Next, Hartley looked to Novak.
Novak did his best to bring everyone up to speed on what could be gleaned thus far about the mastermind’s motives, which were slowly coming into focus. “We now know for sure that cash is being paid to these killers,” he said, “which tells us that Bounty4Justice is making good on its promises. We also know that it expects its participants to play by the rules or it will turn on them, just as we’ve seen with Alan Bateman. Critically, this takedown of the Runet reinforces our assertion that the motive here is not money. If that were the case, Bounty4Justice would have skipped messing around with bounties and pledge pins and credit card networks, and it would have gone right for the big score. It would have started with Russia and demanded a fat monetary ransom before taking the chokehold off the Kremlin.”
“So what exactly do you think they’re after?” Commissioner Kemper asked.
Novak looked at his hands for a long moment. “At face value, the endgame might be the simplest explanation.” Through his years of investigation, Occam’s razor had been vindicated more often than not. “They may simply be out for blood and vigilante justice. However, I think we need to operate under the assumption that Bounty4Justice will continue to crank up its threat level. And if we don’t crack the firewalls soon, there’s no telling what target it might go after next. Nothing will be safe.”
# 44.02
As the meeting wound down and the visitors filtered out of the conference room, Knight stayed behind with Walter and Novak. “See, what did I tell ya? Everything’s fine.”
No sooner had he said it than all three of their BlackBerrys pinged at once.
“That can’t be good,” Walter said, reaching for his phone. He read the text message displayed on his screen. His face went white. “What the fuck?”
Knight looked at his phone and frowned. “Son of a bitch.”
Novak’s Blackberry displayed his own version of the message they’d both received, personalized just for him:
AS OF 8:15 AM EDT, YOUR CURRENT BOUNTY IS $102,812
CURRENT STATUS: Guilty
FOR THE LATEST UPDATES, VISIT:
http://www.bounty4justice.com/ROMAN.NOVAK
UPDATE: INTRODUCING “B4J TOP HITS”
Our video collection is expanding rapidly. Check out our most popular submissions from around the world:
http://www.bounty4justice.com/TOP.HITS
# 45.01
@ Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
08:17:11 EDT
Special Agent Corey Jones sat in the Chevy Yukon’s passenger seat sipping a Starbucks caffè mocha from a tall to-go cup that looked tiny in his grande hand, weighing how best to pass along the details of the new assignment to his partner, Special Agent Alex Vargas, in the driver’s seat.
“That’s the one,” Jones said, pointing to the handsome brownstone with the cops huddled out on the stoop.
Vargas eased the Yukon to a stop alongside the Capitol Police patrol cars lining the curb. “Man. Look at all this. So much for being incognito. What exactly did she do again?”
“She’s the one they’re blaming for those kids dying from bad school lunches, up in New Hampshire.”
“Oh, yeah. Her.”
It had been all over the news. Senator Barbara Ascher had steered contracts to her sister-in-law’s food services company—despite its repeated health code violations—and the company shipped rancid meat products to a bunch of middle schools. A couple dozen kids got sick. Three died. Ascher also chaired the Defense Appropriations Subcommittee, and an exposé in The Washington Post a couple months back had detailed how she’d accepted bribes to steer tens of millions in intelligence contracts to a firm named LaserLine Data. They were calling it “LaserGate.” The press now portrayed her as nothing more than a kid-killing crony capitalist, one helluva double whammy for even the most astute politico.
Worse still, since the investigation into the alleged wrongdoings was incredibly slow-going, Bounty4Justice had added the senator to its target list and inspired anonymous informants to dredge up troves of private documents and damning emails that would expedite her prosecution—or her death, whichever came first. To that end, the website had also posted photos and uncomfortably intimate bios of Ascher, her entire family, and her business associates. Some hard-core muckraking, even by Washington’s standards, thought Jones. Ever since Congressman Kenneth Krosby had gotten torched in his limo a few days ago, Capitol Hill no longer viewed Bounty4Justice as some “Gangnam Style” fad. It was now classified as a genuine terror threat. Funny, Jones thought, how plenty of unsavory folks had fallen prey to Internet assassins over the past week, but it took the death of one of their own for Washington to see things differently.
The FBI had arranged the family’s relocation to this safe house in Georgetown—a block away from John F. Kennedy’s former residence on N Street—where they were to remain under protective watch and lie low until federal investigators built their case against the senator. Then, by the looks of things, she’d likely be moved once more, to the safest of all confines: a federal penitentiary.
Given the senator’s high profile and the credible threat against her, the president had issued an executive order to the Secret Service to assist the Capitol Police. Not exactly a plum assignment. But Jones and Vargas were the low men on the totem pole, and shit flows downhill. So here they were.
“Like what…we’ve gotta take her around town for the next few days?” Vargas asked.
“Something like that.”
Vargas looked at him dubiously. “What’s that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
# 45.02
The assets were ready and waiting on the other side of the vestibule’s glass door: seven-year-old Maximilian and his five-year-old sister, Samantha. They were dressed in navy plaid school uniforms and strapped into their backpacks.
“Oh, no,” Vargas said. “No, no, no. I didn’t sign up for that. I come to work to get away from that.”
“Suck it up,” Jones said in a hushed tone. “We’ve got a job to do. And remember to smile.” He opened the door and proceeded inside.
“You’re off my Christmas card list,” Vargas grumbled as he trailed in behind Jones. “Most definitely.”
Inside, there were gorgeous parquet wood floors in a herringbone pattern, and intricate, glossy woodwork and stacked crown moldings, and actual plaster walls and ceilings, and a brick fireplace with a hand-carved mantel—all built the hard way, by craftsmen, long before the advent of drywall and plastic. There was a lot of history here, Jones imagined, and plenty of secrets. If only walls could talk.
The senator came clicking down the staircase in glossy heels, immaculate in a tailored red pantsuit, Hermès silk scarf, glittering jewelry, and flawless makeup and hair, looking more like the home’s showcase realtor than its newest occupant. The senator wasn’t scheduled to leave the house today, but with all the police officers coming and going, Jones figured she still had an image to maintain. Or maybe her intent was to portray some sense of normalcy for the sake of the children.
“Daniel,” she called up the steps to the second floor. “Take a break and come say goodbye to the kids.”
“I’m busy right now, Barbara,” came her husband’s gruff reply from somewhere upstairs. “Just…I’m busy.”
The senator smiled tightly.
She introduced herself to Jones and Vargas with a firm handshake, then turned to the children. “These nice men are here to give you two a ride to school. So be sure to mind your manners.” She bent at the waist and gave her daughter a peck on the cheek. “I love you, Sammie-bear,” she said softly.
“I love you, Mommy,” the little girl replied, staring curiously at Vargas, who stood by the door as rigid as a drill sergeant.
The senator gently squeezed Max’s cheeks together and tipped his head up a bit, trying to force his pouty eyes up from the floor. “Hey. Look at me.”
Max complied, frowning. “I don’t wan
t to be here. We don’t belong here.”
“It’s going to be great. You’ll see. Give it a chance. I love you.”
The boy’s eyes went back to the floor.
“Excuse me, young man,” she said. “That’s not how we do things around here.”
“I love you, Mom,” he said halfheartedly.
“Okay. That’s better.” She kissed him on top of the head. “You two have fun at school. I hear it’s an awesome place.”
Vargas held the door open, and the kids shuffled out into the vestibule.
“I know you’ve heard a lot of bad things about me,” she said to Jones. “But those kids are—” Her brightly colored lips drew tight. “Well, just please take good care of them. They’re all I have left.”
“They’re in good hands, Senator,” Jones said. “I promise.”
PRIZE PAYOUT NOTIFICATION
TARGET: KEVIN CHESNEY, rapist, USA
FINAL BOUNTY: $862,122
VIEW PROOF OF CLAIM @
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As per section 7 of our user agreement, claimants who clearly demonstrate facilitating the arrest of a featured mark may also be eligible to claim prize money.
PhoenixNewTimes @phoenixnewtimes • 25m
Local oncologist who’d made fortune swapping saline for lifesaving cancer infusions exposed by @Bounty4Justice.
phoenixnewtimes.com/news/bounty4ju…
# 46.01
@ Manhattan
08:43:47 EDT
Novak stood beside Knight as Walter brought up the Bounty4Justice home page on the big monitor in his office. He scrolled through the active U.S. targets. Sure enough, all three of them were there, with generous bounties creeping upward, American flag icons, head-shot photos, the works. Team CLICKKILL was officially on the chopping block. Their alleged accomplice in the negotiations with Russia, Fredrick Shrayer, showed up right along with them. Each of their profile pages listed the same three allegations:
• Conspiring to sabotage Bounty4Justice
• Harmful activities to advance Internet censorship
• Complicity in the murder of Maxim Voronov
“Jeez,” Walter said. “Sure doesn’t seem worthy of a death sentence. ‘Complicity’ is a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you say? It’s not like we held a gun to Voronov’s head or shot him up with cyanide.”
Each of their profile pages featured a video window that, when activated, played their entire videoconference with Voronov—starting with the introductions that began the meeting. Nothing ambiguous about it.
Knight said, “I’m wondering how in hell someone got ahold of that video.”
“Didn’t come from this office,” Walter said emphatically. “That much I can tell you. I was the only one in the room with you guys that day, and I certainly didn’t keep records of anything. And it couldn’t be Shrayer or his people, because they were in Voronov’s building at the time. In the video, you can clearly see the Russian flag and the picture of Pootie on the wall. So it had to be their people.”
“Not looking forward to that phone call with Shrayer,” Knight muttered. “He’s wrapped tight on a good day, and he’s going to be mighty pissed.”
“God,” Walter said. “How am I supposed to tell my wife?” He scrolled through his vital statistics, his family photos, personal information…all out there for the world to see. “I’ll need to pull the kids out of school, call my bank—this is a goddamn nightmare.”
Novak knew Knight was in the same boat, equally compromised and laid bare, but the boss kept his worries to himself, per usual—stuffed it all down. Relatively speaking, Novak was on easy street—he had identity-theft protection, no kids, no damning secrets. Luckily, his sister and her family hadn’t been dragged onto his FAMILY AND ASSOCIATES page. But both his parents were there, as if there wasn’t enough stress on them already. One thing was certain: the sons of bitches running Bounty4Justice had just made this personal.
Walter said, “I’m guessing its algorithm picked up on all the media coverage and dragnetted us. Could even be that the Kremlin submitted that video and convinced half of Russia to go online and nominate us. You know, to pass the buck.”
“Could also be that our mastermind is singling us out,” Knight said. “Staging his own little vendetta. Like you said, Walter, it seems petty in the grand scheme of things.”
“I mean, we’re just doing our job here,” Walter said. “Am I right? We’re not the only law enforcement agency in the world trying to put a stop to this. So why pick on us?”
“Hey, I’m with you,” Knight said. “I get it, buddy.”
Novak pointed to the pie chart next to Walter’s name. It was just over half filled with red, the rest green. “Look at that. You’re only two percentage points away from swinging the vote over to innocent. That’s pretty damn close. Check Tim’s. Shrayer’s and mine, too.”
Walter paged back and clicked on Knight’s profile; the vote there was teetering on deadlock. Same with Shrayer’s. Same with Novak’s.
“What about it?” Walter asked Novak.
“Walter, it’s obvious,” he replied. “We need more votes in our favor.”
BBC London Newsroom @BBCLondonNews • 4m
@Bounty4Justice baffles authorities as anonymous assassins terrorize the UK.
bbc.in/2fytRDSDxt12
# 47.01
@ South Kensington, London
13:45:16 GMT
Deputy Director Charles Burls parked the Land Rover along the curb at a comfortable distance from the Windsor Arms—a six-story edifice inspired by London’s ubiquitous Georgian style, elegant and sophisticated, with penthouse views of the Royal Albert Hall and Kensington Palace. Cooped up in that posh penthouse, under MI5’s guard, was Bounty4Justice’s highest-value U.K. target: Lord Andrew Smith, Sixth Baron of Twyford, the alleged “puppetmaster of capitalism,” accused of brainwashing Parliament to systematically eviscerate the British working class to benefit the ultrarich. Current bounty: £695,000.
Directly across the street from the building, a much different scene: along the wide sidewalk, police in full riot gear formed a human chain in front of a raucous mob of protestors—hundreds of them, many tossing back the contents of thermoses, bottles, and cans, and not simply to fight off the chilly air. They pumped picket signs above their heads that said, DOWN WITH THE ROBBER BARON. Their spokeswoman, wearing a yellow rain slicker, stood atop a bench, chanting through a bullhorn: “THE RICH PAY NO TAX, WHILE WORKERS GET THE AX!” A huddle of BBC, Sky News, and ITN field correspondents and cameramen had gathered around her to memorialize the moment. Flames flickering out of half a dozen rubbish bins gave it all a rather medieval feel.
Burls checked his watch and turned to the scruffy-looking twenty-something in the passenger seat next to him, hunched over a laptop—the NCCU’s prodigy hacker. “It’s time, Jeremy.”
Jeremy nodded without taking his eyes from the screen.
Burls picked up his secure talkie. “Is everyone ready?” He waited for roll call. This was a one-shot deal with a thousand variables that needed to perfectly balance, and his nerves were buzzing. “All right, people. Let’s begin.” With that, Operation HUCKLEBERRY FINN went live.
First, an MI5 agent dressed as a chauffeur emerged from a limousine parked at the curb outside the main entrance to the building. He opened the car’s rear door and stood tall, waiting for his passenger. About two minutes later, three police officers—none of whom were privy to the operation—emerged from the lobby and came out onto the sidewalk to scout the area. One of them gave an all-clear gesture to someone still inside the building, which also served as the “go” signal for a young female agent, disguised as a mail courier, who came whisking by Burls’s Land Rover on a bicycle, pedaling fast toward the scene.
Burls watched the bobbies signal for her to stop. Feigning annoyance at the delay, she took out her smartphone, and the video feed from a tiny camera integrated into her bike helmet transmitte
d to Jeremy’s laptop to clearly show the phone’s display and the application that was pinging Wi-Fi signals in the immediate vicinity. She tapped on the third device on the list that came up, denoted by the abbreviation for a cardiac pacemaker that had been described in great detail on the baron’s Bounty4Justice profile page. Her screen refreshed and showed a dashboard of control settings for the device. It was the actual software, sent straight from the manufacturer. Burls needed this to be as authentic as possible.
The baron emerged from the entryway, flanked by two MI5 bodyguards, wearing a beige Brioni rain jacket over his custom chalk-striped suit. He looked over to the mob and managed to convey utter disgust with a slight curl of his lip, which wasn’t part of the act. No wonder Bounty4Justice’s algorithm selected Smith, thought Burls. The man had a gift for baiting the common hordes. Yesterday, as Burls had pitched this ambitious plan to him, the baron had peered out his lofty window at the mob below, saying, “Frankly, I don’t know why they are all so bloody upset. They’re acting like a bunch of wild animals. They should be thanking me for saving this country from sinking back to a failed welfare state.” His supreme self-regard made him the ideal partner for their run at Bounty4Justice.
“THERE HE IS!” screeched the spokeswoman’s amplified voice. The mob booed and jeered, and the police in riot gear tightened their cordon. She began a looping chant: “DOWN WITH THE ROBBER BARON! DOWN WITH THE ROBBER BARON!”
The baron ignored them, and the bodyguards motioned for him to get moving to the limousine, which sat roughly ten paces ahead. Burls remained laser focused on counting each of the baron’s steps. One…two…three—
The courier raised her phone as if she were taking a picture of the baron. She pressed her thumb on a setting button that would send the pacemaker into overdrive. The helmet cam perfectly framed the prompt that flashed on the phone’s display: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO ACCEPT THIS CHANGE? She tapped her thumb on it again. CHANGE ACCEPTED.
Bounty Page 22
