by Ian Bull
“People have been in your place,” he says. “There are micro-cameras hidden on the staircase and above the gate. If you go in, everyone will know you’re still alive.” He pulls out what looks like a small walkie-talkie from his backpack and tosses it to me. The front has a small screen showing a black-and-white image of the wooden steps that lead to my apartment. “That’s a cam hunter. It picks up frequencies of anything that’s transmitting within 300 yards. Radio, UHF, and microwave.”
“Are they watching us now?” I ask.
“Not us, but someone’s watching that signal the camera is putting out.”
“You’re Major Glenn Ward,” I say. “Carl mentioned you.”
“You are correct, sir.” he says with a crazy grin. “Carl Webb and I both agreed you’d try this next, so I thought I should drop by and wait for you to show up.”
I give Julia the stare down.
“I had no idea, I swear,” she says, putting her hand over her heart in a way that makes me only half-believe her. She looks at Glenn. “I’m Julia Travers.”
“Hello,” Major Ward says, sounding like a robot.
I’m like a clueless antelope trudging right up to the lions. “I have cameras in there,” I say.
“Forget it. There’s also a GPS tracker on your bike, so you can’t start that up, either.”
“I need that Kawasaki to get out of town. Don’t they believe I’m dead?”
“They’re fishing,” he says. “They’re worried that you weren’t working alone.”
A line of pelicans flies by, just above the water. Malibu is calm and empty, while my mind is full and spinning. Now I have to hide from the bad people who were hiding from me.
“Did you and Carl arrange all this?” I ask her, sounding harsh.
“You think I put up fake cameras and hired him to play along?” she asks, then crosses her arms and shoots daggers from her eyes. “No. The people who tried to kill you did that.”
The wall between us, which we just tore down, I built again in one instant.
“I can prove that she didn’t arrange anything, if you come with me,” Major Ward says.
I stare at Julia, then at him, not sure whether to believe him.
“Can we go? I hate the sand,” he says, acting like he’s standing in manure.
I can’t imagine Major Glenn Ward crawling through the muck on any kind of real field mission. We climb a staircase and come out on the Pacific Coast Highway. He clicks his key fob and a black BMW sedan chirps open.
“Nice ride. Won’t we stand out?” I ask as Julia and I slide into the backseat.
“This Nazi sled is the standard squad car for all L.A. slimeballs. We’ll blend right in,” he says. He turns on the car stereo and an electronic funk groove with chest-thumping heavy bass pumps through. “This is a groove I’m working on. I threw in some low oscillating frequencies that will mess up any microphone pointed at us.”
“It’s giving me a headache. Where are we going anyway?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
I look at Julia, and she just shrugs and smiles.
Chapter 10
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 5: Wednesday Morning
Malibu, California
Glenn drives north until we reach the Trancas Outpost, which is the hipster gathering spot at this end of Malibu. There’s a high-end grocery store with vegan delights, a bank, a super cute shoe store, a chic “Free People” boutique, a nice outdoor restaurant where I can get a salad without being bothered, and a crowded Starbucks full of surfers and rich folk tired of their mansions.
“What should I call you? Major Ward?” I ask.
I knew he would be waiting for Steven at Tivoli Cove. Carl told me he’d be there, which is why I wanted to go with Steven. However, it’s the first time I’ve ever met this man.
He parks by the grocery store. “Call me Glenn,” he says, looking into the backseat at Steven and me. “I’m a major in the Army, but I don’t have a hard-on for dumb danger like he does.” He nods at Steven. “The only missions I lead are into cyberspace.”
“That makes you a desk jockey, then,” Steven says.
“Maybe, but no one ever got killed because of a mistake I made. What kind of precautions did you take using your computer?” he asks, nodding to the backpack at Steven’s feet.
“My location is off, I use a firewall, my contents are encrypted, my address book is empty, and I have Tor software that hides my IP address. I either use a cable, or I create my own hotspot with my plug-in MiFi router, always from the road.”
“Impressive,” I say, with enough sarcasm to piss Steven off. Steven’s comment on the beach suggesting that I planned all this bug me, so I’m glad Major Glenn Ward is schooling him.
Major Glenn points at him. “Yet they still found you. I get a daily email from the DOD, which lists systems at risk. See if any of your gear is on the list.” He hands Steven his phone.
Steven scrolls through and finds something right away. “The XSV4500 router allows remote attackers to read credential and configuration data…. Okay, I get it,” he says, handing Glenn his phone back. Then he tosses a glare at me for no reason.
“Don’t get mad at me for your mistakes,” I say. “I’m just here listening.”
“Trust me, there’s no way you can learn the technology fast enough to hunt these guys,” Major Glenn says. “They’ll figure out it’s you again and hunt you down first.”
A Malibu mom in workout clothes eyes us as she pushes her grocery cart past our car. I look away and tilt my head down so I’m not recognized.
“When I contacted people on the list, I could’ve been any rich criminal asking to invest in their snuff films,” Steven says. “What made them investigate me?”
“They may investigate every newcomer. If you used public Wi-Fi for twenty minutes, they could have gotten past your Tor software and put a tracking device on your computer so that it sends out a signal whenever it’s on. Then they could turn on your computer camera and watch you, or read what you’re typing. If you were talking on the phone with Julia, they would have figured out it was you and knew where you’d be Saturday night.”
Steven shakes his head. “Shit! Two weeks ago in San Juan Capistrano, I was in a rush and checked emails for a minute in the hotel lobby, then spoke to Julia for two minutes.”
Too bad your mistake killed Rikki, I want to say, but I hold my tongue.
“Show me your computer. I can turn it on safely,” Glenn tells Steven.
“Sorry, I just met you,” he says, shaking his head.
“Don’t feel bad, Glenn. He hid his computer when he was staying with me, like a teenage boy hiding girlie magazines under the mattress,” I say. Steven tenses up next to me.
Glenn turns off the music and lowers the windows, letting in a cool breeze. “Let me show you why you need my help,” he says to Steven. He puts on a pair of thick black reading glasses, then slides a laptop out of a carrying case, powers it up, and hands it to me. He points at a small dot in the middle of his eyeglasses frame—it’s a camera.
“I’m going into Starbucks wearing this,” he says, and touches his glasses. He holds up his phone. My glasses camera will broadcast what I’m doing with this cellphone to that laptop.”
Glenn taps the computer he gave me, and a shaky image of Steven and me in the backseat comes on screen—it’s the image from the camera in Glenn’s glasses. He gets out, shuts the car door, and walks away. I crane my neck to see where he’s going, until I remember I can look at the computer and see what he sees. I lower the backseat armrest and balance the laptop between Steven and me. We watch Glenn’s POV as he walks up the steps to the Starbucks. He pauses and looks at a sheriff’s squad car parked in front.
“There are two sheriff deputies inside,” Glenn says. I can hear him perfectly.
Glenn enters, sits down, and looks around. It’s crowded and noisy. Six people work on computers. The two sheriff deputies, handsome and fit guys with musta
ches, sit in the corner sipping coffee and nibbling on muffins. Glenn opens the search engine on his phone and selects keywords: Steven Quintana + Rikki Lassen + Murder. A dozen articles with his name come up. Glenn clicks one open. I see a photo of Rikki, bloody, lying against the steering wheel, with Steven slumped down next to her, his face and his expensive tux that I bought him covered in blood. I remember that exact moment, when that asshole Le Clerq snapped the picture.
“That’s what I looked like?” Steven asks.
“It was worse in person, trust me,” I say. I hear heavy breathing and thumping, until I realize it’s my own lungs and heart.
On the computer screen, we watch Glenn open the email on his cellphone and write a subject line—Who Really Killed Rikki Lassen? The World Wants to Know—and then types so fast I can’t read it. He sends one email, then another.
“Two guys just walked in,” Glenn whispers. He looks up and shows us two men at the window counter. They’re both tall, white, dressed in boring black. One has black hair and terrible skin, and the other has curly brown hair and smooth skin as light as an albino.
Steven straightens in his seat. “Those are the guys from the Audi.”
They stare at Glenn, who must be staring back at them, because his glasses don’t move.
“He’s got more balls than I thought,” Steven says.
Glenn then scans the rest of the coffee shop. A skinny kid in a baseball cap types fast on the computer in front of him and glances over his shoulder at Glenn.
“He’s monitoring the Internet traffic in here. I bet he’s monitoring the cameras mounted at your apartment, too,” Glenn whispers. “He just called in Dumb and Dumber.”
Glenn looks back at the two men. They’ve moved closer, as if they want to corner him.
“Time to create some interference,” Glenn whispers, and types like crazy on his phone again. Off-screen, the sheriff deputies’ walkie-talkies explode with buzzing chatter. The whole coffee shop falls silent. Glenn must have created a police alert, because the deputies are now walking over to Dumb and Dumber, ready to corner them if they run for the door. Glenn darts out the door, then glances back through the glass and shows us that the handsome men in uniform are asking the ugly killers for their identification.
Glenn opens the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. “That was fun. So you still think you can handle this without me?”
“What the hell just happened?” Steven asks.
“I’ll explain on the way. Where are we going, anyway?” Glenn asks.
“San Francisco. But she’s not coming,” Steven says, jerking his thumb at me.
“It’s his car. You’re not the boss of me.”
Glenn tears out of the parking lot and makes a fast right onto the Pacific Coast Highway. “Let’s drive this north. I hear it’s one of the most beautiful roads in the world.”
Steven leans back in his seat and blinks. “I’m being hijacked,” he whispers.
I fight to keep from smiling, until Glenn reaches for the stereo.
“Can we have some quiet for a while, Major Glenn?” I ask, putting my hand out.
“I think we’re safe enough,” Glenn says, looking in the rearview mirror.
He floors it, and I feel the car get air as it crests the first rise past El Matador Beach. The ocean is a blue blur on our left, and green hills flash by the right.
Chapter 11
* * *
Steven Quintana
Day 5: Wednesday Afternoon
Central California
Glenn drives fast. We pass Santa Barbara, then tear north past Pismo and Avila Beach, screaming through every turn. He must have a way to dodge the Highway Patrol’s speed guns. Julia grips her door handle so hard her knuckles are white. I don’t feel bad; she wanted to come.
He made me pay for gas in San Luis Obispo, and now we’re on Highway 1, zooming north toward Big Sur. We reach Ragged Point, a tiny outpost with a small motel and a general store, which is built on the last bluff before the road climbs into hairpin turns 400 feet above the ocean. Glenn slides the BMW into a parking spot.
“Let’s buy lunch and eat over there,” he says. He points across the road to a park with picnic benches that’s perched on a U-shaped bluff overlooking the steep cliffs of Big Sur and the Pacific Ocean below.
“Thank God, I’m carsick,” Julia says, stroking her forehead.
“And bring your computer,” he says to me. “I’ll show you some tricks.”
Three turkey sandwiches later, we all sit at a picnic table sipping iced tea and staring at the Pacific, which looks like rolling molten silver from this high up. The roar of the waves hitting against rocks is far below us. I stand and stretch my arms, pushing until my left side aches.
“Looks like it hurts,” Glenn says.
“He’s got this macho thing about pain. It transforms him,” Julia says, mocking me.
“Because pain is a glorious reminder that I’m still alive.”
Glenn tosses his empty iced tea bottle through the air. It arcs and lands in the garbage can with a clang. “But you know you’ve got PTSD, right? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?”
I hate it when strangers diagnosis me like I’m a social media quiz. “What do you know about it? You’re a desk jockey who attacks people in cyberspace.”
Glenn glares back at me, then slides off the bench. “Maybe. But which messes you up worse? Killing someone fifty yards from you? Or killing someone halfway around the world with a missile you launch from a drone while drinking a soda?” He walks away.
Julia nudges me. “I think you made him angry.”
“I need a ride to San Francisco, not a therapy session,” I say.
Glenn walks to the edge of the bluff, and stares out into infinity. A breeze kicks up and blows a wet cloud right across the bluff, until it rises up the mountain and we are in sunshine again. His trance broken, Glenn returns to the picnic table.
“There are jobs where you can use your skills and get the rush you want, Quintana. Teach high school in Compton. Drive an ambulance. You’d punch a time clock, but make a difference.”
“Carl put you up to this,” I say, and then look at Julia next to me on the picnic table. “And maybe you too?”
Julia points her finger at me. “I don’t hire people to speak for me. If I have something to say, I just say it. Give me your keys, Glenn, I’m going to wait in the car.”
Glenn hands her his keys and she stalks away back across Highway 1 to the parked BMW. I guess I just added another ton of bricks to the wall between us.
Glenn leans forward across the picnic table. “Sorry for the speech, but you’ve got a clean slate right now. If I help you, you have no idea where it’s going to lead.”
“I’ll be an EMT someday, okay? Right now, I have to see this through.”
“Let me see your computer then,” he says.
“Why?” I still don’t trust this guy.
He holds up a thumb-sized flash drive. “This has software that traces who’s been monitoring your computer. It’s like photographing the footprints of the burglar who’s been in your house, and then being able to follow those footprints around the world.”
“What if they installed a beacon on my computer? They’ll track it when you turn it on.”
“I didn’t pick this route just for the scenery. Check the bars on your phone—there’s no reception here. We’re in one of the most remote spots in the world.” He gestures for me to pass my computer over. I unzip my backpack and slide it to him.
He plugs in his flash drive and powers on the computer. My laptop chimes that it’s ready, and he types a bit and nods as he stares at the screen. He ejects his flash drive, pushes my open laptop back toward me, and gets up from the table. My screen is a swirling electronic soup of colored pixels. “I just infected it with a virus,” he says. “There’s no way you can use it now.” I tap a few keys, but the pixels just change color. My emails, my documents, my searches are all lost in a swirling soup. Rag
e builds in me until I taste blood—I’ve bitten my own lip. I jump up, ready to go Hulk on him. Glenn backs up, widens his stance, and lowers into a slight crouch, hands in front of him.
I cool my jets. He wants me to attack him, so he can turn my already injured body into a pulp that he can pour into his car and drive back to Los Angeles.
“Carl and Julia must be paying you a lot for you to do all this,” I say and glance at the BMW. Julia stands by the open passenger door, like she knows something just happened.
Glenn shrugs. “Julia is paying for it, but this was Carl’s idea. And he’s right. You may have mad skills in the real world, but not in cyberspace. If you were smart, you’d just stay dead.”
I sit back down on the table. My best friend Carl, my protective “big brother” with the long reach, strikes yet again. Sensing no danger from me, Glenn comes back to the table and leans over me. “Come on, let me drive you home.”
I stand up, but don’t follow him. Now it’s my turn to walk to the edge of the bluff and stare out into space until I figure out my next move…or if I even have one.
A hiking trail zigzags back and forth down the bramble-covered hillside to a tiny gray beach below. A couple is down there, pacing back and forth in parallel lines, not speaking to each other while combing through the sand. Her body language says that she’s mad at him.
There’s one red Honda rental car in the parking lot behind me. They’re on vacation, they stopped here for a break, spotted the beach and hiked down, and he lost their car keys in the sand. She’s pissed, but they have to keep looking. They’re in the middle of nowhere and they’re screwed if they don’t find them. I can read their entire story. Glenn stood in this same spot and never saw they were even down there. He can do things I can’t, but I can do things he can’t. I just have to stick to what I do best, and stay off the grid.
Strolling back to the picnic table, I grab my backpack and slide it over my shoulders. “I don’t need a ride. You and Julia take my computer, see what you can find.”
