by Jonas Saul
He jumped up from Clara’s desk and ran to his home office. Seated behind his desk, he fired up his iMac. As usual, it didn’t take long. The normal picture was still there. He opened his files and found them all there and accounted for.
Then he clicked to access his personal folder, the password-protected one with the images Damien sent to him before he made the trip to the Aarhus hotel each week. Anton took his own photos as well. Sometimes he revisited his appointments through the week by scanning those photos.
The password window opened. He typed it in and clicked enter.
Password denied.
He frowned, rubbed his chin, thought about which of his several passwords he had used, then tried again.
Password denied.
His stomach dropped. His hands shook. If he couldn’t access that file he would have to take a hammer to his computer. If Damien had been arrested in Aarhus, and if he gave up his client list in some deal for a lenient sentence, then the authorities would be barging in Anton’s door within days, if not hours.
He needed to access that personal file and delete it, or destroy the computer.
One more try with an old password didn’t work. Nothing worked. He had been locked out of his personal file. Something he thought was impossible. Although he shouldn’t have. With all the hackers out there, the best, the elite, would easily be able to see everything on his hard drive.
The familiar email notification sounded and a rectangular bar slipped into the upper right corner of his screen announcing he had just received a new email.
It seemed like the room grew darker as he brought the mouse down and clicked on his mail icon.
The message came from [email protected].
Against his better judgement, Anton clicked to open the message.
Anton Olafson,
You have tried three times to access your personal folder. Why? There is nothing there for you anymore. I have all the photos, all the proof. I have changed the passwords in your computer. Do you know why? Because I am untouchable. I do this because I can. I do this because I enjoy it. I do this because I love playing God.
Stop wasting time in attempts to cover your tracks and begin thinking about murder. You have just over six days left to do as I wish or Clara will decide to never come home again. Ever.
I’m watching. From every computer, from every street corner. I’m watching. Log onto this computer when you are ready to provide me with evidence of your deed. Make it real. Clara is counting on you to pull through for her. We all are.
Yours Truly,
Pain.
Anton sat back in his office chair, gasping for air, a hand on his chest. He read the last part without breathing, then gulped air like he was eating it. He clenched his clammy hands and tried to compose himself. He stared at the screen without seeing it, dazed by what he had read, breath still bursting in and out of his mouth.
The cursor on the screen moved.
He moaned and leaned back farther, tipping the chair. The cursor headed to the delete button.
Someone’s in my computer right now! The thought screamed inside his head.
He lunged forward to grab the mouse, but it was no use. Whoever had taken over his screen—commandeered by remote screen-sharing—had full control.
The email got deleted.
The icon closed his email window. Then clicked on his personal file.
The password was entered from somewhere else, each letter or digit represented by an asterisk.
The file opened in front of him. Each and every picture of him with underage boys as he defiled them.
Even though he was sure he had blanched, heat rose to his face and his hands numbed.
Am I having a heart attack?
The hacker scrolled through the pictures, stopping on the most explicit ones. He enlarged one, zoomed in, then took a screen shot. Anton’s face was quite clear in the photo. So was the young boy’s face.
Damien had assured him none of the boys were under the age of fifteen, but Anton remembered this particular boy. Anton could’ve sworn he was younger than that, but didn’t debate it at the time.
And now the image filled his screen.
While someone else, somewhere in the world, stared at it, too.
He was ruined. As good as dead. He would never survive in prison.
The options were lose Clara forever and go to jail for sleeping with underage prostitutes, or kill a random woman and go to jail for murder. Those were his only two options because whoever had hacked into his home computer was good, better than good.
He was ruined.
His computer shut down remotely.
The room darkened as the screen clicked off.
Anton wept as he decided he would rather kill a random girl, someone who lived on the streets, than lose Clara.
He just hoped it would stop there.
But somehow he doubted it.
Chapter 7
Aaron moved behind a desk and produced a brochure. The Clock took it from him, his smile widening.
“I’m Aaron Stevens.” Aaron held out his hand. “This is my dojo. And you are?”
The Clock thrust out his hand and gave Aaron his real name. There was no harm in that as Aaron had less than twelve minutes to live.
“I’m Ansgar Holm.”
“Ansgar? Interesting name. Is that Finnish?”
“Danish. My last name, Holm, is derived from Old Norse, meaning small island. My parents lived on the Island of Fanø before I was born.”
“So you’re Danish, living in Canada.”
Ansgar eyed him for a brief moment wondering if Aaron knew more than he should.
“Danish background,” he said, his tone deeper. “American now, spending time in Canada.”
“Enough time to be interested in a class?” Aaron asked, his smile widening in return.
“That’s about it,” Ansgar said.
Aaron is on to me. I can feel it.
“We’ve got plenty of classes,” Aaron said. “Ones to suit all levels from beginners to avid street fighters to simple self-defense courses.”
Aaron went on for another minute detailing what one would benefit from joining his dojo. He seemed like a nice enough man. When meeting his kills before termination, Ansgar often wondered what that person did to warrant the hit. What could Aaron have done to make the client angry enough to not only want him dead, but to also blow up his business?
“Can I take this?” Ansgar held up the brochure. There were less than eight minutes left until the bombs he planted the previous evening decided to make their presence known.
“Of course.” Aaron stepped around the desk and stood in front of Ansgar. One on one, without martial art training, Ansgar was sure he could take Aaron in a fight. Although that was contingent on how good Aaron was. If he was Jet Li good, then maybe not. But as a Navy Seal, Ansgar had done serious hand-to-hand combat and was quite confident in his skill.
“How long are you in Canada?” Aaron asked.
“Six month contract,” Ansgar lied. “Plenty of time to work something out.”
A door opened along the side wall. The sound of students training increased in volume momentarily as a young man with a gym bag slung over his shoulder stepped into the main office. Skinny, small in stature, the man slipped past Ansgar, waved at Aaron, and opened the door to the street.
“Nice training in there today, Alex,” Aaron said. “Thanks.”
Ansgar watched Alex lope by until he was past the windows.
Ansgar checked his watch.
9:55 a.m.
Aaron’s got five minutes to live.
“Well, I must be going. Thanks for this.” He held up the brochure and backed toward the door.
“We’re here if you decide to come back and sign up.” Aaron moved behind the desk and dropped in his seat.
“Will do.”
Ansgar stepped outside where he waited until the door closed.
9:56 a.m.
Four minu
tes to fireworks. He wanted to be across the street and up a city block before his little friends did their deed.
One last turn to wave at Aaron, and then Ansgar started up the street. At the corner, he crossed with the light. While doing so, he glanced over his shoulder. No one had exited the dojo. It would blow in two minutes, killing everyone inside. Unfortunate for the students. How were they to know Aaron had pissed off someone important? Someone with money. Someone who could remain anonymous and murder so easily.
Ansgar assessed his distance to be enough, but to avoid a random piece of shrapnel, he moved down another ten feet and leaned against a building’s column. If anything flew his way, it would make contact with the column first.
9:59 a.m.
No one had left the building.
Ansgar watched a Toronto taxi drive by. A woman in a business skirt hustled down the sidewalk toward the dojo.
“Don’t walk so fast, my pretty,” he mumbled to himself.
She made the street light where he had just crossed moments before and had to stop for the red light.
It was funny how fate worked. Fate was a fickle bitch at best. One day soon that woman will realize that her life was saved by a red light.
He checked his watch.
Ten seconds left.
He closed his eyes and counted them down in his head. On the third to last second, Ansgar opened his eyes and peered down at the entrance to the dojo.
The red light changed on the street and the woman began walking.
The front window of the dojo lit up like the sun for a brief moment, then the front window and door blew out. The briefest of moments later, another concussion shot bricks and chunks of wood across the street.
Then the dojo was obliterated upwards and outwards.
Ansgar leaned back behind the post to protect himself from unwanted pieces of building entering his flesh. Someone was screaming. Car alarms blared somewhere. His ears rang from the initial explosion, but he could still hear most of the aftermath.
From where he stood behind the column, the sound of flames licking the remains of the dojo were loud.
He leaned out to get a better look. The dojo was a self-contained building with no rooms above it. Each building on either side sustained minor damage to their facade.
Ansgar was happy with this result. He wasn’t a crazed lunatic. He had been hired to destroy the dojo and do it with Aaron Stevens inside so that’s what he did. Blowing up random buildings wasn’t part of who he was. The people inside Aaron’s dojo were collateral damage. It happened in his business.
The woman who had stopped at the red light was on the sidewalk, holding her leg. Blood oozed out of a wound. She screamed for help.
A siren wailed in the distance.
The Clock was done. The contract had been completed.
Ansgar Holm grinned to himself and walked away from the carnage. He pulled out his cell phone and texted the number for the client.
Our mutual friend has left the building. The building is no more.
At the street light three blocks up, he turned back as fire trucks arrived on scene.
Movement caught his eye.
That guy who had walked out when Ansgar had been talking to Aaron—the name Alex popped into his mind—slipped into a café four doors down.
Ansgar was sure Alex had been staring right at him.
Ansgar trotted back to the café’s door, ripped it open and jumped inside.
Several customers stood by the front window, watching the carnage down the street, their coffees forgotten on three different tables.
A woman with a white apron strapped to her waist, addressed Ansgar.
“Did you see that?” she asked, then frowned. “Hey, are you okay, Mister?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry, can I get you a coffee or maybe something stronger.”
She seemed like a genuinely nice woman. Pretty smile. Name tag read, Lisa Brown.
“Did a man slip in here less than twenty seconds ago?” he asked.
Lisa frowned again. He studied her eyes. All the tells were in the eyes. Lisa’s eyes didn’t avert. She simply looked at him, dumbfounded at the silly question.
“I was watching out the window,” Lisa said. “Didn’t see anyone. Just that.” She pointed at the razed dojo.
Ansgar checked toward the back of the café. It was empty. Everyone was at the front window.
“I’ll just use your washroom,” he said.
He started for the back without waiting for an answer. At the door to the bathroom, he turned left and entered the back room of the café.
Empty.
He ran through and pushed the back office door open.
Empty.
Could he be wrong? Did Alex enter the business next door?
When he spun around to leave through the back door, it sat ajar.
He smashed it open with his shoulder and jumped outside, his hand hovering over the holstered weapon in his waistband.
The back alleyway was empty.
It appeared that young Alex might prove to be a problem.
Whoever the hell he was.
Chapter 8
An hour into the second flight after changing planes at LAX, Sarah rested her head back and closed her eyes. A light meal had been served. She’d had one glass of wine which calmed her enough to rest.
The anticipation of landing in Toronto, clearing customs and getting downtown from the airport as soon as she could meant she wouldn’t get to Aaron for over five more hours. What did his letter from Vivian say? Did Vivian warn him in time to save his life? Did the letter even get to him in time?
Maybe that was why he was to die. The timing was off and the letter misses him.
She let out a long breath in an elongated sigh. Why did she send him home from Vegas? They had a pact. They agreed to keep nothing from the other one going forward. Their pact was one of full disclosure.
When her father called and told her to come home to Santa Rosa and tell no one, that was what she did. And now a man nicknamed The Clock—at least that’s what she thought Vivian’s note meant—was set to murder Aaron in Toronto, exactly where Sarah had sent him.
Aaron’s death would be on her head. She couldn’t take that kind of guilt. She refused to. When she called his number from the airport, she got voicemail.
Sarah rubbed the back of her neck as the plane bounced slightly in turbulence, wishing it to fly faster. Several hairs brushed her fingers. She clasped them, rolled them in a circle, then eased outward. Pulling didn’t have the same calming feel it did when she was eighteen. It used to release her internal tension, but now it seemed to annoy her.
She let go and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt as she ground her teeth.
What would she do without Aaron? She had to believe Vivian’s letter to Aaron would steer him clear of danger. That was it, wasn’t it? Vivian had something blocking her from direct contact with Sarah. Whatever was blocking her was revealed to the living Vivian all those years ago. And as always, Sarah’s sister prepared for that event by writing letters to people Sarah hadn’t even met yet.
How could she know those letters would reach the right people in time? How could she know those people would do what was asked of them? What about the time capsule? How did Vivian know that her parents would wait the full twenty-five years or open it a few months early?
There were too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong when everything had to go exactly right so the people involved remained on the surface instead of under the ground.
Her hands opened, then clenched into fists.
And why Denmark? What the hell was happening there that had anything to do with her or Aaron? Skanderborg?
What the fuck?
No one heard her except herself. Vivian was absent.
The plane bumped again. She turned to her seat mate. The row had three seats, the middle one empty. An older man with graying hair, nice suit, and shiny cuffs, sat in the aisle seat scan
ning his iPad.
He must have detected her staring because he looked up.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi.” He smiled. A George Clooney smile. It offered warmth and understanding. “Bit bumpy, eh?”
