The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  Phil gave one last, fleeting thought to giving it up—but he knew that was mere fantasy. He would do what he must. But even to the bitter end he wished there were some other way. This machine was such a thing of beauty. He sighed, reaching out to touch one of the processors he would soon be scrambling like an egg.

  Time to get on with the work. His DNS attack wouldn’t keep the infotechies at bay for long. Slipping into position behind the central gallium arsenide server, he unscrewed the housing and got to work stripping out the guts. It took the better part of ten minutes to get it ready, an eternity for the customarily quick hacker. He wasn’t intentionally dragging his feet, but psychologically that might have been the case.

  Now there was nothing left to do but set up the chain reaction. Just enter the last string, and we’re done. Then Phil had a fleeting thought of another sort, one that made his stomach jump. If they stopped him on his way out, he might be stuck answering questions once the system started to crash. Questions he couldn’t answer. The identification Brandi had lifted was intended to get him out the nearest exit, post haste, in order to escape before the crash. But the back door was a lot further away. He thought about the problem for a minute, then set up one more trap he hoped he wouldn’t have to use. Better safe than sorry, he thought, pulling his laminate from his back pocket after he finished.

  Guess I’ll just have to think on my feet, he told himself as he looked around the busted SDC one last time, the twinge of regret he’d felt all morning was now an aching pang. But somewhere in there was also the sense that he’d done the right thing. These people were sharks, and they were playing for keeps. If he didn’t protect himself and his friends...

  It was odd to feel a devotion to friends after so many years of solitude. And so many of them, too. He thought of all the club staffers as friends, even Marge and Ted. No, especially Marge and Ted. And friendship was more precious than a computer, even an elegant supercomputer like the one he was standing in. And now that he’d done what he came to do, it was time to warn them. He picked up the stolen cellphone, realizing at that very moment that he had no numbers memorized, nor any convenient email addresses to access. The only one he could remember was Marge’s. He’d told her a million times to make it more secure, or just let him erase it and use the one he’d set up for her exclusively. Now he was thanking his lucky stars that she hadn’t. His fingertips had minds of their own as they typed that simplistic, wonderfully memorable address: mklein@gmail.com, pouring out across the subject line like honey—there would be a response from his friend within minutes.

  He was about to replace the housing when a tiny eep squeaked out from behind one of the node shelves. It was so faint, barely even audible, he almost dismissed it outright. But then he heard it again, and a rustling along with it. Something was back there, watching him.

  Stepping over for a better look, he heard a crash as several servers fell to the floor, knocked over by Phil’s accidental guide. The man gave out one more eep, like a nervous hiccup, then scurried away. How much had he seen? Maybe he witnessed the entire sabotage. Shit.

  ~ 39 ~

  Surprises

  Hop onto one of the conveyor belts, zip along the floor and get a quick look at the upper levels. That sounded like an excellent plan, assuming the one carrying it out wasn’t an out of shape dough-ball. Given his lack of success thus far, he didn’t care much for his chances. It would also turn him into a nice, slow-moving target for the men on the floor. If he could just move his ass quickly enough, though, he might just stand a chance. He sprinted for the nearest belt, already feeling the strain in his lungs and he hadn’t even gotten there yet.

  Approaching the far corner of the building, away from the office wing where they would surely be looking, he heard a sudden crunch bang of gears and belts shifting gears. It was startling, something he’d never heard his entire time working here, and yet he knew what it was. Someone, probably a security guy, had hit an emergency button somewhere along the line. All the conveyors and guideways threading through the stacks of pallets and shelves were grinding to a halt.

  Then there was an eerie quiet, like some giant jet plane powering down at the gate. Into the vacuum fell a buzzing hum from hundreds of work lights high above, still flooding the place in light and, for the first time, in sound as well. The tomblike nothingness that remained made his every breath and footstep worrisome, though his pursuers were noisy enough themselves. He concluded there was no way they could catch him on audible clues alone, and so allowed himself the luxury of relaxing a little. Among the footfalls of so many boots and the jangle of keys and handcuffs, Ted could make out their radio squawks as well. He knew that the noose was tightening every second that he remained in the building. He could swear he heard his name crackle out over the radio at one point. But another burst of static sounded just the same, except he heard ‘said more’ rather than ‘Ted Ward’ this time. The sudden stillness in the gigantic building was playing tricks on his senses. He felt like he was going crazy, he had to get out before he lost it completely.

  * * *

  Fangue felt a surge of excitement. He felt like this was the endgame, or close to it at least. About time. He thought about his idiot boss, and how enjoyable it would be to shove this little victory down his fat throat. Let him know all the people who’d been putting one over on him, all this time and right under his nose. That would be a pleasure to convey. Making damned sure he knew it was Fangue who ferreted the scumbags out was high on the priority list as well. He would be hearing all about it, no question. Fangue could hardly wait.

  The instructions were vague, probably intentionally, and he had to check back with his people several times before he got himself upwind of the place. It was a bad location, out by the docks with nobody around. He started to wonder whether bringing along some support might not have been wise. Too late now, he told himself. Just get it done.

  When he walked up to the building and knocked on the door then, he was taken aback by the sudden appearance of a gigantic, brutish guy, eyeing him with suspicion.

  “Here for the pickup, I’m supposed to talk with some Cartwright guy. He here?” Fangue said, boredom evident in his tone and his slumped demeanor, something he’d always been trained to express in these cases. Just another guy, come to do a job. Bored and boring, nothing but routine.

  “Who’s askin’?” came the deep-throated reply. It was a little disconcerting, even for an old pro. Fangue had been led to believe these were amateurs, but this guy didn’t sound like anything of the kind. The hairs on the back of his neck offered a warning, but he had nothing concrete to back it up yet.

  He dismissed his concern and stuck to the plan. “We set it up this morning. He’ll know.”

  The man slammed the door shut, and Fangue heard heavy footsteps fade away, echoing against far-off walls. He wondered why he hadn’t heard those same footsteps when he’d arrived, but he dismissed it as preoccupation. It wasn’t like him to miss something so obvious, but it did happen occasionally.

  Four minutes later, as he was distracted with what he might say to the doorman to get himself in, a loud rush of air preceded a heavy impact to the side of his head. It was a crashing, disorienting blow, painful and shocking, but even more so disorienting. He shook his head to clear it, but his brain was grey from the attack.

  He attempted to look around and see who was coming after him, but his vision was a blur, and he was starting to feel the sting in a delayed reaction. It was bad enough that nausea began settling in. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath and keep from throwing up, and that’s when the kick hit the center of his face.

  As he struggled to pick his chin up off the ground, just to try and see who was pulling off such an impressive amount of damage, a second kick to the gut sent his senses into shock. He crashed into the ground full-on this time. After that he was only conscious enough to think, fleetingly, about how much pain and effort the simple act of breathing required.

  His attacker,
with one arm wrapped around Fangue’s throat, reached around with his free arm, shoving some sort of cloth over his nose and mouth. He didn’t stay conscious for long after that. Even in the darkness of the hood that was being pulled over his head by his faceless assailant, an even heavier cloak of blackness was falling down over him.

  * * *

  Hank struggled to catch his breath, having pushed his middle-aged body near to the breaking point. He seemed to have shaken off his captors, but he was hardly in the clear. The area was unfamiliar, unfriendly from the looks of it, and who could know how many of those whack-job lunatics had come after him.

  Looking around, he tried to guess at his location and assess his needs—figure out what had to get done before he could hunker down somewhere and rest. His body still ached from the beating, and he was losing steam fast. If he couldn’t find a safe place, he risked collapsing right there in the street. He felt the dizziness and nausea begin setting in afresh, and knew he had a concussion, at least. Probably other things too. But he couldn’t think it through. He leaned against the side of a building, then blacked out again.

  It seemed like hours later, in a heavy fog of confusion, when he heard the excited voice close to his ear call out, “Is he breathing?” The words carried over the din of hushed whispers, along with the shuffling sounds of bodies pushing at each other for a closer look. “Think we should move him?”

  Struggling to open his eyes, Hank Fangue awoke briefly to a blurred world, awash in worried expressions hovering far too close. He wanted to push them away, but he had no strength. Each breath a chore, he racked his brain trying to remember what the hell had been done to him. This was from that warehouse? No, that didn’t make sense. He’d left that place already, was on his way back...somewhere. It hurt to think, his head was swimming in such pain. It felt much better to just lie back and rest. He vaguely heard the sounds of emergency vehicles, and he allowed himself a moment of amusement as he imagined getting up and running away. But he wasn’t going anywhere. The sirens closed in. He was fading in and out at that point. Vague images of a stretcher, being lifted. A face close to his, asking questions. He tried to answer but it came out a jumble. Then he slept again, or blacked out. It was hard to say which was which at this point.

  The ambulance tore up the road, bouncing hard on worn shocks as the driver pushed for the nearest trauma center. Fangue’s last memory was of the casual chit-chat between his EMT and the driver. Bastards, he thought. This is serious. He slid down, falling back to inky blackness.

  ~ 40 ~

  Exits

  “There he is!” The shout came from the end of the hall, but Phil didn’t dare turn around. Even as his entire body tensed into one giant knot, he forced himself to walk at the same measured pace as before. He couldn’t outrun them. His only hope was to out-think them. When he heard the footsteps clatter up behind, to the point where it was no longer possible to ignore, he turned on his heel and stared the group down.

  “That’s him. He’s the one!” It was that braying kindred spirit of his, now turned squawking stool-pigeon, with a couple of beefy security guards in tow. He should have known. Everyone who’d seemed friendly on this whole god forsaken trip had turned out to be an enemy. Why should this one be any different?

  Phil recognized one of the guards. It was the man who’d let him in. Banking on residual sympathy, he directed his comments toward the familiar face. “I’m sorry, what’s this all about?”

  “This man says you don’t work here,” said the guard, “and that you’re not cleared to be in the facility.”

  “Well,” Phil chose his next words carefully, “this man would be absolutely right.”

  The stoolie blinked. He wasn’t expecting that.

  “Well done, son!” Phil said, giving the blabbermouth a slap on the shoulder that looked harmless on the outside, but packed a decent wallop. He was happy to see the wince it provoked. “I’m here from the CEO’s personal security team,”—Phil reached back to produce the laminate, holding it in front of each of them in turn—“to test for weaknesses.”

  At this, the guard who’d let him in began to look uncomfortable. So much so that Phil regretted what had to happen next.

  “This man,” Phil said, pointing an accusatory finger, “allowed me to pass through the back door without so much as a glance at my ID. I’m glad to know that at least one of the staffers here in the SDC has a head on his shoulders.” With that, he slapped the pigeon even harder, smiling while he did so, and forcing a smile in response. You’ll get yours, Phil thought, already plotting out a revenge scenario that would never happen.

  * * *

  Ted held his breath, listening for any sign of the cop who’d been right over his shoulder. He heard signs of commotion, but couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. He wasn’t even sure how many were still close. Judging from the amount of noise in his vicinity, he guessed three or four. He also couldn’t tell whether the nearest ones were still hovering just out of earshot, close enough to pounce, or if they’d moved along to other rows by now. He didn’t dare risk exposure, instead deciding to wait them out and hope they’d already passed.

  While he was waiting there, motionless, he took stock of his situation. He wondered if there were any other options, particularly ones that didn’t involve immediate incarceration. Short of a miraculous escape, he had no illusions about what came next. Deathly afraid of jail, he began to feel a panic rise up out of his gut and flood his body with terror waves. He tried to take in a few silent, deep breaths, but all that did was cause a frightening case of hyperventilation. He switched to short, quick sips of air, which helped his rhythm somewhat, but wreaked havoc with his fight or flight instinct. He felt like a cornered rat.

  A booming, mechanical chunk chunk chunk sound swept across the cavernous facility. The illumination began to dwindle as banks of light fixtures systematically switched off. The threat of darkness sent a fresh sensation of doom out to the frayed ends of Ted’s nerves. He tucked and rolled out of his hiding place. It was purely instinctive, a response to the rapidly changing conditions, but his rational self was in total agreement anyway. This was it—they must have pinpointed his location and were preparing to move in.

  In the not-quite-darkness, Ted tried to open his senses and figure out what they were doing, but he got no clear signals. There was still a lot of chatter and footfalls, and along the walls beams of light bounced around from their flashlights. The fact they prepared their own light sources meant this must have been an intentional move, but if so where were they then? Surely they had other equipment, infrared glasses and such. Just hurry up about it, will you? Ted’s thought surprised him, the gallows humor of it all. But if he was done for, it might as well be quick. He toyed with the idea of simply standing up and announcing himself, but pushed the thought away. He wasn’t caught yet.

  * * *

  The crackle/hiss of radio chatter was close enough that Ted, still terror stricken over the sudden plunge into darkness, resolved to move again. They didn’t seem to be sweeping the facility any longer, his immediate fear when the lights went out. He couldn’t figure out what they were up to from his current location, so he crept his way along the far edge of the aisle until he made it to the rear causeway. From there, he slunk down several rows before choosing one. The shelves were mostly empty, so he could climb. It was risky, but he needed to get a look at what was going on. An unguarded path to one of the exits would be ideal, assuming there were any to be found.

  He pulled himself up the jagged-edged shelves, feeling the metal give under his weight and creak loud enough to echo. He stopped cold, exposed and vulnerable, and felt gingerly for a more solid piece of fixture. His arms and hands were getting cut pretty badly in the process, but the sting just seemed to sharpen his focus. It felt so much like life or death anyway, the pain was oddly natural. Still, he wasn’t thrilled with the notion of running around in the dark dripping blood. He tried again, more carefully this time, and finally found purc
hase near the edge. He hoisted himself higher, this time without a sound. With tremendous effort, he swung his leg onto the shelf and pushed, boosting himself up enough to see over the top.

  He felt a rising sense of relief. Even in the hazy darkness, it was clear none of the cops were close to his position. The uniformed throngs had bunched together on the far side, and from the looks of it they were focused on something they’d found. Or someone. What are they up to now?

  He jumped from the shock of a pocket buzz, nearly giving away his position in his panic. He pulled himself together and reached for the phone. A text message scrolled across the lock screen:

  FYI: Phil got sidetracked, he’s working on it. Says to be careful of a trap, whatever that means. Find the alternative workstation. I’ve attached directions, go there. Police are on their way, so you’d better move fast. Be safe. Marge

  What the hell? Why was Marge suddenly in touch again? She called the damned cops? Had she been cooperating with them this whole time? He felt his skin flush hot as he began to shake, humiliation from the defeat coupled with a thoroughly impotent rage. He’d been had, alright, she’d been planning this all along. Except...the message didn’t come off so much like a gotcha, more like a friendly warning.

  He looked again, reading each word with care. Alternative workstation? A trap? It sounded like she was trying to help him. Did she even know he was in this mess right now?

  * * *

  Still pinned down, Ted stayed put and tried to make sense of what was going on. The cops had gotten to Marge. She could be confessing everything she knew right this minute. She’d have no way of knowing he was here, but she might well have led them to the main players by now, so they’d be looking for him anyway.

  Assuming they knew everything else, would they know where he was? Or would they just figure he’d run off like Phil did. Could he still risk one last attempt at getting the files into Hamm’s computer while they were distracted with her.