Right now, I’m pretty damned stressed. I’m pissed off, but I don’t have a face to punch yet. Nothing that has been uncovered about the Bitcoin theft makes any sense at all, and after a whole day of searching, we’re no closer to finding out who is behind it.
My staff is focusing on two transactions. Temporarily, someone actually swelled my accounts by almost eighty thousand Bitcoin, before sending that—plus twenty-five thousand of my own Bitcoin—on to someone else. The troubling parts are the names—of my unexpected donor and of the person who apparently stole from me on that same night.
Don Rocco Marcone, a violent bastard with a brain like a brick, is the supposed donor. And Dr. Taki Yoshida, the quietly effective local oyabun, is the supposed thief—which makes no goddamned sense at all.
Yoshida is not a thief. And Marcone would never send me money, so he’ll likely end up thinking that I stole from him. Also, twenty-five thousand of the Bitcoin dumped into my account from Marcone belonged to Yoshida before that. Round and round it goes...and I’ll bet after the stop in Yoshida’s accounts, it gets withdrawn and vanishes.
I look at the open notebook beside me, which has a triangle with arrows drawn in it. The money moves from account to account and snowballs as it goes, then zaps off in an arrow without a label on it yet. I blame Yoshida; Yoshida blames Marcone; and Marcone blames me. We fight…while someone else makes off with our money.
Where have I seen this plot before? It seems awfully familiar.
Get people to fight each other while you make off with their money. The name of the movie’s on the tip of my tongue. The circumstances are a lot different, but the principle’s the same.
I take a deep breath and get up to put on my track pants. I used to like just cranking up the heat and exercising nude, or nearly. But after being the cause of an almost fatal distraction for a female window-washer, I now at least wear something over my bottom half.
Though for all I know, she might have just wanted to count all the marks on my skin.
To gain the favor of a bratva you must do many things. The brotherhood of thieves has no tolerance for cowards, for betrayers, for those who take from them and give back nothing. I was sixteen when I got my first tattoo, even before the stitches in my belly were taken out.
I look down at the formerly black and white design wrapped over my bicep: a rose coiled around a dagger. Its original outline had been gouged into my skin with home-mixed ink on the tip of a needle that had been fastened to an electric shaver. It had taken twenty hours in two long, painful sessions. I was told that if I cried, they would kill me instead of taking me underwing.
My eyes stayed bone-dry, though I almost bit through my lip. They were impressed. Then they found out that I have a natural talent for math, computers, and money, and they were even more impressed.
They put me to work as soon as I was processed out—which took four years, even though my conviction was eventually thrown out. I never went back to prison after that; my new family instead sent me away from Russia and to the States to handle a local bratva leader’s money. I trained my mind as brutally as I had my body, getting rid of my Muscovite accent and learning everything I could about computers and finance.
The whole time, I put aside what they paid me as often as I could, looking for something to invest in that would free me from them. That’s where my seed money came from. I’m not proud of it, but a man has to survive, and I had no control over my fate until I repaid my debt to them.
I warm up with some yoga in my home gym, which takes up a quarter of my penthouse’s lower floor, and then hop on the elliptical for some cardio. The walls of the gym are mirrored so I can check my form; sometimes, the tall, tattooed brute in the mirror startles me a little.
He doesn’t seem like me. He’s not the man my employees know—but then again, none of them have seen me under my suit.
I remember defending my brothers with a shiv in the prison yard, and I remember paying for my freedom by laundering massive amounts of cash for the bratva. But just like everything else that happened to me, from the day the Moscow police picked me up, until I started my new life half a decade ago, none of it seems like my life. It was more like an act I had to carry on at until I had earned my way out and I could live again.
So, half the time when I look in those mirrors, I expect to see that skinny, hungry, oblivious kid who didn’t even have the sense to ride away when the police pulled into his neighborhood.
I’m burning up the miles on my elliptical, arms and legs pumping, a sheen of sweat rising on my skin. I have more scars now than tattoos, the stiff, leathery patches of skin growing thinner and smoother after years of treatment, but still pulling in spots as my muscles strain.
The belly wound. Defensive scars on the outsides of my arms. A slash across my back. And the patches where, by request, I removed some of the tattoos that signified my membership and rank in the bratva.
You don’t just get to buy your way out, even though I handed over to them the first billion that I ever made.
The cross on my chest they’d wanted taken off the old-fashioned way: with the rough side of a brick. I stood there and scraped it off myself as they held a funeral for me, knowing that if I failed to sever ties correctly then I would fill the coffin they had brought. The bow tie with the dollar sign across my collarbones is gone now, too; the flesh is still a little raw. That one, like the stars on my shoulders, they let me remove normally.
The rose and knife, the dove with the olive branch over my heart, and the snarling skull on my shoulder I’d had colored by a professional once the others were all gone. Now they remind me of my past, without looking too much like prison tattoos. As unreal as that time feels, I must never forget it.
I’ve changed my life—hell, I’ve even changed my name—but I will never allow myself to forget how I got to where I am.
My cellphone chirps at me: Laura. I connect the video call before going back to puffing away. “Good morning! What have you got for me?”
“Our thief is spending and trading at least some of the stolen Bitcoin off the blockchain.” Her announcement is an exasperated sigh, sounding just a touch tinny because she’s put me on speakerphone.
“In English!” John grumbles in the background, and I snort.
“You can take Bitcoin and load them onto a hard drive, a thumb drive, or other device, and trade or spend them offline at a lot of brick and mortar stores these days especially in major urban centers. If you do that, those Bitcoin stay out of the system until the store spends them again, at which point they re-enter the blockchain and their movements start being recorded again. It’s called a cold-wallet purchase.”
“So, it’s like walking around with cash. Until that money gets put back into someone else’s account the banking system doesn’t recognize it.” John nods slowly, brows drawn together.
I hear Laura sipping tea. “Mmhmm! That is what I have been monitoring for—the moment any of our missing Bitcoin pop up again.”
This is starting to sound hopeful. “And some of them have?” I ask in a controlled tone.
Laura sounds excited despite her obvious exhaustion. “Yes, as of fifteen minutes ago. And right here in Seattle, too.”
“Who would do this?” I mutter. I didn’t leave behind enemies in the bratva, or much of anywhere as far as I know. So why is this happening?
“I’ve been going through a list of potential suspects with John over breakfast,” Laura says a little distractedly as she types. “None of them have enough interest in technology to pull this off or would even know who to hire to pull this off.”
They’re having breakfast together? I dismiss the thought with a little shake of my head. “Forget that. Maybe we should stop focusing on who I might have pissed off and look instead at how the money is being used.”
“You think that maybe the thief’s got a cause in mind?” John muses.
“If whoever is behind this is taking this big a risk by spending any of the money this so
on, there has to be some urgency behind it.”
More typing, and then Laura gasps slightly as I keep marching away on my elliptical.
“What is it?” I puff, muscles straining. The stripe of scar tissue across my back pulls again as I swing my arms. I ignore it.
“A child’s bedroom set,” Laura murmurs. “A wheelchair. Building supplies.”
I slow down. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know,” Laura says quietly. “But there it is.”
“You think our thief’s stealing to support his family?” John sounds dubious.
“Not to the tune of over a billion dollars,” I drawl. But now I’m intrigued. “Keep digging,” I instruct Laura. “I want to know as much as possible on how this money is being spent.”
“I’ll devote all my time to it,” she promises.
“Wait a second. Brick and mortar. You say our thief is going to local stores to buy big ticket items? They have to be delivered somewhere, don’t they?” John sounds excited suddenly.
“That is true,” Laura muses. “I’ll get that information, and I’ll see if I can find any security footage from the times of purchase. If none of the recipients have any leads back to our hacker, maybe we can catch their face on camera.”
It’s definite progress. Feeling optimistic, I open my mouth to give the go-ahead—just as my phone beeps at me. Someone has sent an e-mail to my work account. “Okay, do it,” I say distractedly, bringing up my mail app.
Then I pause for a long time, staring at my phone, my legs swinging to a stop. It’s from an unfamiliar e-mail address—obviously a throwaway. I open it and blink several times as I read the few lines.
“I’ll call you as soon as we have something more,” Laura is promising, but I barely hear her.
“Of course,” I manage, and the call disconnects as I read the anonymous e-mail again.
Dr. Yoshida did not steal from you. Do not confront him.
Don Rocco Marcone thinks that you stole from him. Be careful.
You were targeted by mistake.
Is this a leak from one of my thief’s associates, or an attack of conscience by the thief himself? I start working out again, my mind racing as I mull over how—and if—I should answer the strange message.
Chapter 5
Robin
Only once the warning is out to Drake Steele can I finally sleep. I don’t feel relief as I drift off, only a sort of deep resignation. I may very well have just signed my death warrant—literally dying by my principles. At least I’ll die with a clean conscience.
The rain taps against the thin wood barely two inches from the top of my head. The refrigerator crate I found in the alley has leaks; I’ve lined it with cardboard, but that’s starting to get soaked through.
I hide inside, balled up and shivering, praying that none of the drunks will find me before I can steal a few hours of sleep. They had good fun chasing me down the alley a couple of nights ago. I don’t think I can handle another scare like that any time soon.
I’m twelve, but I feel half my age. I’m terrified, curled into a ball, choking down sobs so no one will hear me over the rain. Don’t let them find me, I pray. I already have finger-bruises under my jeans from where one of them grabbed my hip.
I want my Mom. I want my Dad. I want my old home back, and my books, and my bed.
I don’t want this icy winter, this city turned ugly and dark, its men turned into monsters.
A drop of rain works its way through the cardboard and strikes me in the head like a small, icy rock. I bury my face in my hands and wonder again why there’s no one to help.
The ping of an e-mail alert drags me out of the cardboard box and back into my warm apartment. I lift my head groggily, brain full of fuzz, tears still drying on my cheeks.
I promised myself that I would never let anyone else go through what I had, not so long as I could do something about it.
It’s full morning. Rain’s tapping on the window, and I nod grimly, knowing now what evoked that old memory. I’m not angry; rain means it’s above freezing again.
For once, I’m reluctant to crawl out of bed and scrape myself together to get back to work at my desk. I haven’t slept enough. I’ve been through hell, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to get myself back to sleep again if I get up now.
I squint my eyes against the thin sunlight, pulling deeper under the covers. Whatever the message is, it can wait.
I’m still lying there with my eyes open several minutes later, and I finally sigh and get up. “Damn it.” The loneliness from the dream, the fear and despair, are still nibbling on the bottom of my heart as I head for the bathroom. Maybe I should get a pet or something.
After showering and dressing in black jeans and a gray wool sweater, I force myself to eat something before my trip back into cyberspace. I’ll need a walk eventually, some kind of real exercise. On top of everything else going on, I’m starting to feel cooped up.
For now, a couple of hardboiled eggs, a bowl of quick oatmeal with apple slices, and a banana will have to do. I swallow my usual fistful of vitamins and supplements before cleaning up my tiny kitchen and heading over to see what’s going on online.
I open the window that pinged me—and freeze.
Oh no. No, no, no. What is he doing? I should have just closed the damned e-mail account an hour after I sent the message!
Drake Steele just wrote me back unexpectedly, and for a solid minute I just stare at the message indicator without opening it. Then I close my eyes and click on it.
I have to force them open, and I force them to look at my screen.
Thank you for the warning. I can only guess that you had an attack of conscience.
I would like my money back, and I would like an explanation.
I can’t catch my breath. My ears are ringing suddenly with my earlier warning to myself. Do not interact.
It’s too dangerous…but on the other hand, if I just robbed someone who’s relatively innocent, he at least deserves an explanation. Doesn’t he?
I send him back a short note, knowing that the mail server I’m using can’t be traced back to me. The whole time, I feel tugged in two different directions. And yet somehow, though it takes me twenty minutes to write and send a few short lines, I feel better for sending it.
That money is pocket change to a man like you, but I’m going to use it to save seven thousand lives.
I just don’t want you dying because of all this. The other two might deserve it, but I have my doubts about you now.
I sit back, closing my eyes. Suddenly the walls of the apartment seem to be squeezing together around me. I need to get out of here, rain or not.
My boot heels clack on the wet sidewalk as I walk up the street toward the closest corner shop, four blocks away. After the icy cold and snow, Seattle’s version of a January thaw has filled the air with swirling mist. I pass the burned-out building, turning my face away from it, my head throbbing with my failure.
At least the survivors will have enough money to start their lives over. But nothing I do will feel like enough. Not after we lost five lives.
I try to block those thoughts and think of Drake Steele instead. I can’t get him out of my head—his good looks, his self-assurance, how fast he caught on to who sent him that message, his audacity in writing me back and expecting an answer.
And then I went and gave him one, just like he wanted. What the hell is wrong with me? This man is dangerous; I can feel it in my bones. He’s already gotten me to do things against my better judgment.
He’s trouble. He’d be trouble even if he didn’t mean to be. Why is he having this much of an effect on me?
I’m actually getting a little scared now, the fear seeping past my exhausted resignation. Whatever happens, I have to stay focused on helping those people. Nothing is more important than that.
The corner store shares the first floor of a nice old building with a coffee shop on one side and a used book shop on the other. I
nside is a typical Seattle compromise: one wall full of produce and healthy snacks, the other wall full of salt, sugar, and grease.
The chubby little Persian guy behind the counter is listening patiently to a customer’s request for more varieties of tofu. He gives me a resigned little smile, and we nod at each other as I walk in. He sees me every couple of days and always seems a little relieved at the sight of a customer who won’t twitter odd requests at him in too-rapid English.
I get a big bottle of premixed nutritional shake, a thick organic glop of an unpleasant mossy color thanks to lots of spirulina. I know I don’t eat or sleep enough, so hopefully choices like this will help make up the difference.
I pay the cashier in exact change, and he smiles as we exchange well-wishes, and I walk back out. I think he believes I’m much younger than I am. He’s asked me more than once where my mother is.
I think he’d cringe if I told him the truth.
My body must crave something in the shake, because the smell when I open it has me gulping it down greedily even as I make my way back down the street. If Drake wants his money back, then he can go directly and ask for it back from each person I’ve helped—and preferably face-to-face.
But even though I talk tough in my head as I march back to my apartment, my resolve crumbles when I sit down at my screen and see he’s written back. Again.
You fascinate me. If you tell me about these seven thousand people you’re saving with my money, I’ll let you keep it all with no further trouble.
There’s just one catch. I want to hear it from you in person—and I want you to bring some form of documentation on these guerrilla charity acts of yours that I can verify.
I push away from my desk so suddenly that I almost knock my chair over. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, that is a bad idea.” And probably a trap.
I write him back.
I’ll give you all pertinent details on how the money was used, but I don’t meet. It’s a matter of personal safety.
I switch windows resolutely and force myself to go back to solving people’s problems with that stolen money. Candace Whitman: hospital bills, $48,000. The Rodriguez family: overdue mortgage, $40,000.
Hacked For Love & The Dom's Songbird Page 3