Internal Threat

by Sussman, Ben

  “Okay, I think I get it,” Dockett said slowly. “So this kiddie porn company bought one of your servers and you told us where they were.”

  “I wish it were that easy. A lot of the actual purchasers of the space sublet the servers when they don’t need it, just like subletting an apartment. That can happen ten, twenty times. By the time it’s held by someone that far down the line, the original owners don’t care who they sublet to. That’s how companies like this one can do their shady business.”

  It had taken Matt nearly a week to wade through the sheaves of paperwork his assistant had printed out for him. This particular server had been sublet over thirty times. At last, after enough digging to make his eyes blur, Matt found the IP address of the account he was searching for. The physical address associated with it was a mere six miles from his Beverly Hills office, in an industrial strip of Culver City.

  “Helms asked me to come along,” Matt continued. “Monitor activity on the account in case they get scared and start transferring their data to someone overseas.” He held up his Blackberry. “Which I’ve been doing remotely this whole time.” Helms had made contact with the owner of this site and distribution ring, posing as a potential investor into the business. He was currently inside trying to suss out the size of the operation before making any arrests.

  His cell phone buzzed again and Matt looked down to see a familiar number – that of his own house. He instantly clicked on. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” replied the female voice on the other end. It was Luke’s nanny, a pleasant woman in her thirties named Ana. “Just wanted to let you know we got back from the doctor’s office and everything went fine.” Luke had been scheduled to receive inoculation against a particularly virulent flu that was circulating California. The shot had been just a precaution, but a necessary one as far as Matt was concerned.

  “He’d like to talk to you,” Ana said.

  “I’m a little busy right now. Maybe later I could-”

  The voice of his son came over the line. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey, tough guy. You sore at all?”

  “Just a little. No big deal.”

  “Good man. Help Ana with dinner tonight, alright?”

  “Okay,” Luke replied sullenly. “What time are you going to be home?”

  “I’ll be home when I’m home, Luke,” Matt said with more irritation than he would have liked to. “I told you, when it’s business-”

  Consecutive pings from the phone cut off his words. He told Luke he would call him back and quickly studied the screen. “There’s something wrong,” he said to Dockett. “The site’s starting to shut down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Call Helms!” Matt shouted.

  Dockett suddenly cursed loudly beside him. Outside the windshield, Matt saw Helms stumbling toward the car. The agent clutched at his stomach, blood streaming between his fingers.

  Dockett was out before Matt could stop him, fumbling with the sidearm holstered beneath his shoulder. Behind Helms, a scruffy-bearded man in a hooded green sweatshirt ran out the front door of the building, gun clutched in his right hand. He paused in his rush, hearing Dockett scream at him to halt and let loose a quick succession of shots. Matt dove down into the front seat as the windshield shattered. He heard a scream and saw Dockett fall to the ground, a bloody hole scarring his shoulder. Matt stayed down, pulling with his elbows to get to the young agent.

  Bullets pinged against the open driver door, then stopped as Matt heard footsteps beating a hasty retreat. He looked down at Dockett whose mouth was working like a fish, nothing but gasps coming out.

  “You got hit in the shoulder,” Matt quickly assessed the wound. “You need to keep pressure on it.” He moved Dockett’s other hand to the point of entry and pushed down, staunching the blood slightly. He yanked the radio from the car’s dashboard and toggled the switch. “Agent down. Send backup.”

  Confusion and static came back through the speaker. “What? Who is this?”

  Dockett moaned. “Helms,” he croaked.

  Matt moved towards the elder agent, who had slumped down against the grill of the car. His eyes were half shut, his breathing labored. At Matt’s touch, the man’s eyelids shot up. “I’m fine. My vest took most of it.”

  Matt stood up, spotting the small form of the shooter round the corner at the end of the block. He looked back to Helms who gave him the slightest of nods.

  Instinct kicked into gear as Matt’s legs sprinted down the street.

  He reached the same corner in less than ten seconds and scanned for the shooter. A sea of bicycle riders and rollerbladers eddied and flowed in front of him. He was on the ocean boardwalk that stretched for miles down the coastline of the Pacific. Moving forward, he craned his neck, trying to spot his quarry. Having no luck, he pulled himself up on to the base of a nearby streetlamp. The green sweatshirt presented itself as the man turned in profile fifty yards away. Matt hopped down and ran towards the area.

  The shooter whirled, no doubt hearing Matt’s pounding feet, and withdrew his gun. Screams echoed out across the beach as several people next to him saw it. He hesitated and planted himself in front of a young woman on a bicycle coming from the opposite direction. She braked hard and he stepped forward, shoving her roughly off the bike’s seat. Tucking the gun in the front of his pants, his feet hit the pedals and churned.

  Matt gave chase but quickly saw that there was no way he would catch up on foot. He spotted a teenage boy on a silver BMX bicycle lounging nearby. Stepping up to him, he pulled out his wallet and counted out crisp hundred dollar bills. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars for that bike,” he said, holding out the money.

  “Seven hundred,” the kid countered.

  “I’ve only got the five on me.”

  “Your loss,” the boy shrugged.

  Matt angrily threw the cash at him and grabbed the bike, ignoring the protests and hitting the pedals furiously. He weaved through the oncoming foot traffic as best he could, accidentally clipping a pedestrian’s elbow in his pursuit. At last, the hooded shooter swung back into view, turning into a shadowed alley. Matt followed and plunged into the mouth of the small street.

  Bullets smacked the wall next to his head.

  He slammed the brakes and flung his body down, cursing himself for falling into a trap. Hearing the shooter’s bike wheels start again, he glanced up. The man had disappeared from the alley. Matt rode forward, more cautious this time, and exited the narrow pass-through. Up ahead, he saw the green sweatshirt hunched over the handlebars, pedaling down an arc of sidewalk that would dump him back out on to the boardwalk.

  Matt pumped furiously, gaining distance. His lungs burned with the effort but suddenly, he was mere feet away from the man. The shooter looked back, stunned to see Matt so close and reached for his gun again.

  Matt knew this was his best chance.

  With one final burst of energy, he pushed the bike forward, released his hands and launched at his attacker. Slamming into him, he heard a satisfying skitter as the gun clattered to the pavement. The man yelped as the pair toppled hard on to the cement. He scrambled frantically as Matt pinned him down, trying futilely to land a solid punch to Matt’s head.

  Sirens whirred somewhere behind Matt, followed by two policemen appearing at his side. They yanked the bearded shooter out from under him, quickly clipping handcuffs on him.

  “How are the agents?” Matt asked.

  “They’ll make it,” one of the cops answered. Matt nodded his thanks. He turned around to see the teenage owner of the bike standing behind him.

  “Guess I owe you another two hundred dollars,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the stunned boy replied.

  “No way.” He withdrew his business card, handed it to him. “Call that number and tell them to cut you a check.”

  “You sure?”

  “You knew I was desperate, smelled a bigger sale and held out for more money.�
� He flashed a smile at the shocked kid. “That’s exactly what I would have done.”

  Three

  Dusk was spreading its way across the canyons of the Hollywood Hills when Matt pulled on to Sunset Boulevard. Night meant the arrival of the revelers and it looked like the festivities were starting early from what he could see. He shook his head at a tall boy with multiple silver piercings and black fingernail polish traversing the crosswalk, leading an iguana on a trailing leather leash. Sometimes, it took visions such as these to shock Matt back into the reality of his world. Miles were not the only thing that separated him from Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  After the death of Katie, his world was reigned by sorrow and confusion. Emotions battered his soul and threatened to tear his mind apart. His sole salvation had been his son, Luke. After the memorial, a simple service in the chapel with Katie’s framed photo since her body had not been found, the tiny boy had taken Matt’s hand and squeezed.

  “Daddy,” he had said simply, his liquid eyes focused on Matt’s.

  At that moment, Matt realized that he would have to put away the dark depression that had engulfed him since Katie’s call. He had been shutting himself off from the one person that needed him most, the only thing that Katie herself had specifically requested to be looked after with her dying breaths.

  Matt squeezed back, noting the strength of the young boy’s grip. “I love you, buddy. We’re going to be fine.”

  He continued the day-to-day dreariness of his existence, shuffling papers and making calls in the base offices and then spending the nights with Luke. To keep his mind fresh, he kept tabs on the internal investigation examining the death of Katie and her unit. Having led previous supply missions in hostile territory himself, he soaked up as many of the facts as he could. As much as he tried to suppress the anger, each discovery brought a fresh wave of rage with it.

  Mistakes were made across the board.

  The second lieutenant, a young man named Wilson, who had ordered the supply run was fresh out of officer school with little field experience. He had apparently thought that the quickest way to get supplies from their base to the next one was a simple straight line. In war, however, nothing was ever a simple straight line. Had the man bothered to check reports from the previous week, he would have seen that the road he was sending Katie’s supply caravan on had been a hotbed of insurgent activity. All of it so far had been directed at locals, but an experienced commander would have known that it was only a matter of time and opportunity before American troops became targets.

  As the months wore on, Matt became more and more frustrated with the inaction of the investigation. When a decision finally came down, he was floored.

  No improper conduct.

  No disciplinary action.

  Not even an apology.

  Second Lieutenant Wilson, who was on base for the perfunctory hearing, refused to meet Matt’s eyes in the conference room where the news was delivered. A few moments later, Matt sat in the tiny windowless room by himself, bitter fury coursing through his veins. Everything that he had believed in had let him down – the military, its justice system, his country.

  That night, he had gone to the officer’s club at the edge of the base to drown his anger in a pool of beer and whiskey. The alcohol had done nothing but sour his mood even more and, when he saw a smiling Lt. Wilson push through the front door of the club with a group of friends, something snapped inside his head.

  He approached on legs that were much steadier than he anticipated. As Matt arrived at the table, conversation ceased and Wilson looked up at him.

  “Captain Weatherly,” Wilson addressed him warily, his voice cracking slightly.

  Matt stared at Wilson for a silent beat, trying to sort out exactly what he expected from this young man. At last, the answer came to him.

  “I want to hear you say it,” Matt said calmly.

  Wilson blinked twice in confusion. “Say what?”

  “That you killed my wife.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. But I didn’t kill your wife. A group of hostiles did.” Wilson’s voice had ditched the nervous shaking and adopted a haughty, imperious tone.

  Matt shook his head. “They pulled the trigger,” he told Wilson, voice thick. “But you lined up the shots for them, didn’t you?”

  There was a squeak as chair legs scraped across the floor. A large soldier wearing major’s stripes stood up from Wilson’s table and planted himself in front of Matt.

  “That’s enough, sir. I suggest you step back from this table. It’s obvious you’ve had a little too much to drink tonight.”

  “I’m not leaving until I get an apology,” Matt repeated, his eyes never leaving Wilson’s. All conversation in the bar had stopped, everyone now tuned in to the drama unfolding at the table.

  “Then I’m going to have to show you the way out,” the intimidating major said. His palm clamped down on to Matt’s left shoulder.

  Matt’s right hand shot up, forcing up and under the major’s elbow. There was a satisfying pop and a howl of pain as the man’s grip loosened instantly. Matt ducked the clumsy punch the major threw and landed one of his own in the soldier’s gut, sending him to the floor gasping.

  The rest of the incident was a series of blurry flashes in Matt’s memory.

  Him leaping across the table, grabbing on to Wilson’s shirt.

  The flurry of punches he delivered to the young lieutenant’s face.

  His hands soaked with blood.

  The scuff of boots, pain exploding on the back of his head as a glass pitcher shattered across it.

  Blackness and silence.

  The next morning, in the base jail, Matt blinked awake to see General Arnold Peltin staring at him through the bars.

  “Rough night?” the older man smiled thinly.

  Matt rose up on the cot he was laying on, wincing from the throbbing ache in his skull. He was unsure if he should be glad to see Peltin or not. Although the man had praised Matt’s soldiering skills in two tours of duty and was someone he would almost consider a friend if it were not for their disparate ranks, Matt had not spoken to him since the general had arrived several weeks ago at the base.

  “You could say that, sir,” Matt replied, finding his voice hoarse.

  “Cut the ‘sir’ for now. I’m here as a friend.”

  Matt nodded.

  “You understand you’re in a world of trouble right now, don’t you?” the general asked.

  “I was stupid,” Matt nodded again. “Is Wilson alright?”

  “He’ll be eating through straws for the next month but otherwise he’s fine. From what I hear around the base, most people think he had it coming.” Peltin sighed, ran a hand across the top of his shaved head. “Matt, do you remember when you were assigned to protect me in Kabul?”

  “Sure. Not every day I get shot.” There had been

  a clumsy attempt on the general’s life by a streetside shooter. Matt had reacted in an instant, placing himself in harm’s way. The bullet passed cleanly through his shoulder but left a puckered scar that Katie had once admitted she found incredibly sexy.

  “You took a bullet for me then. I’m going to take one for you now.”

  Matt looked at him in confusion.

  “I’m going to get the charges against you dropped,” Peltin continued. “You’ll get a general discharge. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances. That is, of course, unless you want to continue your service to your country?”

  “No,” replied Matt without hesitation. “I’m done with that.”

  Peltin nodded as if he expected the answer. He stood up, indicating the conversation was over.

  Matt rose with him, snapping a salute. “Sir.” Peltin turned to go. “General Peltin, sir?” The elder man faced Matt again. “Thank you for everything.”

  The general merely returned the salute and exited.

  After Matt was released, he headed straight to his house and began to pack up the meager belongings. He an
d Luke climbed into the dusty Ford Escape that served as the family car. As it pulled out of Fort Bragg, Matt only knew that he would keep driving until he felt far enough away from the pain.

  He did not stop until he hit the Pacific Ocean.

  As he and Luke sat in a Starbucks facing the pearl white Santa Monica beach, he knew in his heart that he had arrived in their new home. Now, he wondered, just what in the world he was going to do to make a living here?

  The answer came in a simple posting on an internet job board. “Top Commissions!” the headline screamed. After applying for a multitude of jobs and hearing nothing, Matt’s cell phone rang mere minutes after he responded to the ad. The following day found him sitting in a small office in downtown Los Angeles, listening to a swarthy, pot-bellied man with salt-and-pepper hair describe the vagaries of the server space real estate business.

  He started a few days later, landing his first sale with relative ease. People had always felt comfortable under Matt’s command and he found that there was no difference in the world of sales. His looks seemed to help, too. In a land of gym-toned muscles and plastic smiles, Matt’s square jaw and natural broad shoulders stood out and instantly endeared him to clients.

  When he received his first commission check, Matt shook his head, wondering where all the money had gone. Dubious deductions from his employer and his subsequent checks caused Matt to realize that he was far better striking out on his own as soon as possible.

  Within a year, Matt had established himself and his company, Server Solutions, as the go-to place for top spaces at reasonable prices. He had moved himself out of the small Northridge apartment he and Luke had shared and into an architectural gem in the Hollywood Hills. There was something about Los Angeles that Matt found utterly enchanting. Everyone here seemed to be a transplant that had reinvented themself and Matt was no different. Nobody in his adopted home knew him as Captain Weatherly and that suited him just fine.