Bitcoin Bandits

by Chris Kale

  “I’m not going to get caught,” he said. “I told you, I’ve got business to finish first.”

  “So, who has the seed phrase?” the man asked.

  “The girl, the hacker,” he said. “I think she has it, her and Thomas, they’re close.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I put a tracker on Thomas when I first walked past him at BitX,” Niklas said. “They’ve been meeting in private places, frequently, they’re definitely working together. And if there’s one thing we know about her from her business; she’s good.”

  “So, you don’t know,” the man said.

  “I can guarantee that they’re closer than any of your nerds,” Niklas said. “How much is it worth to you to get those seed words?”

  Another long pause.

  “How much would you want for the entire phrase?” the Korean man asked.

  “Five hundred million. . . in Bitcoin.”

  “What?” the man stammered. “No way.”

  “Or I could just take it all. . .” Niklas said.

  “I’d hunt you down to the corners of the Earth,” the man said. “I’d slap your face on every fucking wall.”

  “Maybe,” Niklas said. “Maybe not. I’m in the middle of this city, and no one has seen my face, when every fucking buck in blue is looking for it.”

  “Twenty million,” the man said.

  “Two-hundred and fifty million,” Niklas said.

  “One hundred million,” the man finally said. “And that’s it. You know that’s easily going to be five hundred million in under a year.”

  “Deal,” Niklas said with a wide grin. “I’ll get you the words, every one of them.”

  “Don’t kill anyone else to get them. We don’t need more blood from this.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my business, and I won’t tell you how to do yours. And trust me, you won’t find any blood. Not this time.”

  “You are a nasty son of a bitch,” the man said. “The less I know the better. So, you send me words, and I send you the Bitcoin once the transactions are safely made.”

  “Oh, and in case you’re trying to rob me,” Niklas said to the man. “I’ll hunt you down and open you up from dick to nose. You can count on that.”

  The man hung up.

  Niklas sank in his seat, following the cab as it jumped around the city. She must have given him extra money to make a jagged, and backward path to wherever she was going. His eyes narrowed like that of a large, predatory cat in tall grass, eying his young prey.

  His grin turned to a deep scowl, the predator had come alive, and his teeth thirsted for blood.

  For twenty minutes he followed the cab, it even sped up and tried to hide in alleys a couple of times, but there was no escaping the beast. Eventually, the cab pulled into a parking garage below a tall hotel called The Grand Ambassador. At the top of the boxy-brick building with sixteen-ish floors was a glowing sign that read Ambassador in a soft blue haze. The car disappeared into the depths of the parking garage, and Niklas parked his car in the lot outside the hotel.

  He stroked the center console while staring up at the many windows, thinking of all the soft bodies lying down in Egyptian cotton bedsheets. He was brimming with anticipation, and the predator feigned, and a smile fell across his lips.

  Now he knew where she slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Freyja’s driver pulled into the underground parking lot, flickering with white, fluorescent lights that reflected off of the slick black pavement. The cement ceiling hung low in the garage that rested half-full of cars that ranged from luxury to compact. The driver had seemed more interested than confused by her request to drive around, as if trying to lose a tail.

  She left the car with a gentle slam of the silver car’s rear door that echoed throughout the gray, cement walls with a dull echo. She’d paid the driver, and after the door was shut, he made his way quickly off, ready to collect another customer. Freyja brushed her hair back behind both ears, scanning the parking garage for anything suspicious, paying extra attention to any car that would have pulled in after them. There was none. Placing both her hands in her jean pockets she made her way to the elevator that would take her up to her room. Once at the elevator, she urgently pressed the button. A green light illuminated above the door, and she heard the insides of the elevator begin to shift and churn.

  Again, she looked over her shoulder, not seeing anyone. She pulled out her cell phone, looking for any new message. There was none.

  The elevator screeched as it approached. There was a soft ding as the doors moved open with a gentle hum. She flew into the metal box, pressing the first-floor button quickly, putting her back to the interior of the elevator, all the while her eyes scanning out into the flickering light of the garage. As the doors began to shut, she saw someone walking from the back of the garage in her direction. She held her breath, as she knew she was out of her field completely; being physically located in a strange country. But just as the doors closed, she caught a clear view of the person in question—or people, rather. It was a mother walking hand in hand with her child, no more than six years old. She let out the breath in her lungs that had been held tightly.

  Entering the main lobby of the hotel, a softly lit room with smooth floors that glimmered under the white lights of a large chandelier that was draped with long crystals, Freyja placed her sunglasses back on. She let her hair fall back over the sides of her face and made her way to the stairwell at the corner of the room. Feeling the eyes of the receptionist upon her, she avoided eye contact. Perhaps she would just act as if she were hungover if any human interaction befell her, and she’d give a curt response and continue on her way. She only wanted her comfort net, she wanted to be safely behind the keys of her computer, and the world that lay beyond.

  Freyja pulled her phone out and checked it again—no new messages—but it was always a good way to avoid any interaction as well—the old ‘Facebook is better than reality move.’ Suddenly a shadow loomed before her, nearly out of nowhere, and as she looked up the figure was tall, wide at the shoulders, and brushed past her with a powerful speed. Not running, but not walking. He moved past her quickly, and as she turned to catch his face, she found his head covered by a navy-blue hoodie.

  Standing there in a still gaze, watching the man make his way toward the front doors of the hotel, her eyes were fixed upon him. The man didn’t turn back until he was fully out of the hotel, at which point he made a slight turn of his head, where Freyja could get a slight glimpse of the tip of his nose. She was startled back into the moment with a gentle man’s voice from in front of her, it was in Korean.

  Her eyes snapped to him, a stout man dressed in a black suit, and with slicked-back black hair. His language changed when he seemed to read the look on her face.

  “Can I assist you with anything?” he asked, with only a mild accent. She realized she was still holding her breath, then her gaze fell to the man’s name tag from the hotel.

  “No,” she said, feigning a smile. “I’m fine, just hungover.” She winced when she said the words. She lowered her head and made her way past the man to the stairwell. “You idiot,” she said to herself as she made her way along the smooth stone floor. Opening the door to the stairwell, she made one last glance to the front doors, scanning for anything. She found nothing, and she let the door click behind her as it closed.

  Her feet pattered on the cement floor, creating an echo that ran up and down the empty shaft that rose all the way up to the top floors of the building. She climbed the stairs, making her way to the fifth floor, sliding out of the door out into the hallway with patterned red lines waving their way down the black carpet. Freyja moved hurriedly to her room door, again, looking both ways down the hallway before swiping the card into the door latch control. All clear.

  She slid into the room with a sly glide, letting the sound of the door latch click behind her. Reaching down, she removed her shoes, black and white Converses, and took her so
cks off, throwing them to the side of the bed. Then she moved to the small desk at the side of the room, pressing its spacebar. A black screen faded in, with nothing on it. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, a string of digits and numbers several dozen clicks long. The black faded to a screen filled with open windows. One with a coding language of green letters on a black background, one an open article about BitX, another a long stream of code flying at a rapid pace down. She looked at the code and seemed satisfied.

  Taking the cell phone out again, she typed a message to Thomas—About what we talked about today. . . it has to be tomorrow. I’m going to send you the address of the place I talked about on your computer.

  Freyja sent the text, but before sending the address, she looked out the window to the city, and she rose to walk over to it. Opening the window, a warm breeze flooded the room with the smells of summer leaves and exhaust from below. The sound of the South Korean flag clanged against the tall flagpole, and a helicopter was buzzing past overhead. Pulling the cigarette pouch from her jacket, she placed one in between her lips and flicked the lighter, sending the smoke into her mouth and down into her lungs. She exhaled with a deep sigh.

  “I hope this works,” she said, with smoke still trailing out of her mouth. She took another drag. “Sure would suck to come all this way for nothing.”

  She wasn’t sure how, but she had a strange feeling she was being watched. There was obviously no one in the room, so she extinguished the cig and sent it flinging end over end down into the breeze with a strong flick. Quickly shutting the window, she closed the heavy curtains over it. Not sitting but leaning over her computer she rested her elbows on the table, opened a new window, preparing to send Thomas an encrypted message. She entered in his contact info, typed the message, giving the exact address of where she believed Niklas resided. On the screen, even the words were covered by many asterisks, this was so that even if someone was able to spy on the screen, they’d be unable to tell what the message was that was being written.

  Then that slight feeling of paranoia of someone watching her turned to terror as the scratchy cloth covered her mouth, and a strong arm wrapped itself around her neck like an anaconda squeezing its victim. She knew at once what was happening, the man downstairs, the man in the hoodie, he must have put a tracker on her when he brushed by her. He’s here now, and he’s going to kill her. A second panic set in then as she struggled to break free and release herself from the cloth that was quickly driving her into unconsciousness. She hadn’t sent the message to Thomas yet!

  She dug her nails into the muscles in his arms, but they held on with vise-grip like strength. Freyja didn’t have long, seconds maybe, so moving to that place way in the back of her mind, back to when her mother taught her about self-defense, and not finding anything around to use as a weapon. she sent her elbow swinging back over her shoulder and into the man’s temple, next to his eye.

  He winced, but didn’t let go of her, he only temporarily loosened his grip, so she heaved herself forward in her chair, sending her finger with all her might to the return key. Niklas pulled her back with newfound control, but as her finger left the key after pressing it, the overwhelming dreariness took a strong hold on her, and her world faded to black.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thomas slammed his hands onto the wooden desk in the corner of his hotel room, staring at the cell phone placed neatly between them. The early morning sounds of the city made their way through the open window, letting in with them the warm, yellow haze of the sun rising behind tall buildings. Glaring at the phone, he quickly swept it up again.

  “Goddamnit, get back to me, Freyja,” he said to the phone.

  He typed in another message to her, perhaps the twentieth since her last message to him late last night. Message me back ASAP. 911.

  After tossing the phone back on the table, he sat heavily in his chair, sending his hands through his hair, and rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes.

  She wanted us to go to that place together—today—and now she’s gone. Is it possible she got an entire night’s sleep and I’m just being paranoid? But. . . how could anyone sleep a whole night with this next move looming? We’re going into the heart of darkness together. Something is wrong.

  Again, he swiped the phone up—the focal point of his frustration the majority of the night—and made the motions to send another message, but instead, his focus turned to the call button. He hit a couple of buttons, and placed the phone to his ear, and it started to ring.

  I was going to have to do this anyway. . .

  “Thomas,” a voice said on the other end, and it sounded as if his mouth was half-full of something.

  “Ron,” he replied, trying to keep his voice calm, but he also knew with what he was asking, that may not be so necessary.

  “Hey, what’s wrong, you OK, man?” Ron asked, the sound of him spitting what was probably toothpaste in the sink followed.

  “Yes, um, no, I, um. . .” Thomas said, not exactly knowing how to ask.

  “What’s going on, Thomas?”

  “Ron. . . I need a gun.”

  A deafening silence lingered in that long moment. A silence that carried with it the gravity of an unknown situation to Ron, and a wicked worry in Thomas’ heart for Freyja. She may already be in trouble.

  “Now, Thomas. . .” Ron said.

  “It's for my protection,” Thomas said quickly. “I think I’m being followed; I don’t know who it is, but I’d rather be prepared than not.”

  “Did you used to be a boy scout?” Ron joked.

  “I’m dead serious,” Thomas said, his tone eager and almost scared—scared for her.

  “It doesn’t work like that, the police can’t just give out guns to people who think they need them,” he said.

  “I’m a special agent working for the Federal U.S. government, assigned to track down the thieves of billions of dollars in assets, and I’m getting close. I think they may be after me. I’m not a normal, paranoid civilian.”

  There was a short pause then.

  “If you’re serious,” he said, “and you really think someone might be tailing you, I can send out some of my men to watch after you.”

  “No.” Thomas scratched his head. That’s the last thing I want now. “Just a gun, that’s what I’m most comfortable with. I know how to use one, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “This isn’t like the movies you know,” Ron said, “and I’m not meaning for that to come off as condescending. I’m just being clear, we don’t give out guns like in the Godfather, that don’t hold fingerprints, without serial numbers, and with tape on the handle. Guns are regulated here, not like in America.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Thomas said. “Ron, can you help me?”

  Ron sighed. “All right.”

  Thomas’ spirits were instantly lifted, and now there was hope. If indeed his worst worry was true—that something had happened to Freyja, if. . . worst case scenario. . . Niklas had her for whatever purpose. . . if not simply just to get her knowledge of the seed phrase. . . he’d have to go find her, and now!

  “But I can’t just give you a gun,” Ron said, “but I know where you can get one, and fast. I’ll pick you up later. Say. . . two?”

  Thomas looked at his watch, it was 6:30 a.m. That’s too late.

  “How about now?” Thomas asked.

  “Really? Can I have some fucking coffee first, man? I’m just getting up.”

  “Yes, you can have coffee,” Thomas said. “Eat a god damn sandwich so you’re not crying when you get here, too please.” He didn’t know Ron that well, but most cops enjoyed a little banter, that much he knew from his time in D.C.

  There was a snicker on the other end. “You know what, I’m skipping the sandwich, and you’re buying me one later.”

  “They have good doughnuts in Seoul?” Thomas said.

  “Actually, yes,” he said. “They’re different, but good.”

  “See you soon,” Thomas said. “And Ron
, thanks.”

  He ended the phone call and glared down at the phone. Still no response from her.

  He typed again—Text me immediately when you get this.

  For the next half hour, Thomas sipped coffee like it helped to pass the minutes faster, when in fact, he glared at the phone heavily, making them drag on instead. When not glaring at the phone, he was pacing the room nervously.

  He had a serious mental struggle going on within himself. Yes, he did know how to use a gun, he’d fired many over his lifetime—but Niklas was a real monster, a trained mercenary. He didn’t know if he should fill Ron in on what may or may not be happening. He knew what Freyja would want him to do. . . Because if he involved the police, she’d almost certainly be outed in the online community, and her anonymous status would be gone. . . forever, and the hunt would begin by the real criminals out there. He didn’t want that for her. But at least she may get out of this alive. . . if Niklas did have her now.

  That thought sent a roaring wave of nausea down his throat into his stomach. He gulped and took a sip of water. He opened up his laptop, eying the encrypted message she’d sent him the night before. It was decoded, and he stared at the address.

  “If you have her there,” he said with teeth clenched, “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”

  Another thing was bothering him. . . What if I just told Ron? He seems trustworthy. What if it's just him and me? No—he’d have to call it in. He’s got protocols. But what if we just act like Freyja’s just a normal, innocent tourist? He sighed. No—unless they kill Niklas, he may tell them. If he knows.

  “Of course he knows,” he said aloud to himself, leaning back in his chair with his head back and a hand over his forehead. If he took her, of course he knows who she is now.”

  The cell buzzed, and he dove after it with a startling intensity. Holding it with both hands he saw a new text. . . it was from Ron. I’m outside.