Hacker

by Camille Picott

  Stealth wasn’t required to get Logan his girls. They came to him.

  Could Lydia still be alive? Could she be the pretty kitty? She had the looks to qualify. It hadn’t occurred to Hank the girl might still be out there somewhere, unaware of death speeding toward her.

  Hank replays all the intel she has on Lydia, her photographic memory pulling up the address of the young woman. The girl only lives forty minutes from here.

  Without giving herself a chance to think through the hairbrained scheme forming in her mind, Hank makes a hard left at the next intersection. She leans forward, pedaling hard, zipping down the streets, heading toward Lydia’s house.

  5

  Lydia

  ––––––––

  Don’t do it. Logan will kill you. He’ll kill you and Timmy and Mom and Dad. You saw what happened to Mr. Thames.

  But, she argues with herself, he won’t kill me if he doesn’t know it’s me.

  And can she really stand by while an innocent girl is murdered? Butchered and sold for parts?

  There were no real police officers anymore like there had been before the Default. All security was outsourced to mercenary companies. Global’s security territory spanned from the northern California border all the way to the Santa Barbara on the Central Coast.

  Global Arms mercs might patrol the area to maintain the peace, but there won’t be anything more than a few forms filled out when Lydia is reported missing. There isn’t enough funding for full-time detectives like they had in the Pre-‘Fault days. Lydia will indeed disappear, thanks to Hank. She has blood on her hands as surely as Logan does.

  She knows where all the cameras are in every part of the East Bay. Mr. Thames taught her how to hack these security systems. In fact, this particular section of town only has one camera, which she already circumnavigated. No one will find proof of her presence here.

  The building Lydia lives in is tall and run-down, like most buildings in Oakland. Hank tries to imagine what they would have looked like when her parents were kids, before the Default. She’s heard skyscrapers were beautiful to behold, not the rundown stains on the skyline like they are today.

  She positions herself in an alleyway across the street from Lydia’s apartment. She hides her bike in the shadows, covering it with some garbage bags someone tossed there. The alleyway reeks of urine, fecal matter, and rotting trash. Hank peers around, trying to discern if there are any people here. The last thing she needs is for her bike to get stolen.

  There is no movement and no sound. She debates whether to chain up her bike. It could be a stupid idea if she needs to flee in a hurry. It could be an even dumber idea not to lock it up. If it gets stolen, she’ll have to risk walking to work again.

  In the end, she decides to lock it up. If she’s careful, if she gets in and out of Lydia’s apartment quickly, there won’t be a reason to flee in a hurry.

  There are a few lights on in the old high rise. Early risers, no doubt getting ready for whatever workday lies ahead.

  After watching for a few minutes, she decides to go in. The front door is an iron gate with an old-fashioned lock. The place isn’t fancy enough to warrant a retinal scanner or keypad entrance.

  Pre-’Fault locks are no mystery to Hank. McClymonds High is full of them. She learned to pick locks at a young age. Mostly to hide, when she was sick of other kids and just wanted some privacy.

  She pulls out the tools she keeps in a small pouch inside her pants. She works the picks in the locks, smiling with triumph when she feels the tumblers slide aside.

  The door latch clicks open. She goes inside, wincing at the squeaky, rusty hinges. Apparently, the landlord doesn’t make enough on rent to oil the doors. Or maybe the residents think of squeaky hinges as a free burglar alarm.

  Apartment 3B. This leads Hank to assume Lydia lives on the third floor. Why couldn’t she live on the first floor? Getting out a window from the third story will be more difficult if the need arises.

  Hank bypasses the old elevator and heads for the stairwell. She doesn’t trust elevators. There’s one in Logan’s building, but after getting stuck in it for a few hours during a power outage, Hank has a strict no-elevator policy.

  The stairwell is dark. There are no windows and no lights. At least there is no smell of urine. Maybe this place has decent plumbing.

  She makes her way in the dark, holding onto the rail and counting stairs until she gets to the first landing. After that she moves a little faster, knowing how many stairs are on each flight. She reaches the third floor and exits into a moldy hallway. The hall is stuffy with too many smells to properly discern them from one another. Decaying carpet and moldy wallpaper mix with the scents of cooking and daily living. Yuck. McClymonds High gym might not smell great, but the high ceilings make it less stinky than some places.

  A single light illuminates the hall. Hank finds door 3B and pulls out her lock picks. She hesitates, wondering if she should knock, then decides against it. First, she doubts Lydia will open the door for her; second, the last thing either of them needs is a scene in the hallway to wake the neighbors.

  She picks the deadbolt and lock, then curses as she eases open the door and finds a security chain on the inside. Hank inserts her hand, twisting her wrist at an awkward angle to shimmy the chain off the lock. It wouldn’t be possible if she weren’t so skinny. She eases inside, closing the door behind her.

  Something large swings out of the darkness, whistling straight at Hank’s head. She barely manages to duck out of the way. Whatever it is makes a solid thunk as it connects with the doorway.

  “Wait!” Hank hisses, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the neighbors. “Please, I’m here to help!”

  “By breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night?” snaps the voice of a young woman. Bits of light filter in through the window blinds. Hank’s eyes, adjusted to the darkness, pick out her form. She’s tall and fit, dressed in a set of flannel pajamas.

  Lydia swings a second time. Hank jumps sideways, again missing getting clocked in the head.

  “I’m here to warn you!” she says in a whisper-yell. “Someone is coming for you!”

  “Yeah right,” Lydia replies. “Get out of my apartment. I don’t have anything you can resell, and I’ll kill you before I let you take any of my food.”

  The girl grips a baseball bat in both hands. Even in the near-dark, Hank sees a pair of dark eyes hardened with living. She has no doubt the girl really will kill her to protect her food.

  “I work hard for the little I have,” Lydia continues. “I’m not letting some lazy thief take it from me.”

  “There are men coming for you.” Hank holds up one arm to stave off the bat in case it comes flying at her again. “Men I work for. They’re going to kill you.”

  This stops the girl cold. Her eyes widen. She takes a step back, bringing up the baseball bat as though she plans to swing again. As though Hank is the threat, instead of trying to save her.

  “I work for East Bay Delivery,” Hank says in a rush. She really should have taken some time—even just a few minutes—to come up with a better plan. She’s going to end up with her brains spattered all over this girl’s floor if she doesn’t talk fast. “Most people think they’re a courier service.”

  “They are a courier service,” Lydia replies coldly, hands tightening on the bat. “I’ve used them myself to make deliveries for my employer.”

  Hank shakes her head. Her words are not coming out right.

  “They are a courier service, but that’s just a cover for what they really do.” She pauses, seeing she’s caught Lydia’s attention.

  “What do they really do?” Lydia asks.

  Hank hesitates, wondering if she should just leave. She’s warned Lydia and put her family at risk by doing so. No one can say she didn’t try. But she can see by the hard set of Lydia’s jaw that she won’t take Hank’s word at face value. If Hank left without giving her a better explanation, Lydia would stay here and die. A
vision of Jacob and Ace hurting this girl—killing her—forces Hank into full disclosure.

  “East Bay Delivery is a cover,” Hank says. “The company harvests organs illegally for high-end clients.”

  The breath leaves Lydia’s body. Something in what Hank has just said hit home with her, though Hank isn’t sure which part.

  “I work for the owner,” Hank says. “If I don’t do what he says, he’ll kill me and my family. I’m risking everything just by being here.”

  “And what, exactly, do you do for him?” Lydia asks. Her dark eyes heat up, suffused with anger. Hank itches to run and hide. Or at least put a large piece of furniture between her and the girl. A wall or a bathroom door wouldn’t be bad, either.

  “I used to just launder his money,” Hank looks earnestly into Lydia’s face, praying the other girl sees the truth in her eyes. “Tonight” —her voice cracks as she thinks of Mr. Thames and his family, all of them murdered— “tonight, he had me erase you. You no longer exist. Logan’s men will be here at any moment. You have to get out of here.”

  “Where am I going to go?” Lydia demands. “Even if I do believe you, this is my home. I’m not jumping ship on your say-so.”

  Hank shakes her head. “Unless there’s a Global Arms patrol right around the corner, you need to pack a bag and leave right now.” She pauses, then adds, “You have a rare blood type. That’s why they want you. Someone out there—some rich jerk who doesn’t give a crap about you—bought your life.”

  Color drains from Lydia’s face. “I’m AB negative.” She worries at her bottom lip. “There were two guys hanging out across the street from the office today. I noticed them when I left my desk to scan some documents.” She shifts from foot to foot and describes the two men.

  “Gordo and George,” Hanks says, recognizing them from Lydia’s descriptions. “Those are Logan’s men. How did you get away from them?”

  Lydia shrugs. “I didn’t. They gave me a bad feeling so I used the back exit when I left and took a different route home.”

  This is the only reason Lydia is still alive. Her instincts had saved her.

  “If I’m caught here with you, I’m as dead as you are,” Hank says. “I’m putting my family in danger just by being here. I saw a chance to help you. I had to try. I’m leaving now. If you want to stay alive for more than thirty minutes, you’d better do the same.”

  Hank takes a backward step. Lydia remains where she is, baseball bat raised, but doesn’t advance. Without waiting to see if their uneasy truce will hold, Hank turns the knob on the door and slips out.

  She closes the door behind her and leans against the wall, breathing hard. Idiot. She was such an idiot. Why did she think she could make a difference? All she’s done is put herself and her family at risk. This was all a mistake.

  Hank hurries to the stairwell. She makes it to the second landing when the squeal of the hinges echoes up the shaft. Hank freezes.

  “. . . heard she was a pretty one.” A familiar voice drifts up the stairs. Jacob. “We can have a little fun before we finish her off.”

  6

  Hunted

  ––––––––

  Heart pounding, Hank dashes back up to the third floor. The worn-out sneakers she’d cursed just that very morning are soundless on the floor.

  “No time to play around today,” Ace says. The beam of a flashlight bounces up the stairwell as the two boys start up the steps. “Logan is already pissed that Gordo and George failed to nab her this afternoon. If we waste time, he’ll know.”

  “Aww, come on,” Jacob wheedles. “Just five minutes. He won’t miss us for an extra five minutes.”

  “No,” Ace says.

  Hank doesn’t wait to hear more. She winces at the loud squeak of the door as she rushes back down the hallway.

  Just as the door closes behind her, she sees the flashlight click off. She’s bought herself thirty, maybe sixty seconds at most.

  She needs a window. A fire escape. Something. Her eyes frantically scan her surroundings.

  Nothing. This hallway is like the interior of a cocoon. No wonder it smells so bad.

  Hank weighs her options of trying to break into another apartment or going back to Lydia’s. She decides to go back to Lydia’s. She doesn’t have enough time to pick another lock.

  She taps on the door with one fingernail, hoping to draw the other girl’s attention.

  “Lydia!” she hisses, face close to the door. “It’s me! Please open up!”

  The door cracks open. The chain is back in place. Dark eyes glare out at her.

  “Go away,” she says.

  “They’re here,” Hank rasps. “Please let me in. They’ll kill me if they find me out here.”

  Worse than kill her, most likely. She has no illusions about what Jacob wants to do to her.

  Maybe it’s the panic vibrating in her voice. Maybe it’s the naked terror in her eyes. Whatever, the reason, Lydia sees something that makes her stop cold. In a flash, the other girl opens the door, pulls her inside, then resecures the locks.

  “Get something in front of the door!” Hank hisses. She lunges across the small apartment, positioning herself on the far side of a ratty sofa that smells suspiciously like cat pee. The fabric—a shiny burgundy that might be real velvet—is soft to the touch. What’s a little smell of cat pee in exchange for nice fabric?

  Hank leans into the sofa, pushing as hard as she can. Lydia grabs a small table beside the door and moves it into the kitchenette, clearing the way. Hank gathers momentum as she slides the sofa, moving until the furniture slam up against the door with a solid thunk.

  “They’re here?” Lydia whispers, face pale.

  “Yeah. Is there another way out of this place?”

  “I have a rope ladder.” Lydia rushes into her bedroom, Hank on her heels.

  “Under the bed.” Lydia waves for Hank to retrieve the ladder while she grabs a pair of sneakers out of her closet. She jams her bare feet into them. “Do I have time to pack food and a few things to wear?”

  Hank opens her mouth to tell her no, but a distinct rattling at the front door cuts her off. Jacob and Ace are here. Hank doesn’t know how long the sofa and locks will delay them, but she doesn’t plan to stick around to find out. If Logan didn’t demand discretion, they’d be shooting their way inside.

  She dives halfway under the bed, rooting around until her hand finds a thick rope. She hauls it out.

  Lydia already has the bedroom window thrown open. She lashes out with her foot, kicking the screen free. Hank dumps the rope at her feet.

  “We need to attach this to something.” Lydia scans the room with wild eyes.

  Hank refrains from snapping at her. She goes to the trouble of getting herself an escape ladder—which can’t have been cheap—then doesn’t bother to make sure she knows where to secure it? Why bother having it at all?

  “Your nightstand.” Hank throws the lamp onto the bed and pushes the small piece of furniture up against the window. Each girl grabs part of the rope ladder, securing the two ends to the legs of the table.

  Hank hears a thump against the front door. Jacob and Ace have worked their way through the locks and have come up against the chain. No doubt they have bolt cutters for this sort of thing. Snatching and murdering people in the middle of the night is their job, after all.

  With the ladder secure, Lydia hurls it out into the night.

  “Go!” Hank says.

  The other girl scurries out the open window. Hank is right behind her. The two of them rush down the ladder as a loud crash comes from living room.

  Jacob and Ace are inside the apartment. Hank is so scared she can barely breathe. Her entire body vibrates with fear, but she forces herself to move.

  Someone whistles. Hank, too frightened the think straight, looks up without thinking.

  Her eyes meet those of Jacob’s. The other boy, seeing her, gazes down at her with rage.

  “You’re dead, Copper Top,” he snarls. He c
limbs out the window, shimmying down after her.

  Hank is just past the windows on the second floor. She hurries down a few more rungs, then leaps. She hits the ground with zero grace, stumbling and bumping into Lydia as the other girl hops to the ground.

  Lydia grabs her hand. “This way!”

  Hank’s brain buzzes with fear. She nods, stumbling after the other girl in her fright. The two of them break into a run, racing through the dark streets.

  “I’m coming for you, Copper Top!” Jacob yells. His voice echoes down the cold, empty street. “You’re mine!”

  Why did I chain my bike? Hank wonders with anguish. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  She blindly follows Lydia, the two girls holding hands and gripping each other like lifelines. When Lydia turns down an alleyway, Hank doesn’t question her. She wheezes for breath, winded and already tired from the short sprint. She hasn’t eaten enough to fuel this kind of effort.

  “We have to hide,” Lydia gasps. “This way.”

  “Coooopper Top!” Jacob’s voice booms somewhere behind them, his call bouncing off the tall buildings. “I’m coming for you, pretty girl!”

  Lydia turns out of the alley and onto another street, then jumps through the battered window of what had once been a shoe repair shop. The pre-’Fault sign still sits above the broken window, the paint faded and chipped.

  “In here,” Lydia pants.

  Their shoes crunch on broken glass and trash. The smell almost makes Hank gag; it’s piss mixed with the foul odor of something dead and rotting.

  Lydia leads her to the back of the shop. They take cover behind an old cash register that, miraculously, still stands.

  “We can hide here,” Lydia whispers.

  “How do you know this is safe?” Hank whispers back.