by Ted Weber
We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this attack may have caused. Rest assured that the FBI is making every effort to apprehend the criminals.
“So that’s it for the comlinks,” Charles said.
Waylee drummed her fingers on the table. “At least they think we’re just after money. Just goes to show, money’s all they think anyone cares about.”
37
February 3
Loudoun County, Virginia
Waylee
Waylee examined her new face in the bathroom mirror. Thirty-year-old Tania Peart, a systems analyst at MediaCorp’s broadcast data center, stared back.
They had been moving around, sleeping in Kiyoko’s truck or squatting in abandoned buildings. They spent the past two days in a small house for sale with twenty acres of pasture and woods. No furniture, but it had well water, electricity from a wind turbine, and an old satellite dish that Pel hooked up to a high-speed modem to access the Comnet.
Once again, Kiyoko’s friends at Baltimore Transformations had produced a photo-realistic masterpiece, and Kiyoko matched Tania’s makeup. Only problem was, the cheeks quivered when Waylee moved her head.
Tania was a brunette close to Waylee’s height, but a little on the heavy side. Waylee had been stuffing down gallons of peanut butter and ice cream, and would wear undergarment padding. But it wasn’t enough.
Waylee peeled off the mask. It didn’t look like her face had gained any weight yet. She needed a snug fit.
Yesterday morning, she’d fixated on the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, convinced their mission would fail. But with assaults of upbeat music and the constant presence of friends, people who loved her, she fought off the downturn. She was on the upswing now, but she wouldn’t let it turn into a speeding train. Focus. I can control this thing.
Waylee peeked in the master bedroom. Inflatable mattresses and sleeping bags covered the floor. On one of the mattresses, wearing her crimson dress with the gold dragon, Kiyoko touched up masks and clothes, trying to match photographs on a computer screen.
“Great job,” Waylee said.
Her sister turned and smiled. “My friends did the hard part.”
“It’s too loose, though.”
Kiyoko huffed. “Hand it over. I’ll see if I can pad the inside a little more.”
Waylee tossed her the mask. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Sitting on the garment-strewn carpet next to Kiyoko, Charles typed programming lines on Big Red. If he were older, they’d make a cute couple.
“Hubert’s set,” Charles said without looking up. Besides passing along schematics and protocols, their engineer friend had volunteered to knock out the building’s internal communications, which the Collective’s DDoS attack wouldn’t affect.
More proof they could trust him. Waylee and Pel had surveilled Hubert for four days. The chubby engineer lived alone in Building 1780 of Media Village, a sprawling townhouse and apartment complex near MediaCorp’s Virginia campus. After a lot of arguing, they decided not to approach him, which might scare him off; or break into his apartment, in case he had nanny cams or motion detectors. Instead, they intercepted a package and implanted voice-activated microphones, flash memory, and ghost snares in the corrugated cardboard, slipping them into the top flaps and resealing the box. They watched his apartment with microcameras and retrieved their gear and data when he threw the box out with the recycling. They also tracked his car with a tiny GPS fixed behind his license plate.
While the microphones were in Hubert’s apartment, he had no visitors, nor made any calls other than to a taqueria delivery and a sister in Richmond. He didn’t drive anywhere other than work, and spent all his free time on the Comnet, mostly gaming. He showed no signs of betrayal.
Still, Pel had claimed it was impossible to be sure.
Waylee heard thuds and grunts down the hall. In the empty living room, Dingo and M-pat threw kicks and jabs at each other. Practicing, releasing aggression, or both. No sign of Pel and Shakti; they were probably still in the adjacent garage fiddling with the stolen Mustang.
M-pat swept a leg behind Dingo’s ankles and pushed him. Dingo fell backwards onto the faded red carpet. “Bastard!”
“Do you think we’re ready?” Waylee asked M-pat.
The big man wiped sweat off his brow. “They’ve got ex-special forces and a line to Homeland. All we’ve got is surprise.”
“Then let’s surprise them.”
After sunset, they ate dinner on the varnished wood floor of what was probably the dining room. Pel had covered the window with plywood so wandering deer or whatever wouldn’t see their solar camping lanterns. Dinner hadn’t changed for a week—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, carrots, and bottled water.
Kiyoko, her lucky red wig on, frowned at her sandwich. “How come Waylee gets all the ice cream?”
“I’m trying to pass as someone thirty pounds heavier,” she said.
Kiyoko rolled her eyes. “Oh, how convenient.”
“You’re right, it’s not helping much anyway.” She looked around. “You all can split what’s left.”
Kiyoko bounded into the other room and returned with the last gallon of Neapolitan. She opened it and frowned. “Of course you ate all the strawberry.”
Sitting on the floor, M-pat shook his PBJ at her. “Motherfuckin’ strawberry ice cream’s the least of our worries, girl. Fort Knox ain’t shit compared to the place we about to break into.”
The others stopped eating and stared at M-pat.
Waylee’s knees shook. I’m even scared.
She stood and held out her bottle of water. Anger barreled over the fear and crushed it beneath relentless wheels. Drums inside her skull pounded allegro 4/4 beats, and turbo-distorted guitars churned out metallic riffs. She turned down the internal volume. “I’d like to propose a toast.”
Pel gave her the ironic eyebrow. “Are you planning to turn our water into wine?”
Anger fell away. A chuckle escaped her throat. “I wasn’t born with those kinds of powers.”
Around the small bare room, Shakti, Charles, Kiyoko, Pel, Dingo, and M-pat rose from the floor and held up their plastic bottles. Some eyes darted, some drifted, some focused.
“My friends, my family,” Waylee began. Drifting eyes fixed on her. “I can’t thank you enough for being here by my side.”
She pointed her water bottle at M-pat. “Without you, we’d have no wheels and no chance against the plutocracy’s bully boys. Charles would still be in jail and we’d never have started this.”
He nodded. “Prob’ly don’t seem like it, but I’m actually enjoyin’ this shit. Like the old days as a turf soldier, only for somethin’ that matters. You right, we gotta take down the overlords if we want a better future.”
Waylee looked at Dingo. He thrust his shoulders back.
“Dingo,” she said, “you’ve inspired me for years. You don’t sit on your ass complaining. You act. And your complete lack of fear, that’s the edge that saved us when the band house was raided.”
Dingo raised a fist.
“Shakti, my best friend,” she continued. “You are the best of humanity. You keep me going. And you arranged our base after New Year’s.”
Shakti blew a kiss. “Let’s get ’em tomorrow.”
“Kiyoko, my sweet, quirky sister.”
Kiyoko scrunched an eyebrow. “Quirky?”
Waylee kept going. “We wouldn’t have the masks without you.”
“Let’s not get caught tomorrow.”
“We won’t, as long as we’re careful.” I hope. She gazed in her sister’s brown eyes. “I’m sorry we’ve had our differences. But you mean the world to me.”
Waylee turned to Charles. “And Charles. Captain Nemo of the Comnet.”
His forehead furrowed at the reference.
“You’re the reason we’re here. No one else could do what you’ve done.”
He grinned, then bit his lip. “I’m not gonna have to fight anyone, am I?�
��
“No, of course not.”
He glanced at Kiyoko. “’Cause I haven’t started learning Krav Maga yet.”
Waylee was pretty rusty herself. Maybe they needed a practice session. “Everything will be under control by the time you enter,” she said.
Kiyoko shook her water bottle. “We should make a sacrifice.”
“Huh?”
“To the gods, to ensure their favor.”
Across the small room, M-pat sighed. “There’s only one God. We should pray. Ain’t gotta sacrifice no goat.”
Kiyoko glared at him. “I wouldn’t kill a cute little goat. Why—”
Waylee waved her free hand. “Let’s finish the toast, shall we?” She faced her boyfriend. “Most of all, I’d like to thank Pel, the love of my life.”
His eyes softened.
“You’ve been there through five years of ups and downs,” she said. “You can solve any problem. And you keep me from being stupid.”
“I try.” He smirked, then inched forward. “But seriously, I’d be walking dead without you kickstarting my life. Probably working retail like my friends in Greektown, letting the world die and not even noticing.”
“Can we sit now?” Charles asked.
“Almost done.” Waylee scanned the six pairs of eyes facing her. Seven if she counted the ones tattooed on Dingo’s hands.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “we infiltrate the most powerful corporation that ever existed. We’ll use their own facilities against them. We’ll expose the manipulations and conspiracies that keep a tiny elite in control of everyone else. We’ll yank the mask off the plutocracy and show America the ugly reptile beneath. We’ll be so outrageous, the people won’t fail to act. Tomorrow, my friends, let’s kick Authority so hard in the nuts, even a Canadian boy band could finish them off.”
Pel led the laughter.
Waylee held her bottle high, then gulped lukewarm water that she’d replace with beer or whiskey tomorrow night.
Her friends did the same.
“Let’s make history,” Pel said.
More thoughts erupted. “I’d die for any one of you.”
Kiyoko shifted on her feet. “Please don’t.”
39
February 4
Super Bowl Sunday
5:15 A.M.
M’patanishi
M-pat pulled the van into Media Village, headlights cutting through the dark and betraying their presence. They’d be even more suspicious with lights out, though.
“Take your first right,” Dingo said from the shotgun seat, following the route on his new data glasses.
“All set back here,” Pel said behind him, voice shaky.
All three wore slam-real masks and hands Kiyoko’s friends had shipped to a vacant house, and over those, data glasses with low light vision. They had a second set of masks that matched their targets.
Before they could upload Waylee’s video, M-pat, Dingo, and Pel had to take over the building’s security room. And to get to the security room, they had to seem legit employees – had to look like them, have their access cards, their cars, even their eyes and thumbprints.
Ideally, they’d replace the entire security team, but even three was pushing it. M-pat and Dingo would become guards. Pel would replace an IT technician in the data center. They’d sifted through personnel data and picked their targets carefully.
Like Hubert Stebbens, their first target lived alone in Media Village. Luke Annlote had M-pat’s brawn, though, and had fought in the Middle East before joining MediaCorp security. Surprise was essential.
“Over there.” Dingo pointed to Building 1860.
“That’s his car.” A black Mazda hybrid sat in its designated parking spot. Above, his apartment lights were off.
M-pat parked in an empty spot. “No fuckups,” he told the others. “What we about to do, we talkin’ ten years minimum if we get caught.” Life, if they want to call it terrorism.
Baraka and Latisha flashed in his mind. He shouldn’t have agreed to this shit. But no way could he pussy out. And maybe they’d turn things around in this country.
They got out, Pel carrying a mostly empty duffel bag. All three wore jackets with deep pockets.
The front door had an electronic keycard slot, but it had a mechanical override in case of malfunction, and these were easy to pick with his lock gun. The door popped open and they entered.
Annlote’s apartment had the same kind of lock as the building entrance. M-pat put a finger to his lips, pulled the stun gun out of his jacket pocket, and opened the door.
It was dark inside. He had an LED flashlight in his pocket, but his glasses adjusted to the dimness, revealing the room in shades of grey. He motioned for Dingo to take the left. He took the right.
Pel lagged near the door. He and Dingo crossed the living room, over to the bedroom beyond. M-pat eased open the bedroom door. Someone slept under the covers of the king-sized bed. Possibly two people; it was hard to tell in the greyness.
A man’s head separated from a pillow. Looked like Annlote. “Who’s there?”
Light sleeping must be one of those post-combat things. A second head popped up next to him. A girl. They hadn’t planned on company.
Dingo fired his stun gun at the man. His head fell back against the pillow.
M-pat shot at the girl before she could scream. Her head dropped back down.
They rushed toward the bed, pulling rolls of duct tape out of jacket pockets. Annlote rolled out of the bed, naked, and reached for the nightstand.
“You supposed to stay down.” M-pat kicked his arm away from the nightstand.
Annlote responded with a kick of his own, catching M-pat hard in the right thigh. He almost buckled, but thrust a palm heel toward the man’s chin.
Sweeping a forearm counterclockwise, Annlote knocked his arm down and away, and countered with a punch toward the face. M-pat batted the punch aside, swiveled, and stomped a boot against the shoeless insole of the man’s foot. He howled in pain.
And dropped to the ground.
M-pat turned. Pel stood behind and to the side, stun gun aimed at Annlote.
“I had him, fool,” M-pat said. “You coulda hit me too.”
“Well I didn’t.”
“Shut the fuck up, bitches,” Dingo said, “and help me tape these chumps up.” He threw aside the bedsheets. The girl was petite but model-quality fine, with perfect tits and toned thighs.
Dingo whistled, then picked up the hottie and placed her on the carpet by the foot of the bed.
M-pat dragged Annlote to the same spot, ignoring the pain in his thigh.
First thing was to tape their wrists and ankles together, then stick socks in their mouths and tape them in place. Then hogtie the wrists to the ankles and run tape around and around the arms and legs for reinforcement.
The naked girl’s eyes opened as Dingo taped her wrists. He held a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
She swung her foot directly into his nuts. Grimacing, he dropped the tape and grabbed his groin.
Damn fool. M-pat turned to Pel. “Shoot her, yo.” He finished taping Annlotes’s wrists.
Pel fumbled with his stun gun. Wrists bound, the girl leapt to her feet, then threw a high kick to Dingo’s face. His head snapped back, a lens popped out of his data glasses, and he dropped.
She ain’t no bar pickup. Girl got game. M-pat whipped his Glock out of its shoulder holster and stuck its barrel against Annlote’s forehead. He was still out. “Yo, naked bitch. Siddown or I ice yo man.”
She looked over, eyes wide with fear.
“You dig?” he said.
“You’ll kill us anyway.”
“Bullshit we will. This just a simple robbery, ‘less you give cause otherwise.”
The girl stiffened and dropped. Pel had shot her at last.
“’Bout fuckin’ time.” M-pat finished taping up Annlote and his karate hottie, then went to check on Dingo, still on the floor. “You operational?”
He
sat up, clutching his groin. His data glasses were bent, with one lens missing.
“You just got your ass kicked by a little girl with taped wrists.”
He pocketed the ruined glasses and rubbed his jaw. “Caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
Annlote and his girl regained consciousness and started to squirm, but the duct tape was way too strong to break. Muffled shouts echoed from their sinuses.
M-pat waved his Glock. “Chill the fuck out, yo. I’m a patient man but you are tryin’ me.”
They glared, but quieted down. Pel had the duffel bag so M-pat sent him to the walk-in closet to get the uniforms and look around for all the other security gear.
M-pat walked to the nightstand and turned on the lamp. Hand comlink and immersion goggles rested on top. He found Annlote’s access badge and a .45 combat pistol in the drawer. No car keys.
Clothes lay scattered on the floor. M-pat found Annlote’s wallet in the back pocket of his pants. Not much cash.
The girl’s bag had fifty bucks. Driver’s license said Rose Matapang. One of her keycards was labeled Ultimate Fight School. Just our luck.
Pel finished stuffing the uniforms and other gear in the bag. He held up a high-tech Armatix pistol.
“In the bag too.”
Pel placed the gun inside and zipped it shut. He swiped fingers along the wide temple arms of his data glasses. “May need your help holding him still.”
M-pat grabbed Annlote by the head and faced him forward. He stuck the Glock barrel against his nutsack. “Don’t even twitch. I got a nervous trigger finger.”
Pel knelt in front of the man until his data glasses were inches from the man’s eyes. He tapped the side of the glasses frame. He frowned. “Need more light.”