went right through. Couple of stitches. Not much of a wound. I’ve had worse.”

  Actually it was bothering Verrick enough, along with his aching back, that he planned to go home after lunch. But he’d needed to put in an appearance here to seem like the iron man for Tranter and Luke—Luke Kelly was out in the hallway, keeping watch, in the unlikely event that Wolfe turned up here. There were three other guys hired from Graywater Security watching over the building—two in the alley, downstairs, one in the lobby. Real professional mercenaries.

  Tranter put his hand in his coat, brought out a tissue and blew his nose. “Sorry. I think I’m getting a head cold. So you want to handle Wolfe completely unofficially?”

  “That’s right,” Verrick said. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No. It’s just...harder to find the prick that way, without all those eyes on the street looking for him.”

  “You’re standing in the Blume building, Tranter! We’ve got ctOS in our pockets! And I’m the man with access to every security application ctOS has. Count on it, Tranter. We’ll find Wolfe. And not just him. We’ll run down that loose cannon Aiden Pearce too. We’re starting to suspect that’s who set up Wolfe’s getaway...”

  #

  It was an abandoned building, one of the old Projects, a ten story tenement long slated to be torn down. Most of the windows were boarded over. A fence had been erected around it, the hurricane wire now mostly knocked down.

  That’s where they’d taken Wolfe...

  On the outside, that’s how it looked: Just more abandoned projects housing near Washington Park in Black Viceroy territory. On the inside, that’s mostly what it was. Floor after floor with apartments missing their doors, every inch of wall, in halls and rooms, covered with spray-painted and markered tags, with graffiti of all kinds, but especially a lot of Black Viceroy insignias. Each room emptied out, the walls often broken open so copper could be torn out to sell to scavenger companies. Here and there in the hallways you might come across an old overturned doorless refrigerator or splintery bureau. Walk down those scarred up halls and your shoes crunched paint chips.

  But on the seventh floor of the old tenement, one apartment was different. The door to the apartment had been replaced—the new one was double layer steel—and the one-bedroom flat had been cleaned out and simply but comfortably refurnished. It was now one of Aiden Pearce’s safehouses—so Pussler claimed, after giving Wolfe the key and taking his leave, though Wolfe had seen nothing of Pearce since coming here.

  The windows were boarded up, but inside there was a working television, a radio, an operating bathroom, toilet paper, towels, plenty of functional electrical plugs with pirated power, a fairly new sofa bed and blankets, a closet in which leaned a nicely oiled pump shotgun and boxes of ammo; a PC on a desk, the PC, interestingly, not hooked up to the internet or wifi; a bedroom with a cot and a chest of drawers; a kitchenette with a microwave, its cabinets stocked with canned foods and freeze dried goods, instant coffee, pots and dishes and knives and forks. There was a small clothes washer, in the kitchenette, like something from a recreational vehicle, and a small dryer. There was even a bottle of damned good Scotch in a desk drawer.

  Wolfe was availing himself of that Scotch right now, as he brooded on his situation. It was late afternoon following the night of the Four Clubs debacle, and Wolfe was getting antsy. He was fed and warm and comfortable—and restless.

  He sat there on the sofa with a small glass in his hand, sipping the Laphroaig, looking at the television news with the sound turned off. He’d seen nothing, not a word, about his personal raid on the Four Clubs. He’d half-expected to see his face on television in a public service warning about an arch criminal with Verrick swearing he was a mad dog killer. But, nope. It was almost disappointing. More than that, it was worrisome. It suggested that Verrick was going after him some other way...

  Shouldn’t have tried to strike a deal with him, Wolfe thought. Stupid.

  He’d known instantly his former C.O. had no intention of following through on any deal. You get crazy ideas, sitting in stir in the federal Disciplinary Barracks. You got desperate notions and programmed yourself with them. Then when they didn’t work...what next?

  And where did Aiden Pearce fit into it?

  “Hello, Mick,” said the television to Mick Wolfe.

  Wolfe sat bolt upright, spilling some of his Scotch on the floor.

  Aiden Pearce was staring at him from the television screen. No doubt of the identity of this man. Those sharp emerald-green eyes, that dark-brown hair. Pearce’s face was filling most of the screen. It was gazing right at him.

  Pearce smiled. “Don’t be spilling that Scotch, Wolfe. Stuff’s expensive.”

  “What the hell? Why are you on television?”

  “Just something I can do. I’ve rerouted a webcam transmission to this television, just this particular television set. The set has been customized. I’m reaching you through a Local Area Network I’ve set up. There’s a special switching hub—but, never mind. We can talk about all that some other time.”

  “I could swear I muted that television.”

  “If I can put myself up here you don’t think I can unmute the television?”

  “Good point. Feels weird talking to you this way. Like hallucinating.”

  Pearce chuckled. “I guess it could feel that way. But I can’t just call you on a cell phone. Not yet.”

  “Haven’t got a cell phone currently anyway. I’ve got a laptop. Trying not to use it too much, in case ctOS picks up...Wait—I get how I can see you. But if you can see me...”

  “There must be a camera in the room. Yes. But you know where that would be.”

  “Webcam in that PC.”

  “And a microphone. Pussler naturally didn’t mention that.”

  “Pussler—you trust that guy?”

  “Didn’t he get me off the street when I was shot? Didn’t he show up for you?”

  “Sure, but...he seems like a...uh...waste case.”

  “He is. In fact I make sure he doesn’t know where I am most of the time. I’ve left the last safehouse, gone to another he doesn’t know. There is someone else I can’t trust...but I don’t know who it is yet. But it isn’t Pussler.”

  “Good to hear. Because he knows where I am. If he decides he wants to make a deal with someone else...”

  “He’s on my payroll. And he’s like a stray dog that’s very loyal after you feed it.”

  “How many people are on your payroll?”

  “A few too many lately. I’m going to be pruning that back. Someone seems to have found out about my meeting with you. Someone on my team. I don’t know who. I didn’t tell anyone. But they must’ve...”

  He didn’t seem to want to say what they “must’ve” done.

  “How do you finance this payroll?”

  “I steal from bad guys. Through hacking.”

  “Like—who?”

  “Like meth dealers. After I’ve skimmed enough from people like that, I turn them over to...well, I have people I get the information to, occasionally. Even certain people in the FBI, now and then. They sometimes act on my information and sometimes don’t. But it salves my conscience to tell them...”

  “I’m down on conscience. I’ve been screwed over by my own conscience. And my dad was screwed over by his.”

  “Yes. I know he was. I remember. That’s one of the reasons you’re where you are at this moment—and it’s one of the reasons I’m going to do what I’m going to do.”

  “Which is what?”

  “If I decide it’s safe to do it, I’m going to give you a very special tool, to help you in your...your personal mission. At least, I think that’s what I’m going to do...But I need more information.”

  “About?”

  “About what you were doing in the Four Clubs, and why Roger Verrick is being so secretive about trying to find you. Why he’s using every cove
rt technology at his disposal to find you. I heard you talking about some of it when you were with Verrick—I was tracking you all that day. I read some of your military files...but I didn’t get a clear picture. I want to hear the full story, Mick.”

  “You mean—now?”

  “Yeah. Now. This line is secure, I promise you. Every packet from that room is being switched and repacketed and routed again and encrypted and then repacketed before it gets to me. And vice versa.”

  “Maybe. But...” Could he trust Pearce that far? He’d hoped to get some help from him—but should he tell him everything? “Pussler says I owe you bigtime. What is it I have to do for you?”

  “I have a feeling our missions are going to converge, Mick. I got a ctOS shot of you talking to a cop, a police detective named Tranter. I got a lip reading program giving me part of what he said. Which had to do with his advice on you not having anything to do with me. Now why is he telling you that? When I checked him out, I found out he’s connected to Verrick. He’s been having meetings with Roger Verrick—meetings Tranter doesn’t put on his police log. Roger Verrick, whom you nearly shot last night. Tranter seemed to know all about that attempt to kill me, judging by his warning to you. Seems like we just might have the same enemies.”

  “But there is something you want...”

  “Lots of somethings, probably. First off...I had a scrambler on the cameras, that whole block we were on, where they tried to shoot me. So they couldn’t see me. But they’d followed me there...Trouble with that scrambler, I didn’t get an image of the guy taking the shot at me. But I did get one of the van going down the street, and where it ended up. I traced it to a train station. He got out and I lost him in the crowd after that. Never did get a real good look at him. But I did get a shoddy image when he got out of that van. Not enough for ctOS facial recognition programs. Still...from what I understand, you’re an expert on satellite picture enhancement. Is that right?”

  “More or less.”

  “I hope it’s more. Same enhancement issue. You know where to get any software relating to that? Something you could use?”

  Wolfe snorted. “It’s on my laptop! I knew they were coming to arrest me, in Somalia—so I uploaded stuff that might be useful. Put it up in my own little corner of the cloud. And when I got out of jail I downloaded it onto my laptop. Which I swiped from...well, it doesn’t matter where I swiped the laptop from.”

  “You stole a car the other day, too.”

  “Yeah. I did.” He decided not to ask how Pearce knew that. “After they busted me, on a bogus pretence, I stopped caring much about the law. But I don’t make a profit on stolen cars, if that’s what you mean. I just borrow them now and then and leave them where they can be found. One of them had a laptop in it that hadn’t been used much...”

  “I’ve been known to borrow a few cars myself. Listen—one thing I need from you is to take the scrappy image of the shooter who nearly took my head off. See if you can use that program and your experience to enhance it.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I’m transmitting it to the PC there. Upload your software to the PC—see what you can do.”

  “That PC doesn’t seem to have wifi—”

  “I have my own, for that apartment—when I want it to be there.”

  “It’ll take me time to run the enhancement.”

  “Then do it after you tell me your story...”

  “I still feel funny talking to a television.”

  “You’re talking to me, Wolfe. Go on. What happened in Somalia?”

  Wolfe thought about it. He’d probably be dead now, if it weren’t for Pearce...

  Wolfe took a sip of Scotch, and then he took the leap. “I was in an air conditioned trailer, on a CIA black ops base....”

  #

  I was in an air conditioned trailer, on a CIA black ops base, when I saw the takedown.

  I shouldn’t be talking about the base, Pearce, but I’ll tell you this much: it was pretty well camouflaged on a little Yemeni island called Socatra, in the Gulf of Aden, couple hundred miles off the coast of Somalia. I was Army, Delta Force, not CIA, but we worked closely with the spooks and shared a lot of runways. Special Activities Division, Special Operations Group—I rubbed elbows with all those guys out there. Spook soldiers.

  I was running surveillance drones over a compound about five klicks south of the eastern edge of Mogadishu. This was pure surveillance—no weapons on this kind of drone. Keeping it unarmed made it smaller, better for staying covert. I used the drones and the satellite surveillance detailing program to look for possible al Qaeda operatives, and now and then for some of those Gulf of Aden pirate dhows.

  I remember being tired of that cramped trailer under its green and black cammie netting; tired of the monitors, tired of wearing the headphones. I was good at what I was doing. I was good at anything digital, electronic, computerized, remote controlled, so that’s how I ended up there. But I was starting to miss working in the field. When I was sent on missions into the field I used to set up likely sniper targets using infrared gear. I had to sneak a good distance in-country for that, all on my lonesome. Scary as hell but at least it wasn’t boring. Not like sitting in a trailer staring into monitors.

  Before I was stuck in the trailer, I got caught out with my ass hanging out three times, when I was in the field—and three times I was lucky enough to fight my way back to the exfiltration point. Another time I saw the enemy moving some prisoners of war, a small group of Navy SEALS. I went outside my orders, took out the al Qaeda guards, got the POWs out of there, and the brass gave me a Silver Star for that. Not a year later the same guys who’d given me the medal were throwing me in the federal slammer.

  Why did I get the slammer? It’s because of what I saw when I went outside my briefing in my last drone operation. Guess who gave me the briefing? Major Roger Verrick: “You search this area, Wolfe, don’t go outside it, we’re not risking another drone. Don’t get cowboy with those drones. You know what those things cost?”

  He’d given me a much smaller area than usual. It bothered me. I was fully vetted, I had top access, it was like he didn’t trust me to see some operation.

  So maybe I ignored him, and wandered outside the search area a little; yeah, maybe I colored outside the lines. Verrick had been working on my last nerve. Calling me a cowboy, telling me to stay on my leash like a good doggie.

  Maybe I should have. But they train Delta Force to think independently.

  It was nighttime on the Somali coast, and I was watching the roads from a drone’s eye view, infrared scanning, and saw something interesting: a fairly small cargo truck heading south on a highway paralleling the coast—but it was a truck with an escort. There were two unmarked humvees along for the trip, one in front of the truck, and one behind it.

  That looked like one of the CIA’s little convoys. Why hadn’t I been briefed on it?

  Then I saw the humvee in front of the truck skid to a stop. The truck had to stop, too, so the humvee in back stopped.

  Then four men got out of the front humvee, all at once. I had to move the drone in closer to try to see their faces. They wore paramilitary togs, with no insignia, and cammie blacking on their faces. I zoomed as much as I could. One of them looked at the sky, just for a second.

  The driver of the front humvee moved back to the truck’s driver, and had the driver open the door. While he spoke to the driver of the truck, another man moved to the passenger side. Meanwhile the other two paramilitaries from the front vehicle moved toward the rear of the truck. They signaled the rear humvee, which, apparently on their orders, backed up about twenty meters. One of the guys from the front humvee climbed up into the back of the truck—and a moment later jumped out, with an RPG launcher in his hands. Rocket Propelled Grenade...

  The RPG gunner had the weapon set up. He fired it straight at the rear humvee.

  The rocket hit the humvee solid, right in the grill. The big vehicle exploded—and it was too big an explosi
on for an RPG: someone had set another explosive in advance, a passive charge, somewhere on the front of that vehicle. Because, let me tell you, Pearce, that thing went up like a can of gasoline under a flamethrower. Ka-wham. Pieces of it rained down everywhere.

  The man with the RPG looked up at the sky. Could be he sensed a drone nearby. His glance gave me a good shot of his face. I wasn’t sure, but... Blacking on his face or not, I thought that was Major Roger Verrick, down there.

  I caught flashes from the front of the truck and I realized the two men flanking the truck were opening fire through the open doors.

  Even from the drone’s high point of view I could tell the men inside were shot all to pieces. Had to be.

  I thought about calling in a strike on the shooters, or calling in other observers—but I didn’t know for sure what was going on. If that had been Verrick, there could be an operational reason for all of this. Those guys in the truck and the rear humvee might be anyone...

  Maybe Verrick had warned me away from observing this area for legit reasons.

  But this sure didn’t feel legit.

  The killers pulled the bodies out of the cab of the truck, climbed up, and took over...They must’ve settled down in puddles of blood, on those seats. Not giving a damn.

  The two in back of the truck returned to the front, one of them carrying the RPG launcher, and stood by. The truck drove around the parked humvee, and waited a ways ahead. One of the men with the RPG fired at the front humvee. That one blew up too.

  Then they tossed the RPG in the brush, jogged up to the truck, and got in the back. And the truck drove off.

  I didn’t know definitely who most of the guys who’d done the killing were. I had one uncertain I.D.. I didn’t know who they’d killed. I didn’t know who to turn to.

  So I started analyzing the images on my own time.

  The faces weren’t sharply defined until I pulled in the analysis and enhancement software. There, first guy who’d looked at the sky—Major Roger Verrick. Second guy, Rafe Callahan.

  Maybe this had been some a U.S. black ops takedown. Could be that it was something so classified it had a classification level I’d never heard of. There were rumors of accesses like that.