by C. B. Carter
The polymorphic code activated immediately and installed an encrypted version of itself on James’s laptop. The decryption module was next and then the payload fired up. Moments later, it had mapped itself to Cricket’s computers in the Condo below and quickly travelled along the network mapping and found the dedicated storage server leased to ESP Sphere, Inc.
The engine mutated once again on the storage server and started compacting any video recording, voice recording, financial and e-mail mime files. Its self-contained modulation procedure kicked in and transferred the files to the nearby dedicated server that belonged to Aeneid. The entire process took less than twenty minutes and the code went into hibernation, deleted the procedure and waited for new files.
* * * *
Mark was back at the hotel. He was glad James didn’t say anything when they crossed paths in the lobby’s bathroom. He opened the e-mail from wooden_horse and followed the directions exactly.
After a full ten minutes of server hopping, he was gazing at a folder that contained hundreds of zipped files. He didn’t expect to see anything this soon, but wooden_horse was good. He picked one, unzipped it and found it was huge, over 300 Megabytes. He clicked on the voice files and could hear radio traffic between Mr. Wright and his team in his media player.
Next he selected a video file and watched as James walked around his condo. Then he selected an excel file and saw hundreds of rows of numbers, financial data from the bank. The cells to the far right contained what appeared to be file modification data. He could see ESP, then PNW War Room, and then a server name of some sort. Below that he saw his own laptop’s name. It scared the hell out of him and he closed the file and deleted it.
He jumped when his cell phone rang. It was his secretary. She was upset and screaming the moment he answered.
“Mark, something is wrong with our account!”
She didn’t even give him a chance to respond.
“I checked it this morning and everything was fine. I just checked it again and someone has stolen twenty thousand dollars. What do I do? Should I call the police? Did you hear? Twenty. Two oh thousand, Mark!”
“Calm down, it was me,” Mark said when he could get a word in.
“What? You spent twenty thousand dollars in an afternoon?”
“Yes, it’s okay. It was me.”
“Oh, I don’t have an invoice for it. What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”
“Sorry, Linda, didn’t have time. It’s for a job that I’m doing. It will be replaced by Monday.”
“Whewh...”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Have a glass of wine and enjoy your weekend. Trust me, it’s money well spent.”
“I will, see you Monday then. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He did a search and found an Office Depot near his hotel. He grabbed his keys and headed out the door.
He parked, grabbed his laptop, entered the store, walked directly to the Tech Services desk, and told the pimple-faced teenager that he wanted his laptop name changed.
“Yeah, okay. You can leave it and we’ll get to it in a while.” The young man spoke slower than anyone really should, it was agonizing.
“I want it done now, right now.”
“Yeah, there are a couple people ahead of you, so you know, you’re going to have to wait until I can get to it.”
“How much is it?”
“There’s a minimum charge.”
Mark was frustrated. “A minimum charge doesn’t answer my question. I asked how much is it? Your answer should include a dollar amount. So, how much is it?”
“It’s like forty for me to even look at it.”
Mark pulled out his wallet and showed the young man a hundred dollar bill.
“I’ll have to break that for you at the register up front. It’s been kind of slow back here.”
“No shit, I wonder why. Look the hundred is yours, if you do it right now.”
“Oh, okay. You want the name changed?”
“Yes, please, now.”
The young man opened the laptop and for a kid whose words flowed like molasses, he could type like crazy.
“What do you want the name to be?”
“ESP Sphere.”
“Okay, done. Anything else I can help—”
Mark left the bill, grabbed the laptop and headed toward the Laser printer area. He selected a printer that printed 25 pages per minute and threw it on the cart. He found a toner cartridge that claimed to print 6,000 pages and threw it on the cart along with three reams of paper. He picked up a package of blank CDs and finally selected a banker’s box and went through checkout.
Back in his hotel room, he hooked up the equipment and started printing random excel files and emails and burning random videos onto one CD and random voice recordings after that, alternating back and forth.
He answered Tina’s call and told her if everything went well, he’d be coming home tomorrow. She wished him luck and told him she missed him.
An hour later, he had nearly a thousand printed pages and had burned media files onto all the blank CDs. He placed the items into the banker’s box, put on the lid, and labeled the box ‘SMILE!!!’
He took a break and ate dinner before enacting part two of his plan.
He loaded his Glock, checked his digital camera, placed a couple of Lorcet pills into his coat pocket, and called Tina.
“I’m going to crash early. I have to be up at four in the morning. Just wanted to say goodnight.”
They talked for about an hour and he fell asleep after setting his wake-up call and alarm clock, it was almost 10:30 PM.
* * * *
James didn’t stay the entire night at The Lounge as he normally did - mainly because he really didn’t care for the band. The band was too pop-ish and what he really wanted was some time to think. He kissed Bridget ‘bye’ and caught a cab back to the condominium.
He turned on the stereo, selected a mix that included Sean Hayes’ soulful music, some of Deftones’ slower paced songs, and cranked the volume until the music filled the room. He grabbed a Georgetown Brewing Co. brew, picked up the printed material Bridget purposely left out in the open, and made his way to the balcony. He sat and watched the cars travelling east on Olive Way.
He thumbed through the packet, but didn’t consume any of the information. His thoughts kept going back to the note Mark had left. Why would he call me? And the email wasn’t from Mark. It was from someone at aeneid.com. Wasn’t Aeneid from Virgil, the story about the Trojan who went to Italy? The last part of the note really didn’t make any sense, ‘a Mexican standoff’. Was he really almost out? Could Mark do this so quickly?
The beer was crisp, clean, and smooth, contrasting nicely to the lyrics radiating from the stereo. He sat for quite a while, doing nothing but watching the traffic, listening to the music, and wondering what Mark was up to. Deftones’ lead singer, Chino Moreno, was belting “I watched a change in you. It's like you never had wings...” and James could relate, wondering if the change in him was now his new normal.
He stood, placed the packet of Volvo information near the laptop and wrote Bridget a quick note.
Bridget, you win, but we have to find something a bit sportier and I’m still repairing the Mustang, I love that car. Love ya, James
He turned on the tube, vegged out, and fell asleep on the couch.
Bridget woke him with a kiss on the mouth.
“Hey, baby.”
“Hey, back at ya. What did you do tonight? I see you saw my packet of material.”
“Yep, did you see my note?”
“Yes. I’m still awake and will search, but the S40 was the nicest one I found. I’ll looked at the others, but if they don’t have stellar safety ratings, well, you know.”
“I know. What time is it?”
“Almost two.”
“Okay, while you’re busy keeping us safe, I’m going to crash, no pun intended. What time are we leaving in the morning?”
/> “The trip only takes about forty minutes, so I say we make it a slow wake up morning.”
“Sounds good, baby. Okay, goodnight.” He kissed her and made his way to the bedroom.
Chapter Twenty two
~ Reveille of the Ill-fated ~
Mark was up before the alarm went off and the wake-up call came through. He dressed, stuffed the Glock into the back of his pants, and covered it with the tail of his coat. He put the digital camera inside the banker’s box, headed out the door and drove towards James’s condominium.
He parked the Explorer on Pine Street, walked to the parking lot of the condominium, and found the Tahoe parked in the spot reserved for 602. He hid the banker’s box next to the building and carefully jimmied the lock on the Tahoe’s cargo door and slowly opened it. When the alarm didn’t go off, he placed the banker’s box in the back of the vehicle. He retrieved his camera and called the police. He gave them the tag number and claimed it was his spot and he wanted it towed. He was certain it had a number of tickets. Getting the box in the Tahoe was easier than he expected and was he thankful because he didn’t look forward to bribing the tow truck driver.
He concealed himself in the shadows of the building and watched the flatbed tow truck from EZ Towing Co. pull into the parking lot with two big boys in the seats.
They circled the lot until they found the Tahoe. The boys were big, but quick. In mere moments they had the winch attached and started dragging the Tahoe onto the tilted bed of the tow truck. The alarm went off and all hell broke loose.
Mark immediately recognized Mr. Wrong. Mr. Wrong was used to using his size to intimidate, but the two boys were not having any of it. Mr. Wrong yelled and postured and they gave it back in spades. Two more associates showed up and after some pushing and shoving, one of the boys said he would call the police and all the associates calmed down. Mr. Wrong took the paperwork and he and the other associates headed back upstairs.
The tow truck drove past Mark and he wrote down the name and address ‘EZ Towing Co. 46th Street.’
He found the towing company’s lot just off Aurora Ave and continued to 47th street, parked and walked to the back of the lot with camera in hand. The entire fence was covered with some type of vine and he couldn’t get a clear visual on the Tahoe inside—he needed a higher vantage point and then he noticed the Realty building on the corner of the street. After finding the fire escape, he used it to gain access to the roof of the building and a perfect view of the Tahoe. Now all he had to do was wait for William P. Wright to show up. It was almost 6:00 A.M. and he snapped a couple of shots of the sunrise over the Cascade Mountains.
Mr. Wright pulled into the parking lot of the EZ Towing Co. on 46th Street and was met at the gate by an older man and the two big boys that had towed the Tahoe.
Mark was too far away to hear the conversation, but he knew what was being said and began taking pictures.
“Here to pick up the Tahoe.”
“Sure, it’s one twenty-five for the towing.”
They exchanged money and information and soon Mr. Wright, Mr. Wrong, and two associates were at the Tahoe inspecting it for damage.
Mr. Wright jumped into the passenger seat and the associates checked the equipment in the cargo bay to make sure nothing was missing. The associate saw the banker’s box tucked in the corner, just behind all the radio relay equipment. He tapped on it and suggested that Mr. Wright take a look.
Mr. Wright suspiciously eyed the banker’s box and saw the word ‘SMILE!!!’ in capital letters penned across the top. He opened it and saw page after page of emails and financial data files, his data, the exact same files he was providing to his client. He saw CDs labeled ‘recordings.’ He pulled one and gave it to the associate. “Check this out in the CD player.”
Wright looked through the remaining files in the box. Someone had a great deal of his information and they were fucking with him.
The Tahoe’s speakers came to life and played track after track. It was recordings of their radio traffic, along with their conversations between James and Mr. Wright.
Wright didn’t say anything. He just stood at the back of the Tahoe, shaking his head while looking at what must have been hundreds of pages of his private data. He looked at Mr. Wrong. “You, talk to, I think he said his name was Harry, and find out who had access to our Tahoe. You two, pretend like you’re walking back to the gate—Hansel is out there somewhere taking pictures. I want him alive.”
Mark had already made his way down the fire escape’s staircase and exited the Realty Company’s parking lot heading toward 47th street. He had a good thirty pictures in the digital camera and placed the strap around his neck. When he stepped off the sidewalk onto the concrete he saw the associates turn the corner and he began to run.
The first bullet struck the ground ten feet in front of him, thrusting a plume of dust and concrete into the air. It was a warning shot, but he didn’t stop. The second bullet tore through his right calf muscle, missing the tibia bone my mere millimeters, causing him to trip up and tumble forward onto the empty street.
The road rash burned like hell and his leg was on fire. He knew he was going to be caught. He quickly downed the two Lorcet pills in his pocket and rolled to his back. Within seconds, he had two guns pointed at him. The Tahoe pulled alongside them and Mark was dragged by the collar toward the Tahoe. He was tossed against the open door and patted down.
“Where is your Explorer, Hansel?” Mr. Wright persisted with the question until he got the answer. Mark tried to duck when the punches came, but couldn’t. He took a couple of blows to the mid-section in his stride, but a blow to the head landed and it was freshman year in college again. He was out cold.
His limp body was thrown into the back seat of the Tahoe.
* * * *
Mark came to in a concrete warehouse of some sort. It had an open bay and the Tahoe was parked inside. The warehouse obviously had not been used for quite some time. It had vines snaking their way up the inside walls and running over the ceiling along with the musty smell of urine. He could faintly hear the splashing of waves nearby over the ringing in his ears. The bay darkened as an associate rolled down the metal door. The looped chain mechanism ground and complained. To Mark, it sounded like a visit from the grim reaper dragging his chains.
Mark’s wrists were tied with rope pulled taut and wrapped around the luggage rack on the top of the Tahoe. His feet were tied at the ankles with the rope disappearing under the Tahoe, his arms carrying the weight of his body.
Mr. Wright was right in his face the moment he woke up. “Smile, isn’t that what you wrote? Who the fuck are you?”
Mark didn’t answer and took two blows to his exposed rib cage and laughed, the Lorcet hiding much of the pain.
“What are you some kind of sadist? I will ask you once more, who are you?”
“A private investigator.”
“A PI? A fucking gumshoe? Who hired you? Was it DuVall?”
The Lorcet continued to kick in and Mark laughed at Mr. Wright’s expense. “I have a sleeper program on my computer. If I don’t log into the dialog box at nine each morning, a counter starts. If the counter trips—the program sends all those files and recordings, the ones I only gave you a sample of, to the FBI, along with twelve pages about you, William P. Wright.”
“Really, is that so?”
“Yes, you’ll have so many fingers up your ass that you’ll think you’re at a proctologist convention. It will be good practice for you and your boys in prison.”
“Think you’re some type of comedian, huh?” Mr. Wright held up three fingers and Mr. Wrong gave Mark three hard blows, one to the stomach and two to the head. Blood spurted everywhere from Mark’s busted eye socket and broken nose.
Mr. Wright picked up Mark’s cell phone and showed it to him. “What if I called Tina and found out where she is? Yes, I saw your call log. Lot of calls between you two. I bet she’s really important to you.”
Mark blew the blood out
of his nose and spat. “She is, but you won’t touch her.”
“Really now, I don’t think you know who you’re fucking with!” His voice echoed off the walls, each note seeming to look for a way to escape. “Why wouldn’t I, gumshoe?”
“She’s a cop.”
“FUCK!” screamed Mr. Wright as he threw the cell phone into the wall and walked to the front of the Tahoe. Mr. Wright held up three fingers and could hear the punches landing on Mark’s body, followed by another to the head.
Mark was happy to see the phone in pieces. It meant they couldn’t find Aaron.
“Cricket, did you hear all that?” Mr. Wright snapped. He was fuming.
“Yes, sir. Was that his cell phone crashing against a wall?”
“Yes, I threw the fucking thing, why?”
“It’s just that cell phones are often used as the alternative for password resets. We could’ve used it.”
“Forget it. Is that sleeper program a possibility?”
“Yes, sir.”
“F-U-C-K! What are our options?” Mr. Wright slammed his fist into the Tahoe’s hood.
“He lives or we get that computer or we find out where the files are stored before they can be sent. He obviously has some knowhow. We need to know where the digital data is. Once we find it, we can snub him out. I say we have to give him what he wants until then.”
Cricket knew it wasn’t entirely true. He could break the code if he had the computer in time and there was time to find it, but his mind was set on taking advantage of this situation.
“I seem to recall you saying that our system was impenetrable, right? I’m beginning to wonder if you understand the meaning of that term,” Mr. Wright berated.
“Don’t know how he did it. I will start backtracking from our data center.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan, let’s backtrack, that’s your answer for everything. It’s like you have some fucking time machine or something. Backtrack? What am I to do with this problem now?”
“Sir, just find out what he wants.”
