by Reece Hirsch
A bullet sunk into the doorframe inches away, and then they were out, stumbling onto the sidewalk. Chris heard the impact of silenced shots behind them: Phut. Phut. Phut.
As they ran in tandem, Chris looked for a taxi but found none in sight. In seconds the gunman would be out on the sidewalk, and they had nowhere to hide. He grabbed Ayres by the arm and pulled him into an alley that cut over to Mission Street.
As they bolted down the alley lined with dumpsters, Chris pulled out his cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Ayres shouted.
Chris ignored the question. He opened an app on his phone as he ran, his fingers fumbling.
When they were still fifty yards away from Mission Street, Chris looked back and saw two men in suits entering the alley nearly a block away but sprinting toward them. He heard the snick of bullets ricocheting off brick. Behind them, framed between the walls of the alley, stood the silhouette of the tall man who had fired the first shots. Body language alone said that he was in charge.
Chris glanced up and down the bustling thoroughfare of Mission.
“What are you doing?” Ayres asked again.
“There,” Chris said, pointing at a black sedan with the Uber logo on the door. “It’s ours.”
As they tumbled inside, gasping, the Uber driver glanced at the GPS console on the dash. “Bruen?”
“That’s me. Let’s go. We’re in a hurry.”
“I can tell. Where to?”
Chris tried to think of a spot as far away as possible from their pursuers. “Ocean Beach.”
As they pulled away, Chris saw the men looking for them in both directions on the street. They hadn’t seen them climbing into the car.
“You nearly got me killed back there,” Chris said.
“Sorry. I panicked. My reptile brain took over.” Ayres’s hands trembled violently as he pressed them to his knees. “I’m really sorry. Are we okay?”
“Let me get back to you on that,” Chris said.
“Man, I have got to get an Uber account.”
Chris nodded, still drawing raspy breaths. “Convenient.”
As the car pulled away down Mission, leaving their pursuers behind, Chris hit the speed dial button for “Zoey” on his phone.
“Hey,” Zoey said.
“Thank God.”
“What’s happened?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m walking back from Peet’s.”
“Do not go back to the office. Everyone there is dead.”
“What?”
“Becky and Ira are dead. A man came to the office while we were out and shot them. He has two other guys with him.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You need to listen to me now, Zoey. Go someplace safe, and do it right away. Someplace unfamiliar that you’ve never been to before. Disable your phone. Do not go home.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“It may have to do with Ian Ayres, but we don’t have time for it now. We’ll connect with you through the secure site when we’re both safe.”
Chris and Zoey maintained a secure website for communicating during assignments, usually when Chris was outside the United States.
“Are you safe?”
“I think so—for now.”
“What about Ayres?”
“He’s with me. No more talking. If you check into a hotel, use cash. And lose your phone immediately.”
“Who’s behind this?”
“Assume that every bit of data about you that can be accessed will be accessed—Internet, CCTV, phones.”
“So this is an agency thing?”
“Maybe. Just hide yourself away somewhere safe and don’t leave a trail.”
“You do the same, okay?”
“I’ll be in touch when I know more.”
“You didn’t answer me,” Zoey said. “If I should be hiding, then you should too. Tell me you’ll do that.”
“I promise not to take any dumb risks. Watch the secure site, and we’ll connect there soon.”
When he was off the call with Zoey, Chris extended his hand to Ayres. “Phones and devices.”
Ayres handed over his smartphone. Chris rolled down the car window and tossed both their mobiles out.
They cut across San Francisco on Geary Street headed west, passing through the low-rise commerce of the Richmond District.
Chris found it difficult to grasp that Becky and Ira were both gone. He felt groggy from the shock of it and wanted to believe that if he could only clear his head and calm his thoughts, they would still be alive.
“Chris?”
He looked up from his reverie and saw Ayres looking at him with concern.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but does this mean you’ll represent me?”
4
Chris asked the Uber driver to drop them off where Geary Street dead-ended at Ocean Beach. He needed time to contemplate next steps. They were as far away from the office and their pursuers as possible within the city limits, but he still didn’t feel safe.
Along the way Chris had asked the driver to stop at a bank so that he could withdraw as much cash as possible. He knew that he might not have another chance if his accounts were frozen.
“How are we going to run from them?” Ian asked. “How do you run from an agency that’s in the business of surveillance?”
They were striding along the broad walkway that ran beside the breakwater at Ocean Beach. The bright bayside sunlight was a distant memory here, the sun unsuccessfully trying to part the marine layer on a cool day. The Pacific could be heard crashing on the other side of a broad expanse of dun sand.
“We can run, but probably not for long,” Chris said. “If you’re right about who they are, then they’ll have the ability to freeze and monitor our bank accounts, track our cell phones, monitor our use of the Internet, access CCTV video feeds—”
“All the things the NSA does anyway.”
“Well, yeah. But focused on us.”
They walked awhile in silence. Chris studied Ian, wondering what kind of partner he was going to make and how far he could be trusted. On their right a few midmorning surfers sliced the waves. On their left cars hissed past on the Great Highway.
“They looked like government agents, didn’t they, with their dark suits and all?” Ian said.
“Yeah, but they didn’t act like government agents. Firing without identifying themselves? No show of badges.”
“How do you fight something like this?”
“Well, the only weapon I know of that works against a government agency is disclosure. If there’s one thing that spooks like these can’t stand, it’s sunlight.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“I think we should turn ourselves in to the police. Tell them the whole story. This is a multiple homicide, after all. I think we’ll have their full attention.”
“You really think they’ll believe our story? I’m not sure I would.”
“Maybe not, but our story will be on the record, which will make it harder to get rid of us.”
“But is that enough to protect us?”
“I can also reach out to an FBI agent that I know. Tell him our story, see if he has any clue as to what we’re dealing with. He can also help bring us in safely. And if something happens to us, he’s not the type to let it go.”
Ian shivered in the sea breeze. “I don’t care about having my death avenged. I’d rather not die in the first place.”
They looked down from the breakwater at the seagulls picking through fast-food containers left from the weekend and made their plan. After settling on the details, they walked back to a convenience store at the foot of Geary Street and purchased prepaid, untraceable burner phones with cash.
Chris indicated the convenience store’s security camera to Ian with a nod, and they both tried to face away from it as much as pos
sible. For all they knew, the agency pursuing them was scanning video feeds using facial-recognition software. The clerk behind the register had clearly seen that sort of odd, security camera–avoiding body language before, and he began to get the panicky look of someone who might reach under the counter and come up with a shotgun.
To their great relief, Chris and Ian managed to walk out of the convenience store with their burner phones and without drawing gunfire.
Chris’s first call was to FBI agent Michael Hazlitt.
“Hazlitt. Who’s this?”
“Your old friend Chris Bruen.”
“I don’t see a caller ID. If you’re using a burner, that’s not a good sign.”
“Your analytical skills are as sharp as ever. You’re right. We’re in trouble.”
“Who’s ‘we’? You and Zoey?”
“Yes, but also Ian Ayres, who’s with me now. He’s the head of a white-hat hacking firm.”
“Spearpoint Consulting,” Ian put in.
Chris repeated the firm’s name, then told Hazlitt the story in its entirety. When he’d finished, only silence came from the other end of the line.
“You still there?” Chris asked.
“Do you believe this Ayres guy? I don’t doubt that there was a shooting at your offices, considering how many enemies you’ve made. But a secret government agency that out-NSAs the NSA? How is that even possible in the current environment?”
“I believe him. If you’d seen the hit squad that came to my office, you would too. No one wears a black suit like those government agents. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“I know this is a big ask, Mike, but we need your help.”
Another long pause. “Let me float a few discreet questions on my end, see what I can find out. In the meantime you should report to the SFPD’s Central Station on Vallejo. I’ll have one of our field agents meet you there and take you into protective custody until we can get this thing sorted out.”
“Won’t the SFPD want jurisdiction over this?”
“Sure, and they’ll own the two murders. But the other claims you’re making are in the FBI’s wheelhouse.”
“Thanks for taking the call,” Chris said. “And for believing me.”
“Well, last time I doubted you I ended up regretting it. I figure I owe you the benefit of the doubt on this one—even if your story does sound batshit crazy.”
After the call with Hazlitt, Chris and Ian left the beach, crossing the Great Highway and walking to a nearby strip mall.
“Where are we going?” Ian asked.
“Starbucks.”
“My nerves are jangled enough, man.”
“That’s not why we’re going. It’s time we tried connecting with Zoey again, see if she’s found a safe place to hide.”
Inside the coffee shop, Chris walked up to a studious-looking kid with a physics textbook propped next to his laptop. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m in kind of a jam. I need Internet access, and we don’t have a laptop with us. I’ll pay you sixty dollars for fifteen minutes of time on your laptop.” He peeled off three twenties and laid them on the table.
The student eyed the bills, then looked at Chris, trying to calculate how he might come to regret the decision.
“What was I thinking?” Chris said, adding two more twenties. “Did I say sixty dollars? I meant a hundred.”
“Deal.”
The SFPD’s Central Station on Vallejo Street was an ugly box of a building with a facade of white vertical panels. As promised, John Stella, a homicide detective, was waiting for them. As soon as they reported to the front desk, Stella escorted Chris and Ian to an interview room with fluorescent lighting, plastic chairs, and a single large metal table.
Stella was balding, pudgy, and had probably been called Kojak too many times for it to be funny anymore. Eyes guarded and wary, he motioned for Chris to start talking.
Chris started with a short version of their story, focusing on the shooting that had occurred that morning at his office.
Stella scribbled notes on a pad when he wasn’t studying them. “I’ll send a car over to your office right now.”
“This looks like a place where they interrogate the bad guys,” Ian whispered to Chris.
Stella overheard the remark. “Believe me, we’re just in here because the room was available. If it will make you feel any better, we can do the rest of this in my office. C’mon.”
Stella sat them down in his cluttered office, which had a window with open blinds that faced the squad room. A row of Giants bobbleheads gazed at them accusingly from their bookcase jury box.
Stella took a seat and placed a tape recorder atop a stack of files. “You mind if I turn this on? I want to make sure that I get all the details. Let’s walk through it again now from the beginning.”
“Sure,” Chris said. At least Stella hadn’t read them Miranda rights—yet.
Chris began the story with Ian walking through the doors of his new office, at which point Ian picked up the narrative, describing his disappearing contract with NorCal. Stella asked a few prompting questions but mostly let them talk.
When they were nearing the end of the story, a young officer rapped on the door and called Stella outside.
Stella returned with a stony expression. “If you and the FBI are playing some kind of prank here, it’s not funny.”
“What are you talking about?” Chris asked.
“We checked out your office and there are no bodies. The place was completely empty.”
“Then someone must have removed them.”
“Now why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to make you doubt our story.”
“The officer on the scene saw no traces of blood. There were some bullet holes in the wall but no shell casings. I’m not saying that I doubt you, but there’s just not a lot we can do with that.”
“There was blood in the file room—a lot of it.”
“Look,” Stella cut in, “you can file missing persons reports on your two employees if you want to play this out. But I’d suggest that you carefully consider your next step. You can be prosecuted for filing false police reports.”
“They’re more than missing, they’re dead.”
“We take every report seriously,” Stella said, shifting into autopilot. “I’ll bring you the paperwork. But without bodies, signs of a struggle, or a lead, I’m not quite sure where to take this.”
“I can provide their home addresses. You can check and see that they’re missing.”
“Even if they are, missing and dead are two very different things. You can wait here in my office until that FBI field agent gets here. You’ve made some other charges that are more in their ballpark—the ones about this ‘secret government agency.’” From his tone of voice and dubious expression, Stella might as well have drawn air quotes around the phrase.
He left Chris and Ian sitting in his office for nearly a half hour.
“I don’t think we’re going to get protective custody,” Ian finally said.
“Yeah, I don’t think so either.”
“If they’re not going to help us, then we need to get out of here. We’re pretty exposed like this.”
“I agree, but we have to give Hazlitt a chance to bring us in. Someone should be here soon.”
Chris and Ian turned their chairs around so that they could gaze through the blinds at the bustle of the squad room. They saw Stella on the opposite end of the room speaking with a tall man in a suit.
“Let’s hope that’s our escort,” Ian said.
As Chris watched the two men talk, he assumed this was the FBI field agent sent there to bring them in. He began to breathe a bit easier. There would be plenty of difficult questions to answer, but at least he and Ian would be in a safe place. No more running.
Then the tall man turned in profile as he shook Stella’s hand and grinned. Chris jerked as if he’d touched an ungrounded wire.
It was the same man who h
ad killed Becky Martinez and Ira Rogers.
Ian was staring at Chris now. “What’s wrong?”
“Look, it’s him.”
Chris watched Ian’s eyes travel across the room, saw him process the information, watched the fear work through him from the inside out like a neat shot of poison with an adrenaline chaser.
“They’re going to hand us over to him,” Ian said.
Chris went to the rear of Stella’s office and wrenched open the window. It took several tries because the building was old and the window was warped in its frame. Finally, it slid open with an agonized groan. Chris stepped through it onto a fire escape and motioned for Ian to follow.
“We need to tell the cops,” Ian said, joining him outside the window while Chris eased it closed. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
“No,” Chris said, climbing down the rusty fire escape stairs. “We need to run.”
It seemed to take forever to clamber down the fire escape landing by landing, their steps clattering with a hollow metallic sound. Chris and Ian kept looking up to see if the agent had spotted them yet from the window.
As they reached the street, Chris heard the window open above them, and this time its pained cry was a warning. The agent peered down at them.
He brought up his gun and aimed it at them.
“Freeze!”
Chris knew enough about guns to know that the agent would have to be a very good marksman to drop them from that distance and at that angle.
“C’mon,” he said to Ian, pulling him along.
The agent took one shot, which caromed off the sidewalk.
“You can’t hide!” he shouted after them. “You know that, right?”
5
SIGINT HUMINT REPORT (Summary): Zoey Evangeline Doucet
DOB: October 18, 1981
SSN: 495-62-8910
Height: 5 feet 10 inches
Eye Color: Green
Hair Color: Brown
Current address: 958 Folsom Street, #10, San Francisco, CA 94105
Past addresses: 324 Turk Street, San Francisco, CA 94103
Credit rating: 545
Phone number: (415) 555-0235
Highlighted social media: Def Con organizers’ message board. 7 4chan IRC message boards frequented by known hackers [link to URLs].
