Drawpoint (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 4)

by L. T. Ryan

  By the time Hilda righted herself and cleared the paste from her eyes, Haeli had already walked to the guard by the entrance, indicated that she was finished with lunch and politely requested she be allowed to return to her room.

  Haeli had no doubt the guard had witnessed the events unfolding only fifteen feet in front of him, but his sly smile told her it wasn’t going to be an issue. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one Hilda had rubbed the wrong way.

  The first guard motioned to another to escort her back to her room, while he maintained his post.

  Haeli never looked back, but she could hear the cackling of the crackheads and the growing chatterings of the others.

  She imagined Hilda’s rage, and it gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling.

  She knew it wasn’t the last time she’d have to deal with Hilda—by humiliating her, she all but guaranteed it. But, truth be told, she was always up for a little good spirited fun.

  CONTRAIL CHAPTER 2

  “Can we, can we? Please.” Ian Thorne’s bottom lip jutted out in a forced pout. Wet with saliva, it glistened against the desert sun, streaming through the dirty apartment window.

  Ima Thorne didn’t turn away from the laptop’s screen to see it. “Mommy’s working, honey.”

  Fighting to stay focused, Ima tapped at the keyboard. It had already taken her fifteen minutes to get into “the zone,” as she called it, and the interruption threatened to reset her train of thought. She tried to ignore him, but she should have known Ian’s ten-year-old, one-track mind wasn’t going to let it go.

  “You promised. Just for a few minutes. Please. Please. Please.”

  Ima snapped the screen of the laptop shut, then tried to soften her initial annoyance. “Fine. A half-hour.”

  A smile erupted on Ian’s face before he scampered out of the room..

  “Get your shoes on,” she called after him.

  Ima didn’t have to tell him which ones. He only owned one pair. One pair of shoes and three changes of clothes.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t have the money to buy him clothes, or anything else he might have wanted. After all, her work had brought in enough to pay Kadeem for the privilege of staying with him in the two bedroom flat for the past nine years, and to stash away a considerable sum for the future. Ima’s reluctance lied in the logistics.

  Over the years, she had learned to make do with only the bare necessities. Diapers, toys, and child sized clothing being delivered to a single man with no children on a regular basis was sure to raise a few eyebrows if anyone happened to notice. And Kadeem wasn’t one volunteer to run kid-related errands. Likely for the same reason.

  The level at which these things were monitored in the United Arab Emirates was up for debate—one she and Kadeem had engaged in on several occasions. No matter the truth, for Ima, it wasn’t worth taking any more risk than necessary.

  Ima’s transition to becoming an unofficial, permanent resident of Ajman, UAE, was rooted, in large part, in its lack of an extradition treaty with the United States. It was convenient enough, but the country posed its own unique set of problems. Governed by Sharia law, something as simple as accidentally showing her shoulders or knees in public could have brought the kind of negative attention she had worked so hard to avoid. Or maybe her nose, eyebrow and tongue piercings would be deemed offensive. It was hard to tell who would take issue with what.

  When she arrived, her jet black hair was shaved on one side and bleached and dyed neon green on the other. It had taken the better part of two years to grow it out to something less—indecent.

  But, in the end, it wasn’t the decency laws that concerned her. It was another archaic law—the one that made it illegal to have a child out of wedlock. Of that, she was as guilty as middle eastern days were long, and no amount of time would change it.

  Neither she nor Kadeem were sure whether the law would be enforced, or what the penalty would be. Deported. Jailed. Worse. But for her, it didn’t make a difference. Just getting documented into the system was enough to end her life as she knew it. No, she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  For nine years, neither she or Ian had left the apartment complex property. In fact, it was rare for either to even step outside the four walls of the small flat, with the exception of the occasional visit to the playground behind the twin buildings. Even then, it had taken her several years to suppress her better judgement enough to venture that far.

  She remembered the first time she led Ian down the stairs and into open air. He was five years old. Smart, well-mannered and as cute as a button. The moment he laid eyes on the two-story, wooden tower, with its colorful tube-slides, cargo netting and rope bridges, he began to sob. Overcome by unadulterated joy. Not yet sure about what it was or what it was for, he seemed to know it was something wonderful. Magical, perhaps.

  Within minutes, Ian was playing with the other children. Emulating them. Socializing with them—despite having never met another child in his life. It was a sight to see, and it made her proud. He was every bit as strong and resilient as she’d hoped he’d be.

  Afterward, Ima reiterated her instructions that Ian never talk about who he lives with or where he was from. And, above all else, that he never, ever, speak to an adult.

  “I know Mom, I’m not stupid,” he had replied.

  Ima remembered chuckling at his response. Even at five years old, his mannerisms were that of a full grown man.

  But it was what he said next that tore at her heart and gave her a turn at sobbing.

  “Mom, do you know what I learned today?”

  “What, honey?”

  “The world is so much better than I thought it would be.”

  “Oh, honey,” she wanted to say, “that wasn’t the world. That was a mediocre playscape in a godforsaken city. There’s so much more out there for you. So many wonderful places to explore. Opportunities to be seized. Real life to live.” But instead, she pulled him close, hugged him tight, and said, “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  Throughout the years that followed, Ima devoted much of her time to homeschooling Ian. He learned geography, history, science, and politics. He grew to understand a world he had never seen, at a level most children his age couldn’t absorb. But they never spoke about the outside world after that day. Not in terms of the present. Or the future.

  This is no life for a child.

  It was a theme that nagged at her.

  Maybe it was selfishness, but she loved him more than life itself, and couldn’t bear the thought of being apart. But, despite her devotion, not a day went by that she didn’t question whether she was doing the right thing. If she was caught, arrested, locked up forever, would he finally have a chance at a normal life? Was he better off without her?

  “Ready!” Ian bound into the room. The laces of his Nike sneakers laced up tight.

  “So am I!” Ima picked up her laptop and let Ian lead her to the door. “Hang on, let me tell Kadeem we’re going.”

  Ima hurried down the dank hallway and rapped on the closed door at the end.

  “Come in,” Kadeem’s gruff voice answered.

  Ima cracked the door.

  Bathed in the light of several computer monitors, Kadeem Sarib stared at her, fingers resting motionless on the keyboard. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m taking Ian outside to the playground.”

  “You don’t have to tell me when you want to go outside.”

  “I know. I just wanted you to know where we are in case anything happens.”

  “Has anything happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Right.” Kadeem’s fingers sprang back into action, then paused again. “Where are you with the Tesco data?”

  “I’m working on it. Almost there. They have pretty tight security. It’s not as easy as you make it out to be.”

  “If it were, I’d be doing it myself.”

  Ima couldn’t argue with that. “Okay then, we’re going. We’ll be a half-hour. If we’re not back
by then—“

  “What? Call the police?”

  “No. Just— nevermind. Be back in thirty.”

  Ima closed the door and made her way back to Ian, who had opened the front door and was pacing around the common hallway.

  “Can we go?”

  “Go ahead,” Ima said.

  Ian ran toward the stairs, then stopped and waited for Ima to catch up.

  At the bottom, Ian pushed through the outer door. A surge of one-hundred-seven degree air singed Ima’s lungs. She held her complaints but, inside, she was thanking the gods of pity for the two working air conditioner window units Kadeem had in his apartment.

  To Ima’s disbelief, the playground was bustling. Children laughed. Mothers chatted or played on their phones. It was as if the Emiratis were impervious to heat.

  “Go ahead,” Ima said, even though Ian was already half-way to the swings.

  Choosing the shadiest portion of bench she could find, Ima sat and flipped open her laptop. If all went well, at the end of the thirty minutes, she’d have captured the personal data and credit card information of over five million Tesco customers. A score that would buy her another full year’s rent.

  A woman in a black hijab sat down beside her. “Marhaba. Ma ’asmuk?”.

  “I’m sorry,” Ima said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m on an important work thing.”

  The woman’s eyes, peering through the slit in the headdress, looked confused.

  “Work. Job,” Ima enunciated, pointing at her laptop.

  Without another word, the woman stood and sauntered off to join several other women who had congregated around an orange plastic table.

  Ima wondered how the woman could survive the blistering heat, fully covered in heavy black fabric. Maybe the outfit insulated her, she thought. Or maybe she was hiding ice packs under there. Whatever the case, Ima found herself feeling jealous of the anonymity the covering afforded the woman.

  Once upon a time, she had considered getting a hijab for herself, but she nixed the idea when Kadeem reminded her that she couldn’t speak a lick of Arabic.

  “Mom, look at me!” Ian swung himself into the tube and, a second later, popped out from the bottom.

  “That’s great, honey.”

  All of the other children were younger than Ian. Most of the other ten year old boys were off playing soccer with their friends or playing video games. Ian enjoyed playing video games on occasion himself but, because he wasn’t allowed to connect with others online, he would tire of it quickly.

  The only times Ima could detect any excitement in his face was when he was here. But she knew it wouldn’t last forever. Soon he would be a teenager. Hormones would kick in. And the cocoon Ima had created wouldn’t cut it anymore.

  But for now, Ian was occupied and she intended to utilize every moment of it. She dove back into the task at hand.

  Gaining access to Tesco’s computer network had been easy. All it took was a blanket company-wide email and a little luck that someone would click the embedded link. Really, luck had nothing to do with it. The content of the email was socially engineered to be irresistible. Click-bait, the Internet called it. And it worked frighteningly well. The blast had garnered a whopping sixteen percent click-through rate.

  Once inside, the hard part began—exploiting the servers’ code to leak the connection string to the company’s customer database. She hadn’t gotten there yet, but she was confident it was only a matter of time.

  And once she had it, she would have enough information to produce hundreds of thousands of fraudulent, physical credit cards.

  While she and Kadeem wouldn’t produce the cards themselves, they would sell the information on the Dark Web to someone who would. Semantics.

  A score this large, especially if undetected, would bring in over a hundred thousand dollars in profit for each of them.

  Ima tuned out the chattering women and the giggling children, and immersed herself in the lines of textual output, scrolling by in the terminal window. She visualized the vectors of attack, as if she were inside the circuits themselves. Launching attempt after attempt, she crept closer to cracking the shell. And then, after what seemed like the blink of an eye, she was snapped back to the here and now.

  The screech of her phone’s alarm cut through the thin dry air. She fumbled to retrieve it and shut it off.

  Thirty minutes. Not enough time.

  She could have disregarded it. Let Ian play for longer. Squeeze out a few more minutes. It might have been all she needed. But she was always strict with the schedule. Thirty minutes meant thirty minutes.

  Just as it wasn’t enough time for her to hit paydirt, she knew it was never enough time for Ian either. But, to his credit, he never complained when it was time to go.

  Ima closed the laptop and stood, leaving a wet sweat-stained patch on the seat behind her. “Ian, honey, time to go.”

  There was no response.

  Scanning the playground, she didn’t see him. Her heart skipped and a surge of adrenaline shot through her veins.

  “Ian. Come out. Right now.”

  He didn’t appear.

  Ima checked each tube slide. Slowly at first, but with increasing urgency.

  “Ian? This isn’t funny.”

  Ima darted around the park, checking every shadow. Her mind jumped to every horrible conclusion. She circled the perimeter, now almost in a full run, looking out beyond the buildings.

  Oh my god, he’s gone!

  Part of her railed against the obvious. There was no place left he could be hiding. But there had to be an explanation. He wouldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go.

  Tears began to flow. Her legs went numb. “Ian! Ian!”

  In full desperation mode, she barreled toward the group of Emirati women, almost crashing into one who was turning to walk away from the group. She gasped to catch her breath.

  “My boy. Ian. Did you see where he went? I can’t find him.”

  The women shook their heads. Either because they hadn’t seen, or because they had no idea what she was saying.

  Wait. He went upstairs. That’s it.

  It was possible. Maybe she had gotten so wrapped up that she didn’t hear him telling her he was going inside. It was hot. Yes, it was too hot for him. She would find him curled up next to the air conditioner, reading one of his books.

  A smile crossed her face. It was accompanied by a slight tinge of embarrassment over her panicked reaction.

  “Sorry, nevermind.”

  The group of woman fell back into their conversation as Ima sprinted to the door and up the stairs. She flew through the door and into the flat.

  “Ian, you scared me, honey.”

  But he wasn’t there to respond.

  “Ian?”

  Kadeem stood in the kitchenette, holding a spoon and a dumbfounded expression.

  “Did Ian come in?”

  His quizzical look only deepened.

  “Kadeem! Did Ian come back here?”

  “No. He’s not with you?”

  Ima felt the blood draining from her face. “No, no, no” She barged into the room she and Ian shared, overturning the mattresses from their frames. She continued her tirade through every closet, behind every piece of furniture, and every other square foot of the two-bedroom apartment before returning to the spot from which she started.

  Shoulders slumped and arms dangling to her sides, she had all but lost the ability to think rationally. A limp marionette, waiting for someone to lift her up and move her in the right direction.

  Then, with a surge of energy, she straightened her back and screamed.

  “He’s gone, Kadeem. He’s gone!”

  CONTRAIL CHAPTER 3

  Blake pulled the orange juice bottle from the otherwise empty fridge and guzzled down the last few ounces.

  Ring. Knock. Ring. Knock. Knock. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Coming.”

  It was no mystery who was at the door. Forever impatient, it could on
ly have been Fezz.

  He opened it.

  “Hey, Mick.” Fezz walked past him and made his way to the kitchen before Blake had time to close the door.

  “Come in.” Blake met Fezz with a smile.

  “I know you’re leaving for your fight in a bit. I just wanted to stop in and give you this.” He handed Blake a business card.

  “Mateo Pfister. So, this is the guy, yeah?” Blake pocketed the card.

  “He’s definitely the guy. Let’s just say he’s a friendly. Time tested, too. I actually spoke with him. He’s willing to do whatever you want. Thing is, he’s actually a damn good attorney, too.”

  “Haeli will be happy to hear that. He knows I’m comin’?”

  “Yeah, he said he’s available for you to meet tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Fezz.”

  “My pleasure. How’s Haeli doing? Have you talked to her today?”

  “I have. About two hours ago. She’s still good. Apparently mixing it up with the other inmates a bit. Shocker. But she seems to be in good spirits.”

  “Man, I feel horrible for her. Here we are selling off the diamonds that she went to jail for. Doesn’t seem right.”

  “I know. But we’ll fix it. She knows we’re not giving up on her. And I let her know we got her package safe and sound. Speaking of the diamonds, how’s it been going with your contact?”

  “He’s Khat’s contact. And it’s going well. Very well, actually.”

  Within two days of receiving Haeli’s package, Khat had hooked the crew up with a person who was profilific at brokering deals on the black market. The guy was a heavy hitter, and over the years, he and Khat had cultivated a mutually beneficial relationship. Khat was unusually guarded about it—he hadn’t even provided the team with the guy’s name.

  “He’s already offloaded another hundred carats. The coffers are fillin’ up fast.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. We’ll be in business before we know it. I’ve just gotta find the time to shoot up to Rhode Island. I’ve spoken with the agent and she’s got a few lots for us to look at. Depending on what happens in Switzerland. I mean, I have no idea when I’ll be back.”