Hunt You Down

by Christopher Farnsworth

  The clerk waves me over. I know what he has to say, but you have to follow the social graces, even when you don’t feel like it. There is a man waiting for me on the pool deck, he tells me. I thank him and pass him a ten, even though I know he’s already been tipped to deliver the message. Common courtesy. If there’s a moral to this story, that’s probably it.

  I walk out onto the deck, with its bright blue Astroturf and pure white furniture. It is a textbook example of an L.A. day: there is just enough wind to whip the smog out of the sky, and the sunlight reflects off the pool like a chrome bumper. There is no one in the water, just an array of perfect bodies in bikinis lined up on lounge chairs.

  Cantrell stands out like a boil on all that perfect flesh, sitting at one of the tables with a small bucket of iced beers in front of him. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt that hurts my eyes even more than the sun and a bright red make america great again cap.

  All of his attention is on the copy of People in his hands. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind the glares he’s getting from the crowd. That’s Cantrell. The original Ugly American.

  I sit down across the table from him. Cantrell reaches into the bucket and pulls out a Pacífico. “Beer?” he asks.

  “It’s ten thirty in the morning.”

  He snorts at that and passes me the bottle. “You’re not working.”

  Good point. I take the bottle and drink.

  He cracks open a beer of his own, takes a sip, and nods. As usual, he is the most Zen bastard I’ve ever met when he’s guarding his thoughts. All I get from him at this moment is the taste of the beer on his tongue and the feel of the sun on his back. No surprise. He’s had years of practice.

  Then he breaks out of his meditative state. “How’s your friend Zhang?” he asks. He knew all about Zhang, of course. He was the guy who told me about the Chinese EHF kids, after all.

  “Never writes, never calls,” I say. Zhang parted ways with us when the chopper landed back at the airport in Luang Prabang. The pilot was happy to take us. Our money was as good as Godwin’s. But we didn’t have a lot of time to talk. The Chinese government could easily pressure the Laotians to close the borders to any of us as soon as they realized we’d walked away from Golden Boten City. And Zhang had a much harder road ahead of him. All Sara and I had to do was get on a plane, and within a couple of hours, we’d be in Thailand, then on our way back to the States.

  Zhang was still wounded, officially cut off from every support system he’d ever had, and alone. I’d given him all the money I had on me, and everything I could scavenge from Godwin’s corpse. That, and his talent, would take him a long way.

  Still, it wasn’t going to be easy. The people he’d given his life and loyalty to had just betrayed him for what they thought were the best of reasons. I’d been there. It’s not something you can just walk off.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked him.

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe it’s time for me to join the private sector as well,” he said. He hesitated a moment, then asked, “What would you have done if you’d been wrong about that drone strike? If we’d taken you away, like we planned?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “I would have killed all your men, and probably you. And then I would have made my way back to Godwin and killed him too.”

  He gave me that amused look again. “You would have tried.”

  “I guess we’ll never know.”

  Zhang bowed slightly. “Interesting meeting you, Mr. Smith,” he said.

  Then he turned away and vanished inside the terminal without looking back.

  “What do you think’s going to happen to him?” Cantrell asks.

  “Why, you want to offer him a job?”

  Cantrell laughs. “Shit, with his talents, on the open market? That boy’s probably going to be a billionaire within a year.”

  “Speaking of money . . .” I remind him.

  “Right,” he says. “Well, then, let’s get it over with.”

  We both fish in our pockets for a moment. I hold up a thumb drive. He holds up a phone.

  “Five million for the code behind Downvote, as agreed,” he says. “Just put the phone up to your eye, it will scan your retina, and the money will go straight into your account.”

  I never gave Sara her laptop back. It only took me a moment to retrieve it from the locker at the Luang Prabang Airport. She never even asked about it.

  It still contained all the files we downloaded from Godwin’s Romanian server. Including the Downvote source code. It took me about half an hour to download everything into the high-capacity thumb drive.

  I don’t know what the Chinese buyers are doing with their version of Godwin’s program. Maybe nothing. Maybe they’re waiting for the next round of protests before they try it out.

  But Cantrell was very happy to arrange for the Agency to purchase it, especially when he heard that the Chinese had a copy.

  I’m about to finalize the transaction. Then I hesitate for a moment. I look at the thumb drive in my hand.

  “You don’t want to verify the package?”

  Cantrell smirks. “I trust you,” he lies.

  I still don’t take the phone.

  “What if I want a different payment?”

  “John. We had a deal.”

  “Yeah,” I say, holding the drive just an arm’s length away from him. Cantrell would not be above snatching it from my hand and trying to run. “But what’s it really worth to you?”

  “If you want more money—”

  “Not money. In fact, you can forget the original payment altogether. This is more concrete.”

  “What do you want, John?” Cantrell asks. The accent vanishes. This was always how I knew I’d pushed him almost too far, without even reading his thoughts. His words become as flat and monotone as a midwestern TV anchorman’s.

  But I know he’ll have no real problem with this. It’s even going to save him money.

  “Get the feds to drop the case against Aaric Stack,” I tell him. “Completely. He walks away. Total immunity from all prosecution going forward.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because the Chinese have this,” I say. “And that’s the price now.”

  He grins. “More importantly, John, why would you do that?”

  “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “You really must like that little bodyguard.” The accent is back. He is hugely amused by me again.

  “Just make the call.”

  He takes his phone back and wanders away, one more guy on his cell in LA. Only his call connects with an encrypted line somewhere back in Virginia.

  After ten minutes, he comes back to his seat and cracks opens a fresh beer. He doesn’t say anything. I know the answer already.

  I hand him the thumb drive. “Now, you know what happens if your guys don’t come through on this?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’re all well aware of the damage you can do, John.” He drinks. “She ever going to know that you’re the reason she won’t have to visit her boss in jail?”

  “I don’t think it would make a difference,” I say. “She’s a true believer. An idealist. Hard to change their minds.”

  “Yeah, I seem to recall having that problem with a couple of my recruits.”

  I actually feel a small surge of pride from him. He must have been drinking before I got out here.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  Aaric Stack will not face any liability for his part in creating the code behind Bankster, or, for that matter, Downvote. And he will get to go on writing his software that will hopefully nudge us in the direction of our better angels.

  Sara will help him do it. Maybe it will even do some good.

  A young woman stan
ds up from her lounge chair, passes in front of us, and jumps into the pool. We both watch her for a moment.

  “She’s young enough to be your daughter,” I say. “Granddaughter.”

  “You know, I keep hearing how old I am,” Cantrell says. “Brave new world out there. Software and algorithms are the new arms race. Data that steers people around. Automated crowd control.”

  “Guys like you and me, we’re supposed to be obsolete.”

  He laughs, and it goes down deep and genuine. “I hear that every couple years or so. First it was satellites. Then spooky bastards like you. Then drones. And now this”—he holds up the thumb drive—“is supposed to put me out of business. And yet, somehow, I seem to keep cashing my paycheck.”

  “There’s something to be said for the human factor.”

  “Damn right,” he says, and clinks my bottle with his. Then he passes me the copy of People he was reading before I walked up.

  There’s a picture of Kira, still in her hospital bed, but with a bridal veil on her head. She’s pale and thin, but smiling. Her fiancé holds her hand. The headline says kira couldn’t wait another day!

  There’s a quote pulled from the story below that, in big, bold letters:

  Things like this really teach you to seize life’s moments while you can.

  Armin told me about it when I called to tell him the man behind Downvote was dead. He said Kira decided to get married in the hospital, almost as soon as she was out of her coma. I wasn’t invited to this one. Probably for the best.

  “Well,” Cantrell says, “at least somebody got a happy ending out of it.” He swallows the rest of his beer and then belches. “Speaking of which. I got an appointment for a massage. Always good to see you, John. Let’s do it again sometime.”

  He stands up and we shake hands. He’s got his trademark shit-eating grin on his face, making me think that despite the fact that I should know everything, Cantrell has somehow gotten the best of this deal.

  We both head back into the lobby. Cantrell walks out the front door.

  I watch him go. I’m about to head to my room when I stop and think for a moment. Someone once said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

  So I detour in the direction of the front desk.

  The clerk smiles at me again. “Something else I can help you with, Mr. Smith?” he asks.

  “I need my bill,” I say. That catches him off guard. He knows my deal here. So I make it even clearer.

  “I’m checking out,” I tell him. “It’s time for something new.”

  Acknowledgments

  As usual, this was not a solo effort. First and foremost, as usual, many thanks to my brilliant agent, Alexandra Machinist, and my peerless editor, Rachel Kahan.

  I also interviewed several people who were kind enough to share their expertise with me.

  Kent Moyer, CEO of the World Protection Group, told me what it takes to keep celebrities and executives safe from threats. Jessica Ansley, a personal protection specialist with the Executive Protection Institute, expanded my knowledge further and answered my questions about what it’s like to be a woman working in that world. They were both extremely generous with their time and I appreciate it.

  Thanks to the real Jezebel Todd, who is definitely not an assassin. (Honest.) Thanks as well to everyone at ICM and William Morrow and HarperCollins who worked hard to get this book published.

  Dr. Jonathan Hayes, an outstanding author in his own right, helped me with a question about leg injuries. Brian Laing and Engin Kirda of Lastline, an Internet security firm, talked me through the shadowy corners of the Dark Web and explained it in terms I could understand. Andrew Komarov of Infoarmor was my guide through the world of high-stakes cybercrime and online theft. And thanks as well to Dan Chmielewski, who arranged my interviews with them and who continues to be my go-to guy for all questions related to high-tech security. The legendary Beau Smith remains my personal armaments consultant.

  The “sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs” analogy comes from Lieutenant Colonel David Grossman’s book On Combat. The response about treating people like sheep comes from David Graeber’s Debt: The First 5,000 Years.

  The use of “emotional contagion” techniques by Facebook is real, and was covered by Vindu Goel in the New York Times and by Micah L. Sifry for Mother Jones.

  I also relied on the work of other authors and journalists for some of the real-world details in this book, including How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker; So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson; Boomerang: Travels in the New Third World by Michael Lewis; “All Governments Seem to Be Winging It Except for China” from Douglas Coupland’s collection Shopping in Jail: Ideas, Essays, and Stories for the Increasingly Real Twenty-First Century; No City for Slow Men by Jason Ng; The Dark Net by Jamie Bartlett; Who Owns the Future? by Jaron Lanier; How to Speak Money by John Lanchester; Pay Any Price by James Risen; Andy Greenberg’s fascinating and compelling coverage of the Dread Pirate Roberts and the Silk Road case in Wired (with reporting by Nick Bilton) as well as Sarah Jeong’s pieces on the trial for Forbes; Ron Gluckman’s story about Golden Boten City in Forbes; and dozens of stories and articles about online harassment, trolling, and Internet mobs from many sources, including Gawker, the Guardian, Bloomberg Businessweek, Buzzfeed, the Economist, Vox, the Verge, re/code, and others. My apologies to anyone I have forgotten or failed to mention.

  Finally, I am once again grateful to my family, who give me everything and wait patiently while I spend my time typing words onto a screen. Any mistakes or inventions are entirely my own.

  About the Author

  A former journalist and screenwriter, Christopher Farnsworth is the author of the Nathaniel Cade/President’s Vampire series of novels, which was optioned for film and TV and has been published in nine languages. Born and raised in Idaho, he now lives in Los Angeles with his family.

  Also by Christopher Farnsworth

  Killfile

  The Eternal World

  The Burning Men

  Red, White, and Blood

  The President’s Vampire

  Blood Oath

  If you enjoyed Hunt You Down, why not try the first novel introducing John Smith

  When billionaire Everett Sloan hires John Smith to take down his biggest rival, it’s not just because he’s a gun for hire.

  It’s because he reads minds.

  Paired with the beautiful Kelsey Foster and promised a reward that fulfils his wildest dreams, Smith can’t believe his luck.

  And then he finds out the target . . .

  AVAILABLE IN EBOOK AND PAPERBACK NOW

  Read on for an exciting extract . . .

  [1]

  I know what you’re thinking. Most of the time, it’s not impressive. Trust me.

  Dozens of people move around me on the sidewalks in L.A.’s financial district, all of them on autopilot. Plugged into their phones, eyes locked on their screens, half-listening to the person on the other end, sleepwalking as they head for their jobs or their first hits of caffeine. The stuff inside their heads can barely even be called thoughts: slogans and buzzwords; half-remembered songs; the latest domestic cage match with whoever they left at home; dramas and gossip involving people they’ll never meet in real life. And sex. Lots and lots of sex.

  �t let him need braces>

  That’s what I live with, constantly, all around me like audible smog.

  Most of the time, it’s just annoying. But today, it makes it easy to find my targets. They’re fully awake, jangling with adrenaline and anxiety. They stand out, hard and bright, a couple of rhinestones glittering in the usual muck.

  I cross Fifth Street to the outdoor courtyard where the first guy is waiting at a table, empty Starbucks cup in one hand. I’m supposed to see him.

  The one I’m not supposed to see is watching from a half a block over and twenty stories up, on the roof of a nearby building. I can feel him sight me through the rifle scope. I backtrack along his focus on me, reeling it in like a fishing line, until I’m inside his head. He’s lying down, the barrel of the gun resting on the edge of the roof, the cool stock against his cheek, grit under his belly. His vision is narrowed to one eye looking through crosshairs, scanning over all the people below him. If I push a little deeper, I can even see the wedge he placed in the access door a dozen feet behind him. He taps his finger on the trigger and goes over his escape route every five seconds or so.

  They’re both nervous. This is their first kidnapping, after all.

  But I’m in kind of a bad mood, so I’m not inclined to make it any easier. I get my coffee first—the line is a wave of pure need, battering impotently against the stoned boredom of the baristas—and then walk back out.

  Time to go to work.

  I take the open seat across from the guy at the table. I dressed down for this meeting—black jacket, white oxford, standard khakis, everything fresh from the hangers at Gap so I won’t stand out—but I still look like an insurance salesman compared to him. He’s wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts, with earbuds wired into his skull beneath his hoodie. Nobody dresses for business anymore.