by Sam Cade
Tommy Xerox would have a report on Zeus’s fingerprints within three hours.
39
Atlanta, Georgia
ZEUS STOOD BEHIND A WOMAN RETURNING FOUR BOXES OF shoes to Zappo’s at a mailbox and shipping outlet located next to a Kroger in a high-traffic suburban Atlanta shopping center. His impatience ratchetted up at the delay. Come on, dammit. Finally reaching the counter, he showed his ID and received his box of documents that arrived via FEDEX. The contents of that box cost a quarter of a million dollars.
Zeus drove three miles to a large franchise hotel on Virginia Avenue, just outside the property of Hartsfield Jackson International. He paid cash for one night. He held his breath and cut open the box. Everything was picture perfect. Passports. Driver’s licenses. Address verifications. The identities were not fictitious. The addresses were real. They represented a carefully curated group of individuals that happened to be the 100 top-earning trial lawyers in America. Real people.
But they all contained the photo of Zeus after his transformation by Meg Zimmerman in New Orleans.
DELTA FLIGHT 1466 DEPARTED from Hartsfield Jackson at 8:41 the following morning. The manifest had William Burnham, a lawyer from Black Point, Alabama onboard the flight. Zeus sat in his seat.
It was a one-way flight to Panama City, Panama.
From Panama, over the next three weeks, Zeus established accounts in multiple banks in the West Indies country of Nevis, Singapore, Hong Kong, Georgia in eastern Europe, Isle of Mann, Lichtenstein, Denmark, Estonia, Netherlands, Thailand, and Luxembourg.
Zeus planned to control money distribution algorithms utilizing public WiFi in coffee shops, fast-food outlets, and libraries, operating in locational secrecy via Tor and virtual private networks.
Extortion money would leave the receiving bank in multiple increments going to other banks. The funds would morph into Bitcoin. Bitcoin would be converted to Monero, a completely untraceable cryptocurrency where the assets would hibernate in an opaque crypto digital cold wallet. A place where funds are removed from access via the web.
Depending on circumstances, it could take six months to years for the FBI and the IRS to locate and trace through the accounts before they realized the worst.
The money vanished.
40
Mission Beach, California
“WE GOT NOTHING.” That was the message Zeus passed to Lucky after sending a gentle invitation to twenty-five lawyers to send millions overseas.
“You actually thought that would work?” said Lucky.
“Not really. Tried to be a nice guy. But no more. Watch your mailbox. There’s a package coming your way. It’s time for hardball.”
THREE DAYS LATER, LUCKY SAT ALONE sprawled on a chaise by the small apartment pool in a warm fleece pullover reading the last chapter of The Tin Roof Blowdown by James Lee Burke when he spotted the boxy white mail truck bumbling into the complex.
Lucky approached the driver with his driver’s license in his hand. “I think you have a package for me.”
“I sure do.”
Lucky took it by the corner with his thumb and pointer finger. The postman noticed. “Whatcha expecting, anthrax?” He laughed as he fast-walked away to the mailroom.
Lucky held the box with a paper towel in his apartment, studied it. Twelve dollars and fifty-eight cents postage, no insurance, no receipt to sign. Postmarked Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
He sliced the clear packaging tape at one end with a kitchen knife.
Out came a magazine, two sheets of white copy paper with typed information, and two small electronic items wrapped in tiny 3/16-inch bubble wrap. One was a cheapo burner cell phone and charger Zeus bought at a Flying J Truckstop. And one last item, a thin Dell laptop computer Zeus bought with cash at a Best Buy.
He maneuvered the typed notes sequentially over the countertop to read them.
YOU WILL NOW BE SWIMMING WITH SHARKS
REMEMBER——GHOST PROTOCOL—ANONYMITY—-PRIVACY
Read and reread this document like your life depends on it. IT DOES!
The Laptop is setup with:
1-Tor Browser—-The gold standard anonymity tool. Created by the U.S. Navy—-so I’m sure you are aware of it.
2-PROTON VPN—-Virtual Private Network to mask IP address.
3-PGP—-Encryption tool for text documents. (Please see the Public Key to send me documents. Please see your Private Key to decrypt my messages to you)
4-VERACRYPT—computer encryption (please note your passwords to boot computer) NOTE—when you close the computer Veracrypt is activated-BOOM-LOCKED TIGHT!)
TO USE COMPUTER—
1-Go to crowded public WiFi at least 5 miles from your home—preferably 10 miles.
2-Wear bland clothing and a cap—EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE is on camera.
3-Boot up through Veracrypt
4-Activate Proton VPN
5-Utilize TOR browser
6-Log on to DataCage
7-Use Private PGP key to open the encrypted document.
8-POWER DOWN computer when done.
Significant data sharing between us:
We will use DataCage-—an end-to-end encrypted cloud storage site with zero knowledge capabilities from the company—means the company can’t read our shit. How do I know? I was one of the 20 guys on the Lead Code Team that developed this company and I own 1% of the stock. SO I KNOW!
We will now begin all written correspondence on DataCage. Any text you send must be encrypted on your end with PGP before uploading to DataCage which will ALSO encrypt the message. After signing on to DataCage you will decrypt my information with a Private PGP key.
DataCage- login credentials:
USER: LoOpfRuiT t2jc!
PASSWORD: K$Vb*wWw@7%JmyZpqqA90#bDz!
Yes! They are long and complicated. THAT’S WHY THEY WORK!
FROM NOW ON—ALL CONTACT THROUGH DATACAGE!!
LOGON TO DATACAGE LATE AFTERNOONS MONDAYS-WED-FRI TO CHECK FOR MESSAGES—I WILL DO THE SAME
EMERGENCY CONTACT ONLY—BURNER PHONE
Use the phone to call the preset number under AAA BBBB in contacts. LET IT RING ONE TIME ONLY THEN HANG UP. THAT IS THE SIGNAL TO CHECK DATACAGE—ONE RING ONLY!
NEVER ANSWER THE PHONE!!
YOU ARE NOW IN THE GAME—PROCEED ON TARGET ONE
TARGET ONE IS THE LAWYER ON THE MAGAZINE COVER
CHARLESTON NEEDS A DRAMATIC SCENE. VERY DRAMATIC!!
41
THE COVER STORY WINDBAG WAS BRAXTON GREEN of Charleston, South Carolina. The family was all smiles as they were photographed in front of their historic mansion overlooking Charleston Harbor. Lucky found the story intriguing as well as illuminating.
Green had an admirable run in the Lawsuit Industry over the last ten years. Highlighting his “aww shucks, I’m just helping out the little guy” routine, Trial Lawyers of America reported that Braxton took down settlements of slightly over a quarter of a billion dollars in the last decade.
It was one case that particularly grabbed Zeus’s attention to this guy. A year ago, Braxton packed his suitcase with seventy-six million dollars from a tobacco case, sliced his big lick straight off the top, a smidge over twenty-five million. All compliments of NC Gold Tobacco, one of the top five cigarette firms in America.
Lucky’s independent research unveiled another case altogether, a tangential case to the cigarette trial. It was a malpractice trial against a local country doctor. The lawyer had uncovered a husband and wife, both smokers since they were mid-teens, and both now fighting lung cancer in their sixties. Green had enticed these imbeciles to sue their longtime family doctor of 35 years claiming he never advised them to stop smoking. Not once. Ever. Green also orchestrated the selection of twelve deep-south rubes for the jury that bought everything Green was selling.
This honorable doctor was destroyed unjustly by a lawyer. Just like Lucky’s father had been.
The good doctor was all the ammo Lucky needed to entice him to pay his own house call to Braxton Gr
een, Esquire, in Charleston.
42
Charleston, South Carolina
Monday, April 8, 2019
LUCKY ENTERED THE DOWNTOWN DOUBLETREE hotel wearing stone-colored chino slacks with a color-matched sport coat over an Indian Madras short sleeve shirt.
He registered under the name of Dr. John Turner, a scientist with AmGreen Research. Presenting a Maryland driver’s license, a Visa card, and a bogus laminated badge that said AmGreen, he made easy chit chat with the attractive early-twenties female staff member handling his registration. Offhandedly, he stated he was meeting with some scientists at the Medical University of South Carolina.
“Oh, cool, Dr. Turner. What’s your specialty?”
“I’m actually a doctorate in plant pathology, not a medical doctor.”
“I didn’t know the med school worked with plants, too.”
“Well, it’s confusing. AmGreen joint ventures with entities world-wide in efforts to genetically alter some plants to provide beneficial pharmaceutical applications.”
She scrunched her cheeks. “Wow. Makes me think of good weed.” She blushed, flicked her eyes playfully left to right, then smiled. “Oops, I didn’t say that.”
Lucky smiled, too.
The general manager approached the front desk from a side office with several guest requests to leave with the clerk. Seeing Lucky registering, he extended his right hand across the counter.
“I’m Jeff Beeland, General Manager. If I may be of any assistance to you on your stay, please let me know.” He handed Lucky his card.
“John Turner,” said Lucky.
The clerk chimed in. “Mr. Beeland, that’s Doctor John Turner.”
“Please, call me John, Mr. Beeland. There is one thing, though,” said Lucky.
Beeland motioned for Lucky to slide to the end of the counter. “How may I help?”
“I’m in a series of meetings over at MUSC over the next ten days or so. Scientific stuff. I have some proprietary data that is in both paper form and on my computer. Virtually worthless to most people, but of extreme value to my company.” The GM focused intently on Lucky. “If at all possible, I would like no housekeeping duties in my room unless I’m present. Is that doable?”
“Not only possible, Dr. Turner, I can assure you of it. I will speak to the house supervisor right now.”
In the elevator to his room it hit Lucky hard. The legend he just presented was too memorable. Become a ghost. Shut your damn mouth.
First order of business. Pay respect to an old doctor.
LUCKY SPOTTED SECURITY CAMERAS tracking every step as he ambled down the hall of the Live Oak Nursing Facility in North Charleston.
He located room 152, gave a slight knock-knock on the doorframe. The door was cracked open about twenty-four inches, fighting the loneliness for the residents. Dr. Mike Grantham, in his late seventies, looked Lucky’s way, displaying unfamiliarity in his eyes.
Lucky entered and then pushed the door backward, within two inches of complete closure. The room looked like a busy gift shop during year-end inventory with an astounding array of cards, flowers, and knickknacks tumbling over each other. Had to be one hundred photographs. Signed basketballs and footballs, a couple of soccer balls, one volleyball, bats, gloves, softballs, baseballs, team pictures including the doctor, trophies, and pompoms. Grantham was a high school team doctor for forty wonderful years.
The room was a shrine of love and respect. Lucky knew he was in the presence of an honest-to-God legend.
The air carried an unmistakable scent of piss, poo, and aging flesh preparing takeoff to eternity. On low in the background, a radio preacher was speaking on the parable of the sower.
He pulled a chair close to the bed. Looking into Dr. Grantham’s sad, defeated eyes, Lucky placed his hand on the doctor’s right forearm. The skin was pale, withered, cool. Right side stroke, the receptionist said. Doc’s body was decaying to nothing.
“My name is not important, Dr. Grantham. You don’t know me, but I know you. I’ve read about you and your career. What I read was the legacy of one of South Carolina’s finest citizens.”
The doctor heard every word, but all he could do was stare. His body didn’t so much as twitch. Drool puddled at the right corner of his mouth. His right eye had a layer of ointment to keep it moist, but it skewed his vision.
“Dr. Grantham, I need to know if you can understand what I’m saying. Please blink your eyes twice if you hear and understand me.” The doctor’s left eye blinked twice.
Lucky stumbled onto Dr. Grantham’s name while he was deep into his background intel on trial lawyer Braxton Green, the Target. A Charleston weekly published a magnificent tribute on Grantham’s life, concluding with the sad news of the stroke.
Braxton Green’s needless nuisance lawsuit against Dr. Grantham was infused with lies and misrepresentations. Fifty-five years in medicine and the doc had never been sued. Until Green showed up. The jury was too ignorant to see through his bullshit. When the verdict was read, Dr. Mike Grantham suffered a stroke in his seat. Lucky read the trial transcript. He thought of his father.
“I know what Green did.” Lucky’s voice was soft, gentle, barely above a whisper. “Many, many, many people find it unconscionable.” Lucky emphasized this point with his raised eyebrows. “I know it pains you beyond description to have felt his attack on your character and your life’s work.”
Dr. Grantham’s eyes bored right into Lucky’s skull. His left eye blinked twice.
“I know who you are, Dr. Grantham. You’re a compassionate man filled with goodness, one of the finest doctors South Carolina has ever had. I also wanted you to know that Braxton Green won’t be continuing to practice law much longer.”
With that, Lucky picked up Dr. Grantham’s cold right hand, patted it a couple of times.
“I’m not cut from the same cloth as you, doctor. I’m not a compassionate man. I am an angry man, a vindictive man. I’m also a very dangerous man who will have no mercy on Green.”
Lucky stood, slid the chair back to its spot, readied to leave when he spotted a Bible peeking from under the blanket, next to the doctor. He sat back down, slid it from underneath the bedclothes. It had a rugged black cover with a name engraved in gold in the lower right, Michael J. Grantham. Some of the delicate pages were loose, many passages were underlined, and notes were written willy-nilly in the margins.
“Dad read the Bible to me and my younger brother almost every night until I graduated high school. He liked to explain things, the meanings of parables and such. He was a good man, a church man, just like you.”
Lucky started flipping pages, searching for a passage. “I want to read something short. Dad said a well-worn Bible was a badge of honor. Okay, here we are. The Old Testament, Book of Proverbs, chapter eleven, verse ten.” Lucky glanced up, and saw Grantham focused.
“When the wicked perish, there is jubilation.”
He peeked over the text into Grantham’s eyes. The doctor blinked twice.
Lucky tucked the Bible in the covers as he found it, squeezed Grantham on the shoulder, sashayed out of the room, leaving the door open to the point he found it.
THE DOCTOR DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK about that unexpected visit. A dangerous man? The clean-cut fellow looked like he’d measure you for a suit at a local haberdashery, then pick out some matching ties. Maybe weighed a buck seventy. Five-eleven, six feet? But dangerous? That couldn’t be right.
Dr. Mike Grantham was, nonetheless, encouraged by the man’s message.
43
Battery Park Waterfront
Charleston, South Carolina
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
LUCKY KNEW ONE THING. Braxton and Hallett Green had extraordinary taste in choosing their home. It was an intricately detailed antebellum home with breathtaking views across the Battery taking in the harbor. Ancient oaks, statuesque palms, palmettos, azaleas, and a smattering of old cannons filled the park in front of their home.
Lucky arriv
ed at the location just after daylight with a backpack, a fishing rod, bait bucket, tackle box, and folding camp chair. He staked out a spot that allowed good visuals on the home, made himself comfortable, and got a line in the water.
Everything about him said good old boy South Carolinian. He wore a tee shirt with the sleeves cut off like Kenny Chesney, baggy dungarees, and an orange Clemson Tigers cap. His physique was wiry, with some twisty cord muscle like a runner or bicyclist, but nobody would be overly intimidated. If they knew his story, they might reconsider.
Special Ops training in Coronado, California brought him skills to be everywhere and nowhere. He moved as quiet as blown smoke, cautiously slow, yet fast. Deployments in South America, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East introduced him to trouble. Some of it was the worst kind of trouble. He was the smallest guy in his operator’s class at a lithe six feet, one hundred seventy-eight pounds, but near the top on intelligence and physical stamina.
He was also a deeply calculating man.
Lucky loved the location. The Battery teemed with tourists scanning everywhere, photographing in every direction. People with toothy smiles, ice cream cones in their hands, and happy conversation about gorgeous Charleston.
There were no tight timelines like he had on special forces missions. This allowed tactical patience to watch their pattern of life. He would develop the target. He would stack the odds in his favor.
Wealthy soft white people.
He liked the odds already.
44
Braxton Green Mansion
Thursday, April 11, 2019
6:30 A.M. HALLETT GREEN ROLLED OUT OF BED, padded to her bathroom, peed, brushed her teeth, washed her face. She smiled wide, leaned in towards the mirror, and wondered if she should try to squeeze in a teeth-whitening treatment today.