The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1)

by Wesley Cross

  “Not much of a life at all,” Helen said. “I’d say a work day is our best bet.”

  “I agree,” he said. “I can loop the cameras on the service entrance, the freight elevator, and the actual floor. The service entrance lock is electronic, so no problem there. But there’s a problem with his door.”

  “There is?” she asked, zooming in onto the lock on Toro’s apartment door. “Damn. It doesn’t look electronic. I have no idea how to pick actual locks, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  They stared at one another for a few seconds.

  “I’m sure we can figure that out,” he volunteered. “I’m sure we can find something on the net.”

  “Yeah, we’ll find a video of some crazy doomsday prepper and use those skills to break into an FBI agent’s home,” she said. “That sounds like a disaster in the making.”

  “Alright.” He threw his hands into the air. “You’ve got a better idea?”

  “We need to find someone who actually knows how to do that, and I might know just the right guy.”

  “You know a guy?” Max asked. “How on earth do you know a guy who can pick locks?”

  “I used to date him,” she said, looking embarrassed. “Don’t ask. It was a long time ago.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  She placed a phone call and talked to someone for a few minutes. There was a strange expression on her face when she hung up.

  “We’re meeting him in an hour at Union Square,” she finally said. “Like I said, don’t ask.”

  “Fine, I won’t ask. We can get there in ten minutes,” he said, smiling. “That means we have fifty minutes.”

  “What are you saying?” she said, smiling back.

  “I’m saying we better prepare for the meeting,” he said and leaned in, placing a soft kiss on her lips.

  The man meeting them at Union Square didn’t look like he could pick a lock. He was a handsome man in a custom-made business suit. His jet-black hair, dark eyes, and high cheekbones betrayed Asian heritage. Watching the man, Max felt a rare twinge of jealousy.

  “This is Max,” Helen said, introducing him to the man, “and this is—”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” said the man, cutting her off. “Let’s not make it into a social meeting. Do you have the stills?”

  “Sure.” She handed him a few pictures of the lock she printed from the security footage. “Can you do it?”

  “Yes, Helen,” the man said, smiling for the first time. “I can do it.”

  “We should do it tomorrow,” said Max, watching the guy. He had a feeling that he just missed an inside joke.

  “Send me the address and the time. I’ll be there,” the man said, turning away.

  They watched him disappear into the crowd, then started walking.

  “Who the hell is this guy?” said Max. “Are you sure he can do what he says?”

  “He certainly can,” said Helen, her face blank.

  “I trust your judgment,” Max finally said, squeezing her hand, “and I won’t ask.”

  They walked in silence for some time.

  “He’s a good guy, and if things turned out differently.” She trailed off. “Let’s just say he’d kept a big secret from me, and when I found out I broke his heart.”

  CHAPTER 40

  It was pitch black. Chuck groaned as he moved, his skull ravaged by a splitting headache, but the pain in his shoulders was even worse. He was lying on a cold floor, hands zip-tied behind his back, his arms and legs completely numb. When he attempted to move his legs, Chuck realized that he was also bound around his ankles and his knees with something that felt like leather belts.

  He wriggled on the floor for a while, making whatever small moves that he could just to keep his blood flowing. First came the tingling sensation, then came the pain, but he didn’t give up, and after some time he was feeling his limbs again.

  Chuck tried to roll onto his stomach, quietly cursing under his breath, his big gut not making it easy. Finally he rolled over, his face hitting the dusty floor. He stayed there for a few minutes, cringing as the pins and needles continued to travel up and down his arms.

  He needed to get up. Chuck planted his chin in a hard floor, pulled in his knees, and arched his back like a caterpillar, then pushed himself off the floor with all his might. His face left the ground, and for a moment he thought he had had enough momentum to get onto his knees. He came up short. He swayed, trying to jerk his body upright, but the gravity won and his face made hard contact with the floor.

  Fucking Ryan was right, I am too fucking fat, he thought in anger. His mouth was full of dust and blood.

  He breathed heavily, concentrating. This was a dangerous game. The last thing he needed right now was a broken nose or a jaw.

  He coiled up and pushed himself off the floor again. It almost didn’t work, and for some time, which felt like eternity, Chuck balanced on his knees waiting for the floor to rush to his face, but he stayed upright this time.

  Halfway there, he muttered to himself, and in one smooth motion Chuck stood.

  It wasn’t pitch black after all. By now his eyes had a chance to adjust to the little amount of light in the room. He was standing in the middle of what undoubtedly was an unfinished basement. There was a light glow coming from an outline of a door to his left and some darker shadows that looked like shelves to his right.

  Chuck turned around and started hopping toward the shelves. Bound knees made it slow going as he was careful not to lose balance. Finally he made it to the shelves. Hopping in place, Chuck turned 180, then leaned on the shelves, letting his hands feel around. The shelf itself was empty, its edges round and smooth.

  Shit, he cursed. His hands continued to explore the shelf until they came to the pole connecting them. There was nothing there.

  He dropped his hands, feeling his anger spike. Something scratched the back of his hand. Chuck stuck his hands on the shelf again, furiously searching for something sharp that had just scraped his skin. Finally his fingers came to the edge of the shelf’s lip, right where it met the pole. The corner of the lip was wonderfully sharp.

  By the time he cut the zip ties on his wrists they were slick with blood. Cursing and grimacing in pain, Chuck undid the belts around his ankles and feet and took a few ginger steps. It hurt, but it was good to be mobile again.

  He moved to the door and felt around for a light switch. Chuck closed his eyes before he turned the lights on, but even through closed lids it felt like high beams on a country road. He stood there for a while, letting his eyes adjust, then finally opened them. The basement was like he imagined it, dusty cement floors with a small spot of blood where his face hit the ground, few empty shelves by one wall, and a tool box in the corner.

  The tool box.

  The most fearsome object in the tool box turned out to be a small Philips screwdriver. Not much of a weapon, but it would have to do. Chuck went back to the door and examined the lock. It was a simple doorknob type with a button in the middle. He guessed it was locked with a key from the outside, but as there were four small screws holding it in place, it wouldn’t be too difficult to take it off the door. Chuck grabbed the knob with his left hand to prevent it from moving as he was readying the screwdriver. To his surprise the door opened with a loud creak, almost making him jump.

  Screwdriver at the ready, he opened the door wide, revealing a carpet-clad staircase leading to another door at the top.

  He started walking up the stairs, cringing every time the floor creaked, half-expecting someone to open the door and shoot him. Nothing happened, and a few seconds later he was standing by the door. It, too, was unlocked.

  God help me, he thought, slowly opening the door for just an inch, and peeking outside. The door was under the staircase leading to the second floor. Through the gap Chuck could see the driver’s body lying in the foyer, a dark brown stain covering the floor around it. As Chuck opened the door a bit wider to give hi
m a better angle of view, he saw the driver’s service weapon just a foot away from the body. He needed that weapon.

  Chuck stood with the door open for a few moments, listening to sounds, but there seemed to be no movement, and he started walking toward the corpse. He paused a few times when the treacherous floor creaked under his weight. After what seemed an eternity, he made it to the gun.

  The weight of the deadly weapon made him feel much better. He crept into the living room, pistol at the ready, only to stop in his tracks.

  Fuck Ryan, what the fuck man? He said out loud, looking at the mutilated body of Jesse Klein bound to a chair. The man was covered in blood, and his only remaining eye was accusingly staring at Chuck.

  There was no need to check the man’s pulse.

  He knew now that the house was empty, but he carefully checked every room anyway. When he was done checking the second floor, Chuck went downstairs, poured himself a cup of water, and sat on a stool in the dining room. His head, where Ryan hit him with the butt of a gun, hurt like hell. He needed to think, he needed to go back to where this all started.

  Chuck put his head in his hands. He didn’t care if the world was going to end anymore. Warring corporations, political coups, global conspiracies; nothing came even remotely close to Bill’s betrayal. They watched each other’s backs for almost two decades. They used to keep the score of who saved whose ass more times, but those numbers got so big after the first ten years that none of them even knew them anymore.

  Chuck took a deep breath and stood. He had to get to the bottom of this more than ever. He had to understand why all this was happening. He was driven by duty before, but now it was different. It was personal.

  He went back to the living room and took a quick look around. If there was anything important, Chuck was sure that Ryan would have found it, but he went through the exercise anyway. He checked the drawers of Jesse’s desk, went through the bookshelves, and tapped the floors and walls. He couldn’t find anything.

  It didn’t matter. He had to go back to the beginning where it all started.

  He had to find Jason Hunt.

  CHAPTER 41

  Mike watched Max and Helen from across the street. The man they were talking to didn’t have any visible tattoos, but he had organized crime written all over him. Mike had seen quite a few of them back in the day.

  Always polite and well dressed. Deadlier than a rattlesnake.

  He waited until the man left, and the two started walking away, then he crossed the street and, quietly cursing under his breath as he limped, Mike picked up speed following the couple.

  It looked like they were heading back to Max’s apartment. They headed south on MacDougal Street, and as Mike followed, he pondered whether Helen’s presence was a problem or an unexpected gift, but on the corner of Prince Street he watched her give Max a quick peck on a cheek and peel away.

  “Max,” he called out, when Helen was out of earshot.

  The man turned around, looking Connelly up and down, suspicion written all over his face.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Mike Connelly,” he said.

  “Mike Connelly,” Max said slowly, a frown momentarily creasing his features as he tried to place the name. “The driver who saved Jason?”

  “Among other things,” said Mike, smiling. He felt he made a good choice by approaching the man.

  “What do you want? Do you know where Jason is?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Mike, “but I can help you find him.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Because Jason is the key, Max,” he said, “and because the failed coup is just the beginning. Those people won’t stop, and we need, he needs, every ally he can get.”

  “The coup? What does it have to do with the coup?”

  “You don’t expect me to tell you all this on the street, do you?” Mike looked around, making sure nobody was close enough to overhear them. He watched Max’s face as the man tried to make a decision.

  “Alright,” Max finally said, “let’s go.”

  The two started to walk again, Max leading them back to his place.

  “One more thing,” said Mike as he limped along, trying to keep the pace, “the guy you’ve just met. Whatever you were trying to do, you don’t want his help, trust me on this.”

  “I don’t trust you yet,” said Max curtly, “but I trust someone who recommended him a whole lot. “The only reason I’m even talking to you is because Jason said you saved his life. But there’s a long road between us talking and me trusting you.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mike, “fair enough.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, Mike limping along, trying to keep up with Max.

  “You must trust me at least somewhat to bring you to your place,” he said, smiling, as they entered the private elevator in Max’s building.

  “I looked into you, you know,” Max said when the doors closed and the elevator started to climb, “after what happened to Jason on his way to the airport. I couldn’t find a whole lot on you in the net, but there were enough crumbs to draw some conclusions.”

  The doors chimed and they entered Max’s penthouse.

  “And what were your conclusions?”

  “Black Ops background, CIA, if I had to guess. I found your payroll records indicating that you worked for Guardian Manufacturing, but you also have a limo company registered to your name. That makes me think that neither of those are your real jobs, and you’re still working for some governmental agency. How am I doing so far?”

  “I would clap, if I could.” Mike lifted his arm in a sling. “I think you are a capable guy, and loyal to Jason, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “Alright, I’m listening.” Max sat on the sofa, motioning to Connelly to do the same.

  “Thanks.” Mike gingerly lowered himself to the sofa, trying not to disturb his wounded leg. “Man, I hate being like this.”

  “This will require a bit of history,” he began, once he settled on the couch. “Few historic moments had so many consequences for this country, and perhaps for the whole world, as the 9/11 attacks and the financial meltdown of 2008. The former opened the doors to the creation of the Patriot Act that gave, what many argue, unconstitutional powers to the government. The latter, for the first time in history perhaps, highlighted how truly powerful some corporations were. It also made clear how interconnected the modern world was. Turmoil, whether political or economic, now spilled over countries’ borders with ease.”

  Mike paused for a second, collecting his thoughts.

  “Understandably,” he continued, “that made a lot of people nervous; however, only two groups of people were able to do something about it.”

  “The government and the corporations,” interjected Max.

  “Precisely,” said Connelly. “The government continued its encroachment on civil liberties, fueled by paranoid visions of terrorists and corporate interests taking over. The corporations continued exerting pressure on the government indirectly through lobbying groups and directly through bribes. It’s gotten worse after the financial crisis as the market segmentation decreased as smaller players got wiped out. That made the companies that were still standing even more powerful.”

  “That’s all well and good, but so far it’s all common knowledge,” said Max, “and what does it have to do with Jason?”

  “I’m getting there. At some point during the financial crisis, a senior CIA consultant put forward a proposal for a creation of a new agency code-named the Unit. The idea was to create a force to protect the government while staying outside of the government. No congressional oversight, no red tape. They would recruit volunteers from elite units like SEALS, Delta Force, and so on.”

  “A black ops unit within the black ops,” said Max, processing the implications.

  “That’s right,” continued Connelly. “The plan had been accepted, a small committee was created to oversee the operations, and the CIA consultant w
ho came up with the idea in the first place, was put in charge of it. The name of the consultant was Andrew Hunt.”

  “Holy shit. Jason’s dad? I had no idea.” Max paused for a moment. “But it kind of makes sense. And explains why he ‘retired’ so early.”

  “Yes. I recently found out that Andrew actually approached Jason and asked him to work as an analyst for the unit when he graduated college, but he turned his father down.”

  “So what happened after?”

  “Well, apparently about the same time a few corporate executives and some high-ranking members of organized crime conspired to create an agency of their own. An international organization whose members were so powerful that they could influence political process in their respective countries. With the idea that if they combined forces they would become unstoppable.”

  “Unstoppable, like taking over the world? The Illuminati kind of craziness?” Max chuckled at the thought.

  “Does it still sound like bullshit even after the failed coup?” Mike watched the other man’s face turn serious. “They might have failed this time, but for the past few years they’ve been slowly but surely gaining ground, and if nothing changes, their next attempt won’t be a failure.”

  “Does that organization have a name?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Mike. “I just know that the key players have alphanumeric designations. Like Alpha One, or Beta Two, and so on.”

  He paused for a moment, collecting thoughts, then continued. “At some point Andrew and the members of the committee became aware of the conspiracy. They realized they also needed the global reach. That’s when the International Serious Crimes Directorate was born and the Interpol was the perfect cover for it.”

  “I found some emails,” said Max hesitantly. “I showed them to Jason as well. They made me think that his parents were killed on orders of Alexander Engle. Is that what happened?”

  “While I don’t know for sure,” said Connelly, “it’s likely, considering that at some point they became aware of the Unit and that Alexander is known as Alpha Two within the organization.”