Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Sebastian smiled at his triumph over the two unaware goodie-two-shoes. “It’s the small victories that can be the most satisfying,” he announced to himself. Detective Royce’s automobile, like practically every new car produced in the world, was equipped with a GPS which pinpointed his location within three meters. The district attorney’s office used a digital, voice over IP phone system. Wherever there was a computer chip involved, Gravity Well could listen, watch, and learn.

  The Komitet operative knew what movies the detectives watched from the comfort of their living rooms. He knew their children’s grades and their wives’ dress sizes. Sebastian could produce a list of every officer who was having a fling or extramarital affair. In most cases, he could identify the address of the love nest being used as well as the frequency of the trysts.

  None of these capabilities were new. Over the last decade, leaks from a plethora of government agencies outlined a frightening technological arsenal engaged in the name of security. The masters of big data had been mining “private” information for years.

  Popular games, played on PCs and smartphones, contained spying modules. Common, household printers embedded a nearly transparent barcode on every page. Even the world’s wealthiest companies, with seemingly unlimited resources, had been compromised when they copied and executed their contracts on paper.

  What was new was the development of how to utilize the trillions of terabytes of data being collected.

  At first, Sebastian had been skeptical. He was a man accustomed to belt-fed, automatic guns, bores measured in millimeters, and kill zones measured in meters. When the concept of information as a weapon first came to his attention, he didn’t understand the ramifications.

  It didn’t take long, however, to convince him that he wanted to be in this fray.

  While it was nearly impossible to physically kill someone with data, death wasn’t the only way to disable an opponent. Within a decade, Sebastian had ceased selling lethal weaponry and concentrated on its more powerful alternatives.

  Take the El Paso detectives that currently had his attention. Their captain, an 18-year veteran of the force, was having a torrid affair with a married, female sergeant working in the evidence room. The officer’s wife of 21 years had no clue.

  What if that changed? What if Sebastian’s minions arranged for Mrs. Captain to show up at the apartment where her husband was enjoying afternoon delights on a regular basis? What about the sergeant’s husband, who happened to be a US Army major stationed at nearby Fort Bliss?

  The two adulterers affectionately called their rendezvous point the “holding cell,” and Sebastian knew for certain that there was a computer in the bedroom, complete with attached webcam. It would be child’s play to turn it on, record one of their encounters, and then email a copy of the video to both unsuspecting spouses. Perhaps broadcasting their encounter live on social media would be more entertaining… and damaging.

  Of course, there was also blackmail. “Back away from your murder investigation, or we will release this video of you and your lady friend performing the reverse cowgirl.”

  Then there was Judge Francis Kendall. A devout Catholic and former altar boy, Kendall’s political persona was that of a dedicated family man. “Too bad he was hiding an illegitimate child from that fling,” Sebastian smirked. The surreptitious indiscretion was discovered after an analysis of the judge’s online purchasing habits. The bastard son’s birthday was on November 4th. He worshiped the Pittsburg Steelers. His struggled with Math. He frequented Baskin Robbins. Sebastian knew details about the boy that even his father did not know. After that had been established, it had been easy to influence the jurist’s decision process.

  All humans were flawed; all possess weaknesses that can be exploited. The percentage of politicians, appointed officials, and business executives who had something to hide hovered around 99.997%, and Gravity Well knew all of their dirty secrets.

  As the driver entered the parking garage beneath Sebastian’s office building, he mentally debated using his dirt-arsenal to solve his most pressing problem in El Paso. “No, that wouldn’t do,” he muttered as the bright sun suddenly disappeared, replaced with concrete walls and fluorescent light. “We have to go a bit deeper to ensure our schedule proceeds uninterrupted.”

  Gravity Well’s plan to avoid doomsday had been unnervingly sage in its analysis and predictions about the human race, most specifically, the American people.

  The AI brain had concluded that the public at large would not accept a violent overthrow of their government. A military coup was also out of the question. Any “forced” change to their perceived Constitutional, inalienable rights was a non-starter. Violence would be met with violence, and that would quickly lead to anarchy and an accelerated collapse of society at a pace that even Gravity Well couldn’t reverse.

  That translated into a set of operational parameters, which on the surface, seemed far too restrictive and benign to offer any chance of success. Sebastian knew better.

  The standing order, “No direct action,” was the highest priority. Grome couldn’t hire private guns or mercenaries to eliminate the Komitet’s foes or those who might accidentally interfere with the plan.

  More than one committee member was surprised when the ex-arms dealer had enthusiastically agreed. “Of course, we don’t want to initiate direct violence or use force against anyone. That would eventually backfire and make championing our cause more difficult,” he had echoed.

  No, what was far more effective was to channel the endless wealth of information to accomplish their goals and eliminate roadblocks. Violence was an inevitable part of the Gravity Well’s equations, but it must originate from other parties or be a natural occurrence of circumstance.

  The program could also serve a secondary purpose; it could be used to turn the tide of public opinion. Sebastian had quickly become an expert in manipulating big data to square two enemies at each other’s throats.

  George’s opening of the door brought the Komitet’s henchman back to the here and now. Nodding a curt, “Thank you,” to his employee, he then strode briskly for the elevator that would take him to the penthouse office on the 11th floor. He had work to do.

  Chapter 7

  For once, Griffin didn’t have a hangover. He supposed he should thank Kit for that, her visit the previous night cutting short his normal consumption of imported beer.

  While shaving in the shower, he pondered if the lack of sleep was a worthy tradeoff.

  After quickly dressing and holstering his firearm, the still-yawning marshal grabbed an energy drink from the fridge and then rushed out the front door. He wanted to visit the FBI office early and drop off the photograph Kit had left on his table. He had to make sure that the local boys knew it was important to him personally.

  Traffic was heavy, his late departure putting Griffin right in the middle of El Paso’s businessmen and women in a rush to make their desks on time.

  Twice he made sudden turns, frustrated by the gridlock and lack of progress. While he sincerely wanted to help Kit, being late for his own duties wasn’t acceptable.

  Four blocks from the FBI’s small, regional office, Griffin again found himself entrapped in morning congestion. A traffic light was out at one of El Paso’s busiest intersections, resulting in a honking, fist shaking mob of backed-up commuters. Every possible detour, side street, and alley was already clogged with frustrated drivers.

  Exhaling with a sigh, Griffin decided that he would just have to wait it out. As he began thinking about the excuse he was going to use for being late at the courthouse, movement in the side mirror distracted him.

  A motorcycle cut between lanes of stalled traffic, a maneuver that never ceased to infuriate the marshal. Yet, today, of all days, he couldn’t really blame the rider. If he were on a bike, he’d probably be tempted to do the same thing.

  Griffin watched as the bike’s pilot gently swerved between the rows of unmoving cars and truc
ks, dodging left and right to avoid stopped vehicles blocking the path. For a brief second, he was tempted to open his door and create a roadblock. “Probably some college kid,” he grumbled. “These days, they have no respect.”

  It was then that he noticed a passenger on the back of the bike. The pair was transporting a cardboard box, but it wasn’t the package that drew Griffin’s attention.

  The passenger’s forearm was embellished with a series of dark tattoos, clearly visible in his mirror. Griffin had seen similar ink somewhere before.

  Now completely focused on the motorcycle, the marshal scrutinized the driver as he streamed forward. His eyes zeroed in and locked on the heavy leather jacket. “My gawd, this is Texas,” Griff marveled, “land of heat, heat and more heat. Why would anyone voluntarily sign up for a cow hide sauna on a humid day like this?” The law man leaned toward the side rear-view mirror for a better look. “Better yet… what is he reaching for?”

  Indeed, the biker appeared to grasp and remove something from inside his jacket. Griffin’s own hand was drifting toward his sidearm when the butt of the driver’s weapon flashed from under the leather coat.

  The marshal knew he wasn’t going to get the drop on the riders. Trouble was cruising down the road at 15 to 30 miles per hour and closing. There just wasn’t enough time.

  As his own barrel cleared leather, Griffin managed the seatbelt release and then surged toward the passenger seat. The center console’s gear shift ripped through his skin, tearing a painful gash across his chest as every muscle in his frame sought the lowest spot in the Ford.

  The floorboard was too tight to accommodate his body, the vehicle’s frame refusing to yield, leaving his ass suspended mid-air over the console. The rear window exploded in a shower of glass, the marshal feeling several rounds of hot lead passing just over his back and head.

  Positive that the bike would stop beside the driver’s side door so that the two shooters could empty their magazines into his trapped carcass, Griffin kicked, pushed and scrambled to relocate to the passenger side. It was like the nightmare he’d experienced as a child, the one where he was being chased by a monstrously huge dog while his legs would only move in slow motion.

  In those few milliseconds, it dawned on Griffin that he wasn’t going to make it to passenger side safety. Even with all the time in the world, his camel-frame just could not fit through the eye of the mid-sized car’s interior-needle.

  Rage boiled up in his chest, the thought of being shot in the back while he tried to climb over the console simply unacceptable. With a jerk, he reversed course, determined to face his assailants and shoot it out in the street.

  Instead of stopping, however, the bike merely slowed for a moment next to his car. Griffin barely caught a glimpse of the cycle’s passenger throwing the cardboard box through the Ford’s shattered window. He heard it land in the backseat.

  As the lawman reached for the door handle, the roar of the bike’s engine thundered in his ears. The motorcycle popped a wheelie and sped ahead of gridlock.

  Griffin knew instantly what was in the box. His survival instincts kicking in high gear, he sprang through the driver’s door, rolling out and onto the pavement just as the bomb exploded, the searing blast wave ripping through the Ford’s interior and sending a bone-crushing shockwave in all directions.

  The detonation was so violent that it raised the sedan’s rear wheels several inches into the air. A blizzard of glass and chunks of steel and plastic screamed over Griffin’s prone frame. The heat of the expanding explosion was so intense, he could feel it burning the hair off his arms as they covered his head.

  He started to rise just as the gas tank ignited in a secondary blast, this one bowling him under the pickup that was idling beside the torched Ford.

  The driver of the truck, partially blinded by the glass shards from his own blown-out windows, finally realized what was happening right next to him. In a panic to escape the expanding fireball in the next lane, he stomped on his accelerator.

  Griffin’s mind, now moving at hyper speed, spotted the pickup’s tires barreling toward his head. In desperation, he grabbed at the truck’s running boards, managing to wrap an arm around the chrome tube at the last instant.

  Griffin’s face was less than a foot from the pickup’s tire, his body being dragged forward as he held on for dear life. Fortunately for the marshal, the traffic jam limited the truck’s progress to just a few feet before the front bumper rammed into the delivery van ahead.

  Rolling out from under the pickup, Griffin glanced back at his burning car and then pivoted to see if he had any chance of catching the motorcycle bombers. With his gun drawn, he darted toward the intersection, praying that the bike had become ensnared in rush hour congestion. He could hear the high-pitched whine of the Japanese engine as it continued to speed away, already squirting through the blocked intersection and gaining distance with every second that passed. Without another motorcycle, there was no way he was going to intercept them. Even if he seized the fastest car in the area, the traffic jam had blocked every possible route.

  Sirens echoed in the distance. All around him, nearby commuters stepped out of their vehicles and began to speak all at once, each trying to make sense of the morning’s events… each postulating a different theory of the explosion… some of the explanations sensible, others not. Car fire? Drive-by shooting? Fifth grade science experiment gone bad? Road rage on steroids?

  Griffin holstered his pistol and then pivoted, hoping that no one was severely wounded by the blast. At a quick jog, he began examining the surrounding cars for injured civilians.

  All in all, a dozen people sustained minor bruises and cuts. The woman in the minivan behind Griffin would require a few staples and probably six months of consoling.

  Firemen and El Paso policemen were on the scene a few minutes later, Griffin allowing one of the paramedics to rub a cooling cream on his burned arms. “Second-degree flashes here and there,” the medic ascertained. “Probably should put you in an ambulance and have the ER doc take a look.”

  Reluctantly, Griffin agreed. “Can I borrow your cell for a second? Mine was in the Ford.”

  The EMT agreed, handing Griffin his new iPhone. From memory, the marshal dialed Kit’s cell. “Can I get a ride… real quick?”

  “Sure. Where are you? What happened to your car?”

  “Someone just tried to kill me,” he stated calmly. “The EMTs say I need to have a doc look at my burns, so I wondered if you could swing by here and give me a ride to the hospital?”

  The concern in Kit’s voice was genuine. “Burns? Hospital? Griff, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just lost a little hair is all. Anyway, if you could hurry, I’d like to get out of here before the ATF and FBI arrive. Those clowns will swamp me with statements and paperwork in a New York minute, and my arms are beginning to ache.”

  “Why don’t they take you in an ambulance?”

  “There are other people here who might need those,” he exaggerated, winking at the EMT, and then mouthing, “She a hottie.”

  “Other people? Hurt worse? What the hell happened, Griffin? Oh, never mind… you can tell me on the way to the hospital. Where are you?”

  He gave her the address of an intersection just two blocks away. “I’ll be standing on the corner. You’ll never get through this tangled mess.”

  Nine minutes passed before Griffin waved Kit down and climbed into her front seat. Before she pulled away, she gave him the once over and declared, “You look like shit,” and then wrinkled her nose. “And you smell like burnt shit. How bad are your injuries?”

  “Nice to see you too, ma’am,” he grinned. Then lifting one of his arms, he explained, “I lost a little peach fuzz is all. By the way, remind me to cancel that waxing appointment at the spa. No need for that now, huh?” Shifting in the seat, hoping to get a little more comfortable, he continued, “Now, could we please get out of here before my brother feder
al agents arrive and send the bloodhounds after my ass?”

  “Sure. Is Community General okay?”

  He shook his head, “We’re not going to the hospital. You’re going to drop me off on the east side, near Fuller and Canal Road.”

  She pulled away, but Griffin could tell from her expression that he wasn’t off the hook just yet. “Did whatever happened back there just completely scramble the gray matter in that thick skull of yours?” she asked, throwing him a nasty glance.

  “No, of course not,” he answered in a surprisingly calm tone. “You see, I know who just threw a bomb in the back of my company car, and I want to visit them before they figure out they missed and vamoose back over the border.”

  “A bomb?” she quizzed as she steered her vehicle to the side of the road. Roughly slamming the gearstick into park, she turned to face him, making sure that she could peer into the very whites of his eyes as she continued her inquiry. “Seriously? A bomb just went off in your car in El Paso, Texas?”

  “It wasn’t a very big bomb,” he retorted.

  “Looks like it was almost big enough. And what are you going to do once I drop you off?”

  “I’m going to have a little discussion with these fine, young gentlemen. I’m going to ask them politely how they knew I was the fellow that offered their leadership free room and board in the penal system, and how they knew where to find me,” he replied, his tone making it clear the marshal meant business.

  “Shouldn’t you wait? Get backup? Obtain a warrant?” she asked, sure she already knew the answer.

  “I don’t need a warrant. Technically, I’m in pursuit after witnessing a felony. A delayed pursuit, perhaps, but nonetheless I’m within my rights to follow them anywhere. I don’t need backup. I’m pissed to high heaven, and there probably are less than a dozen of them there, so I think the odds are still in my favor.”