If Rusty were truly this angry and convinced that Vielhatten was behind the attack on him, then he’d jump at the chance to hurt him. The embarrassment would appeal to his own bruised ego; I only had to wait.
Rusty: “ok ok fine, I see your point, but will take a while to get that much cash.”
Ghost: “I’ll give you two weeks to get the money together, otherwise price goes up or deal is off. Contact me when ready.”
The deal was set, and not only had I robbed this idiot once, I was doing it again by accepting his money. Of course, I also needed to build a reputation and client list, so this job had to work. Fortunately, it looked like I would be taking money from two half-wits, and that should start helping me negotiate with more worthwhile contacts.
Chapter 8
During the time Rusturd was getting money together, I was able to gather some information on this Greg Vielhatten. I followed him around a few times, seeing his oversized house in the suburbs, his overcompensating SUV, and his unhappy has-been trophy wife who made a lot of trips to the store for wine. He was a fairly fit Caucasian who carried himself well for a short guy. His clothes fit well, and he showed off several rings that sparkled expensively.
Greg himself spent his time golfing, paying bribes to city inspectors to leave his properties alone, and visiting a local bank. I didn’t doubt I could find a way into some safety deposit boxes, but that was too risky. Headaches still visited if I was shielded and moved too much, even though the limits were increasing daily as I continued to keep watch.
Before two weeks, Rusty had somehow gotten the cash together. We’d agreed on a place for him to stash it, and once I had it in hand, the contract was on. I kept him updated on some efforts and a few photos of progress; next I got to work on the real adventure.
I spent a few days observing when Greg and his wife were home, when they were gone, and when they slept. I never saw anyone bring pets outside, thus I was optimistic about the lack of dogs. Cats were an unknown, but they were strange, skittish creatures anyway and probably didn’t care. On the second evening, he arrived home after golfing, and it was easy enough to enter their garage as he pulled his vehicle inside. I just needed to be out of the way of the garage door, since the laser sensors wouldn’t recognize an invisible obstacle, and the door could easily close on my head.
Once inside the garage, I moved to the passenger side of the SUV, then to the front of the vehicle to wait until he went inside. The garage door closed by a button within the vehicle. He got out, retrieved the golf clubs, and proceeded through the door to his home. I waited, watching in case there was a chance to enter, but he had immediately swung the door shut once the clubs were inside. I sighed and waited, expecting to be there for a while until I could slip in unnoticed.
I looked around at the usual, expected items of a garage: two vehicles and a lot of room in the front for a lawn tractor, plenty of gardening tools, and an array of automotive items and supplies with a five-year layer of dust. In the event I might be chased, I released all tire pressure from both vehicles, providing another layer of chaos. I picked up a screwdriver and used it to scratch the visage of a ghost on the windshield of his SUV, another instance of my calling card.
Through the interior wall I could hear the quiet droning of a television, probably a shopping network while his wife went through a bottle of wine. After a while, an argument ensued and then a door slammed.
The entry door from the garage was unlocked and opened without complaint. As I took in the sights of the home I noticed a number of odd things. A decorative cabinet in their kitchen area was of a fairly cheap design and construction quality. The plates inside it looked like expensive china, but were actually poorly made knockoffs upon close observation. The area for hanging pots and pans wasn’t empty, but items were spaced out to look like the utensil space was being used.
As I looked toward the living room, there were many blank places with discoloration, meaning paintings used to be there. A trip down the hallway toward the sound of the television showed me more of the same; even the wall-mounted TV unit showed that a larger TV had recently hung in its place. Curious, and it indicated financial trouble here because expensive items were being liquidated. I’m sure that added to Greg’s stress.
Mrs. Vielhatten herself was resting on the couch, feet propped on it lengthwise as she had her head tilted back and lain upon the armrest. Her face was tilted up and would be looking at the ceiling if her eyes had been open; a few fingers of her left hand pinched the bridge of her nose in a stressful pose. Her right hand was extended out with a half glass of thick red wine. As I stood in the doorway, I prepared my first attack, noting the tablet lying on a coffee table for later.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a clear baggie full of powder: finely crushed flunitrazepam. I slowly made my way toward her as she shifted slightly, took a drink of wine, then went back to her previous position. I crept closer and sprinkled some powder into her drink. I watched it quickly dissolve, added more, and waited a few minutes. She took a few more sips and sat up to refill from a partial bottle next to the tablet. As she again settled back into place, I sprinkled in a larger amount since her glass was almost full this time. I saw it drift down into the rose-colored liquid, dissolving or settling at the bottom, so I moved on for now.
The house was one large floor, but sparsely furnished. I passed a few rooms that only had a single bed and dresser, probably separate bedrooms for each of them, and then found Greg in his study at the far end of the home. I could hear his angry conversation as he was trying to negotiate something with the party on the other side of a phone call. The room was quite lavishly decorated, expensive items and great artwork, obviously protected from gutting the rest of the house. His pride would not let him liquidate his sanctuary, trying to hold at bay the fact that things were crumbling. An array of expensive bottles of scotch along the wall helped fuel the illusion, and I could see a glass of the golden fluid sitting on his desk with some ice cubes. The ice would possibly cause the powder to stick for a bit, so I had to be careful when adding the flunitrazepam. I hoped I would give them both enough of the sleeping agent to make a difference.
Greg was still standing at a window on the phone call, so I added quite a bit of the crushed flunitrazepam and stirred it slowly with my finger. The particles swam around, but were quickly unnoticeable. When the phone call finally ended, he walked to his desk and gulped down the rest of the scotch in the glass. He made a face, and I cringed, hoping I hadn’t added too much. He refilled the glass from a decanter nearby and finished that glass, as well. Refilling his glass yet again, he sat down at his desk and started tinkering at his computer.
Soon he began shaking his head and squinting his eyes. The alcohol compounded the effect of the drug, so, hopefully, I’d given him enough. Finally, he tipped back the glass, stood up unsteadily, and exited to a bedroom, where he crawled into bed.
Outside it was dark, and I watched the moon lazily move across the sky for roughly fifteen minutes until heavy snoring came from his room. I slowly stepped to the doorway and pulled the door closed, silently thankful it made little noise. I turned on the light at his desk in the study, taking a look at the unlocked computer. As I checked bookmarks for banks, I shook my head in astonishment as both banking websites allowed me to immediately log in with credentials saved for the user and password fields. I looked at the first balance, which was only $2,000. The other was more interesting, linking to a bank in Panama. The total was $89,000 and change, so I graciously starting preparing a few transfers, to begin donating to an array of companies.
The first transfer was a friendly sum to Critter Connection, Inc, which was a nonprofit organization dedicated to the rescue of guinea pigs. The next donation went to the National Odd Shoe Exchange, a charity centered on supplying specialized shoes to people who, due to disease or injury, only need a single shoe. The remaining $50,000 went to the Peaceful Valley Donkey Rescue dedicated to creating a loving environment to donke
ys that had been abused.
As I submitted each of these transfers, there was a soft buzz under some papers, followed by a quiet beep of his cell phone, complete with an alert about the transfers. The Panama banking site was asking for a sixteen-digit code to confirm the transfers, and the code had been conveniently sent to his cell phone for verification. I typed it in, and watched his account drop to $500. The cell phone beeped again, alerting to the successful transfer of funds, so I deleted the text messages and returned the phone to the pile.
I then opened his bookmarks to both Facebook and Amazon and purchased embarrassing items for deviant bedroom activity, making sure to share the purchases on Facebook. This alerted everyone who could see his profile that he was loud and proud to be the owner of a large package of extra-small latex items, among other things. The damage was done, but I wasn’t quite finished. I responded from his account to the Facebook post about his latex copulation purchases, extra small, and declared that even though there was a size problem, he proudly used them daily.
I took a little time and also changed his screen saver to a ghost-like picture I was able to find quickly enough. I then closed the browser, after deleting email confirmations of both orders and money transfers, and took a trip back through the house. His wife was lying half on the couch and half on the floor. I picked up the tablet, satisfied that she had her own Facebook signed in. I quickly found the post from her husband, replying to the testimony of using the condoms daily, and wrote: “At least I don’t have to pay for it, you swine.”
I retraced my way out to the garage, hitting the switch to raise the door and briskly walked out of the garage to my car, which was parked a mile or so away in the parking lot of a grocery store. I pulled my own tablet from the glove box, connected to a nearby Wi-Fi source, and relayed information back to Rusty about the transactions, state of Greg’s home, financial situation, and Facebook disposition for the evening. I told him to keep watch; the job was done, and my side of the contract had been fulfilled. He seemed excited, though angry to have lost as much money as he had, but said he would wait and see.
It took less than two weeks before the local newspaper had articles about several Vielhatten properties in forced sales, in addition to a divorce proceeding. And charges had been brought against him for potential fraud and safety-code violations, likely a result from bribes no longer being paid. After my last check-in with Rusty, he was ecstatic, finally believing in my ability to deliver everything he had paid for. I left directions for anyone he wanted to refer my services to and told him that if I successfully accepted contracts from referrals, I would drop him $500 for the first two. Only a few jobs came from this, but I did at least send him a $1,000 to back up my claim and grow my reputation.
Chapter 9
One month later, I had popped two more drug houses and a gang hideout, but needed to stop because the fallout among the gangs was insane and could easily cost the lives of innocent nearby residents. Guard dogs had been around on the last job, and that proved really dangerous. The dogs couldn’t see me, but they could sense my presence, and their aggression caused a commotion. The gangs themselves were getting intensely trigger happy, as well, so it was time to move on. Apparently, each of them thought the others were behind the thefts, which was fine with me. It kept them busy. It also didn’t hurt that I left a note once: “You know who we are, come and get it.” I had no idea who all the gangs were, but if they were worried about each other, they would leave everyone else alone.
Three months later, I had a small network of underground ne’er-do-wells for clients. I wasn’t a safecracker, but I could get into almost any safe, as long as I had the time to watch someone use a combination or keypad while shielded. I wasn’t a hacker, but I could find out anyone’s password in the same way. I wasn’t a bank robber, but I could walk out of a vault with anything small enough to carry easily. Though one of my clients turned out to be a black-market firearms dealer, what interested me more were the tools he sold, such as lockpicks and cell phone jammers, as well as portable wireless motion sensors. There were always interesting military-grade electronic gadgets that you couldn’t find easily except in places like this.
I had a growing reputation and clientele, and my prices were increasing accordingly. Some of my pricing strategy was to eliminate the small nonsense jobs I didn’t want to waste time on, which left me with the bigger players. Of course, that also left me with the harder jobs. I took no partners, although there were a few attempts to strong-arm me into having one. I refused those jobs, and I had shown I was reliable in the end, so things worked out. Mostly, I thought they wanted to find out who I was, how I worked, or get something to use as leverage over me. I usually refused a job, regardless of price, if I felt this was the direction it would take.
Tonight was one of my biggest meetings, a client by the name of Peter Matroni. It had been difficult setting it up because I’d been careful not to let anyone see my face, which was excruciatingly difficult to manage, but my reputation was making it slightly easier. A few clients had tried to cheat me, but my unique “skill set” kept me fairly safe. Plus I’d made examples out of those who didn’t uphold their end of a fair bargain by dropping a carefully packaged bundle of evidence to either the police or their rivals. The message was clear: don’t mess with me, or I’ll dismantle you completely.
It was nearly time for the meeting, though I use that term loosely. I couldn’t just show up in the same room, or there would be an incredible risk of being physically captured. I also couldn’t expect my identity, such as it was, to be believed from a completely remote location through video chat. My requirements were simple: bring a bodyguard if necessary, but no more, and if I got wind of any attempt to capture or otherwise defraud me, I would know it. I always know.
I worked through a referral business, using the referring client to pass along instructions until we made contact and could devise our own communications plan. For this particular meeting, I set the meeting for a nearby abandoned house, one I already knew the complete layout of and could hide quickly. All I needed to do was wait for Pete Matroni to arrive at 11:00 p.m. Shielded, I passed the time outside and watched traffic. A car finally pulled into the alley and stopped. I could tell it was Pete by his authoritative demeanor and the driver who walked to the house with him. His name had been mentioned by previous clients, so I knew he was a big player—one of the biggest—who was into all sorts of not-so-legal enterprises around Atlanta. Sounded like a perfect business opportunity to me.
Good. One bodyguard. I am so glad when people understand the rules.
I watched for a few moments and made my way around to the back of the tiny house. I pulled a small device from a pocket and used the built-in magnet to anchor it to a metal piece of the house. This small device would monitor for motion and send an alert to a handheld wireless receiver in another pocket if it picked up enough motion to trip its alert function. I placed one around each side of the external door I’d be entering.
Behind plenty of cover, I dropped my shield, opened the door, and walked inside, wearing a motley jumble of dark brown, black, and gray clothing. A simple balaclava kept my hair covered. The first meeting with a new client was always unknown territory, and I had to exact care as a rare face-to-face relationship of sorts was established. Pete Matroni stood in the kitchen, the prearranged meeting spot inside. He certainly looked Italian; his dark hair and complexion spoke to his lineage. His hair was slicked back with the edges around his ears showing gray creeping in. He carried himself well, though cautiously, which was expected given the circumstances. He controlled various criminal activities in eight to twelve blocks around the area. I had gotten conflicting reports from previous clients, but either way, Matroni held sway with many others.
He started the conversation: “So you’re the Ghost, eh? Nice rep.”
“I am.”
“I know the rules, I know the game, and I won’t waste either of our time. I have a business partner who is holding
some very valuable information, and I want it. I know you’re not a hit man for hire, but I understand you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty if the situation requires it. I only need that information removed from his possession and given to me. My involvement must remain secret.”
I nodded and motioned for him to continue. I wanted little to nothing to identify me out there, so I said as little as possible.
“His name is Gerald Foulker, owner of the Incite nightclub. He has a safe in his office, and everything I need should be there. I’ll pay you $200,000—with $50,000 now if you accept the job.”
Wow. That’s certainly more than I expected. The highest paying job I’d done so far was a heist from a safety deposit box, a very risky job, but it had netted me $100,000 once the stressful contract was finished. Most of it was from other contents I’d pilfered in addition to retrieving what the client wanted. Mostly a stroke of luck, but a good one compared to the risk involved.
“I accept. You also know the rules if I find I’ve been lied to or misled in any way?”
“I do, indeed,” he replied calmly.
I handed him a printed card with directions on how to wait for contact from me. Pete looked at it briefly, snapped his fingers, and the bodyguard set a small thick briefcase on the kitchen table. I had us meet in the kitchen because it had multiple doors for escape, and that made it easier on clients who felt the same way. Pete tapped his fingers on the briefcase, smiled, and then they both turned and started walking out.
Easy enough.
Once their backs were turned, I quietly picked up the briefcase and reshielded. At the next moment, Pete turned and looked behind him back into the kitchen. I and the briefcase were gone; it was always satisfying to see them jump when they realized everything had disappeared within a few seconds. I watched him recover quickly, though, and they drove away into the night. Time for me to get to work.
Invisible Threads Page 5