by Sam Cade
“Well, if that’s the case, I certainly think we should put you under another major category.”
Braxton feared the answer. “That would be?”
“Chameleon. You’re just a lizard capable of changing colors to meet the needs of the social situation in which you find yourself.”
Lucky walked over to the glass coffee table and glanced down at the hooligan tools laid out like an operating room setup. He picked up a brand-new stainless-steel straight edge barber’s razor. It gleamed with evil.
Green’s eyes widened at the sight. He could feel his body switch gears. His mouth started to feel like cotton. His heart picked up pace. Braxton could even hear the deep inner thump in his left chest. Putrid fear sweat secreted from under his arms. He felt the oily fear showing on his face.
“Let’s get to it, shall we?” said Lucky.
“Five million dollars. Let’s go to the bank right now.”
Lucky made a show of glancing at a clock in the room. “The bank’s closed.”
“Okay, let’s sleep on it. At 9:00 a.m. sharp let’s pick up $7.5 million.”
It totally sank in at that point to Lucky. Zeus was right. There were millions to walk away with in this plan.
“Mr. Green, at first this was about money. But that point in time has passed.”
“Well, what the hell else could it be about?”
“A sweet, gentle caring soul. A man who provided immeasurable benefits to the world his whole life. You may have heard of him, Dr. Michael Grantham.”
Braxton went pale as the blood drained from his face.
Lucky closed the door...
47
TWO AND A HALF HOURS AFTER LEAVING CHARLESTON Lucky exited off I-95 onto U.S. 17 and stopped at the bridge over the Little Satilla River. He was just inland from Jekyll Island, Georgia. With no traffic spotted, he tossed the Sig into the water. With a slug in Brax’s knee the weapon needed to go.
Something else went into the water destined for the riverbed. A human head in a chicken wire crab trap.
He pulled the van into his Jacksonville beach rental at 1:30 in the morning. Lucky was grimy, covered with death, and very tired. He took a long shower, water as hot as he could stand.
He hopped in bed naked. Sleep didn’t come. His mind reverted to everything he thought about on the ride home. In a few hours, a tornado of cops and press in Charleston would be chasing their tails. He’d matched wits with some of the deadliest rocket-propelled-grenade vipers on earth. Now, what could U.S. law enforcement throw at him?
Rather than lying in bed with his brain churning, he decided to get the video to Zeus. First, he scrubbed it. No photos of him whatsoever. He eliminated his voice responses. Most of Braxton’s responses were left in the video.
An hour of film was skimmed into about fourteen minutes of raw footage. He drove across town to a 24-hours McDonalds just off the interstate in Orange Park. He accessed their WiFi and uploaded everything to DataCage.
Last thing. He pulled the burner phone out of his pocket, flipped to contacts AAA BBBB, punched speed dial to Zeus, let it ring once, hung up.
He ordered the Big Breakfast and a large orange drink. At a table next to a window he glanced through the early news on the internet. Fifty-three minutes later his burner phone rang once. He signed on again to DataCage.
Spotted a message. Titled Z Response.
He clicked it open.
Holy Smokes, Man! Twenty guys like you at Bin Laden’s house!! Bearded bastard had no chance!!—-Hang tight. Watch the news. Chat in 7-10 days. Z.
ZEUS EDITED THE VIDEO IN FIFTY-EIGHT MINUTES. He named the file Scare-Share-One. It was three minutes and forty-five seconds of devastating true crime violence.
He wanted to wake up Charleston, get the ball rolling. Zeus siphoned two still photos from the video. Brutal stuff. He hit the send button to blast the first photo to Captain Rye Hewitt, one of Charleston’s senior detectives.
He also created an insurance policy to pour a little gas on the fire. He fired an email to Dana Danson, one of Charleston’s loud-mouthed hot pants investigative reporters. Zeus was certain she would be maniacal about checking her in-box.
He sat back, waited. It was only ninety seconds for the reporter to open the email. A smile cracked his face. He knew she’d want to alert everybody in the Northern Hemisphere with her concerned face on a TV screen.
Detective Hewitt’s email was read six minutes later.
Then Zeus popped off the second photo. Oh, he’d love to see their faces now.
Saturday Morning, April 13, 2019
Online edition of the Charleston Post and Courier.
PROMINENT COUPLE MASSACRED
Son Shot, Tennis Pro Bound, Both Alive
48
ZEUS LOVED THE RESEARCH. One by one, he was deep into data collection on the lives of the attorneys in his Top 100 list. Intimate knowledge of their lives should scare the hell out of them. Big case details, partners and office staff names, everybody’s home address, photographs of homes, kid’s names, ages, schools, pets, wives, kid’s ball teams, games scores, automobile model and colors, daily schedules, favorite restaurants, vacation photos, report card grades. Driver’s license numbers. Medicine doses. Dental appointments. Everything
Social media first. Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter. Next, Google Earth Street View, PeekYou, and the Beat App.
Facebook was the goldmine. Even on privacy setting it proved simple to hack. No work at all. Some genius already helped him out. He used SamHacker.com which gave him the UFD2 Decrypt Tool. Took only a few minutes, nobody knew they were hacked, and he left with a trainload of data.
Fools staring down the barrel of a cannon.
Next the hacks. Texts. Emails.
Zeus approximated a collective net worth of the Top 100 to be somewhere in the $4.2 billion range give or take two-hundred million.
$100 million from these guys? Doable. Very doable
EMAIL INVITATIONS SHIPPED FIVE DAYS AFTER THE CHARLESTON massacre to the first twenty-five attorneys. The slaughter was prominent national news. Each lawyer also received a text on their cell phone sent from a burner in Memphis, Tennessee. It was the same group that rejected Zeus’s earlier invitation
Check Your Email. We’re Coming For You!
Zeus was confident. There was no way this wouldn’t work. The attached video should make things clear from here on.
Second and Last Chance
CHARITABLE CONTRIBUTIONS REQUIRED IN
72 HOURS
FOLLOW DIRECTIONS
OR
The Next Video is Your Family
WE’RE WATCHING YOU!!!
1 – Follow Bank Wire Instructions. 3 Days.
2 – If you don’t. WE’RE COMING.
3 – Contact Law Enforcement. WE’RE COMING.
JUST ASK BRAXTON GREEN
ZEUS COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT HE WAS SO AMPED. It was four days after the emails were sent.
He drove as fast as he could down U.S. 98 to the chicken restaurant. Plenty of open parking but twelve cars jamming the drive thru. He parked, grabbed his laptop, a legal pad, and went inside to order. Seven kids behind the counter with big white toothed smiles. Cherub looking souls, had a cult-like wholesomeness to them. The same look in every Chick-fil-A. Always attentive and courteous, working with a full belly of the company Kool-Aid.
“How may I help you, sir?” The slight white boy looked twelve with close cropped red hair. He was as clean as an Eagle Scout except for a smattering of mild acne.
“Number one combo with a Coke. A Real Coke. Eating here.” Zeus’s mind was on the computer not the order. In less than five minutes he’d be signing on to overseas bank sites.
“My pleasure. Have a seat, sir and I’ll bring it right out.”
Zeus ambled to a booth in the back corner near the restroom. He pulled the laptop out of the backpack, turned it on. Then it hit him. He wondered if Chick-fil-A would block a TOR sign-on. It’s certainly possible. Pro
bable, really. To many, TOR insinuated too much clandestine activity to get near. Zeus went to connect, held his breath... Bang. He was on. And surprised.
His order was placed on the table. “Thanks.”
He grabbed a waffle fry with a hand that was one moment from launching into a nervous tremor, scared out of his mind that he would see nothing.
Via the web, Zeus followed the Charleston local news since the Green killings. There was little fruitful information coming from the cops. Early speculation was that it was a payback drug crime. The son’s weed operation had been exposed as well as his contact with a local gang member.
He sucked a big swig of Coke through the straw. After an exhale, he signed on to his first bank site. Panama. No change in the account. Logged out. Nevis. Signed on. Nothing. Lichtenstein. Signed on.
“YES!” Zeus screamed out loud, banged both palms on the table like he was slapping bongos. Two tables of diners turned to look at the commotion. The boy scout skidded around the corner from behind the counter, his manager right behind him.
“Sir, are you okay?” The manager had his hand on Zeus’s shoulder. “How may we help?”
Zeus’s face went red with embarrassment over the commotion. Then it contorted into a goofy, oddball smile, like something you’d do if you were just saved from a hanging. He ran the back of his right hand across his lips. Was he drooling? Two hands rose palm outward in front of him in apology mode. “I am so sorry. No, no, nothing bad, everything is good. Great, actually.”
The manager looked over at the patrons, held up a hand, nodded. “Everything’s fine, folks.”
Zeus thought fast. “Just an email. It’s an old friend. Got lab reports today. His cancer is in remission.”
Redhead looked at him with a sympathetic expression that was genuine, shook his head. “Wow. Praise God, sir.”
Zeus logged back on. Went to his Johannesburg bank’s address. Signed in. Two deposits totaling $3.9 million dollars. Signed out. Went to his Singapore account. Same original balance. Signed out. Try Isle of Mann. Zeus kept his mouth shut this time. $4.9 million dollars.
He knew it. He damn well knew it! Plenty of oil in these wells.
The next two business days more money flowed in. Time to inform Lucky.
He created a document, shot it up to the cloud, blasted a single ring on the burner phone.
BAD NEWS—-Only 40% response rate.
GOOD NEWS—We Still Drilled a Gusher!! $14.3 Million rolled in. $11.44 Million will go into an account for YOU within the next week.
Will contact soon. You will be provided new bank information for your accounts including usernames and passwords.
NOW: TIME TO MOVE. TAKE CARE OF CANDIDATE #2
49
Jacksonville, Florida
LUCKY WAS SURFING AN UNCROWDED SPOT IN ATLANTIC BEACH when his burner phone sounded a single ring. The phone was wrapped in a washcloth, stuffed under the passenger seat in his rental that was parked on the edge of a beach access road.
It was 9:10 in the morning, the tide was low, and waves were four feet with a little wind chop. Not California but still fun. Facing east over the Atlantic, sunshine warmed his face as he straddled his board and stared out to sea watching for the next wave set to flow in. Not a cloud in the sky.
Mixed feelings about the Charleston activities stirred through his head.
After two and a half hours, Lucky paddled to shore, slid the spring wetsuit off, slipped on some dry shorts and a long sleeve tee, popped sand off his feet with the towel and slid his feet into flip flops.
He steered out onto Hwy A1A and headed south to his Airbnb apartment. Little traffic, he leaned down and snatched the phone from under the seat. He had been waiting on a Zeus update. The radio belted out sports talk about the Marlins and Rays prospects. Quick peek at the phone. A missed call. Yes.
Lucky leaned in on the accelerator, made it to his apartment in ten minutes, went in, grabbed his computer and walked straight back to the truck, excited.
He sped down to Starbucks on Third, a short drive. Morning rush gone, several places to sit. He ordered a coffee and two almond croissants.
Logged on to DataCage. The document was right there. He decrypted PGP and read it. Leaned back in his chair, thought holy crap!
He downed both croissants in a hurry, went to the counter and bought a cheese Danish. Suddenly he wasn’t in a hurry. He bought the Florida Times-Union, went back to his seat. First thing he saw was something on the front page about the Iranian nuclear agreement. The worst nuclear deal ever struck by the United States. By the third paragraph he thought screw that, his mind was a roller coaster out of control. No energy to worry about nuclear attacks.
Because he was a multimillionaire!
He zipped out of the building with the sound of flip-flops snapping his feet. He needed to drive. And think. Too excited to even calculate possibilities in his head.
Lucky pointed the truck south on A1A headed to St. Augustine. Popped on an oldies station...one toke over the line sweet Jesus, one toke over the line...Lucky started singing along, “sittin’ downtown in the railway station, one toke over the line.”
Took him thirty-eight minutes to reach the Surf Station, the old surf shop in a converted gas station on St. Augustine Beach.
Walked in the shop. Tons of boards. Spotted a blond guy with exposed pinkness on his nose and cheeks. His hair, not quite to his shoulders, was damp. The Atlantic was only a block away. Guy just pulled out of the water.
“I’m riding a 6’2” Channel Islands right now,” said Lucky. “Kinda thinking about adding a longboard. You guys got anything interesting?”
“Jack, we got everything interesting. Look, man, I can make this painless unless you’re one of those study-the-internet-reviews-for-three-years kind of guy.”
“Okay, whatcha think?”
“The Walden Magic Model. Period. I just got off an eight-footer ten minutes before you walked in. I can ride that stick in two-foot mush or heavy ten-foot storm surf.”
“Sold. I’ll take it.” Picked a red one.
Blondie stepped over to the check-out counter, slammed his hand down onto a flat red button on a device purchased at Staples. Electronically, it blurted “THAT WAS EASY.” Surf boy said, “As you might surmise, that button gets used a lot in this place.” Lucky snickered inside...surmise.
He paid with a credit card. “Thanks, man. But hey, I need to grab a bite and check some email on the computer. Any decent spots with WiFi around here?”
“Heck, yeah. The food truck over by the marina looks like you, man. Shaded tables. Incredible views of the boats. Everything’s chill. Tell ‘em Jock sent you.”
Eight minutes later Lucky pulled up to the food truck, parked in the shade, and went up to order. A lean twenty-something girl with shoulder-length dark hair, tan skin, cutoff jeans and a bright smile was behind the counter with a yellow pencil resting over her ear.
Lucky glanced at the chalk-written menu on a black board. No one else in line. The girl took the pencil from her ear, ready to write.
“Okay. Thinking here,” said Lucky. “Know I’ll take a Corona. Okay, here it is. I’ll take a grilled shrimp bowl over seasoned rice and spinach, add cilantro and almonds.”
“Great choice. Eleven-seventy-five, please.”
Lucky handed her a ten and a five. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.”
He watched her put three bucks and a quarter in her hypnotically short cut-off jeans.
“A guy named Jock told me to stop by for a bowl.”
She turned around slowly, rolled her eyes. “Not that friggin’ douche. For crying out loud, man, you had to ruin my beautiful day.”
“Oh, sorry. Old boyfriend?”
“Puhleeze. He’s my idiot stepbrother. Were you at the shop? Wait a minute.” She held up a hand. “Please tell me he didn’t sell you one of those lame Walden’s.”
Lucky went silent. Still as a statue. What did she say?
“Those
A-holes in California pay outrageous commissions for that dick to dump that cheap crap on east coast rubes.” She had a serious look on her face. Like she was gonna file a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission over subpar surfboards.
Lucky tried not to look at her.
“You didn’t, did you?” She pushed the subject.
She looked him dead in the eye. Neither said a thing. Lucky felt two feet tall.
Then a giant smile covered her face followed by a raucous laugh that made her next-door real. “Ahhh, man, I’m screwing with you, just jerking your chain. Walden’s are awesome!”
“Well, I was starting to get a little pissed about your idiot stepbrother.”
She laughed again. Louder.
“Oh, this is hilarious. Kidding about the stepbrother crap, too. That’s my husband! He doesn’t even work there, he’s sitting in for his buddy, the manager, who snuck out to grab forty-five minutes in the water.”
Lucky was smiling now. “Well tell your jackass husband to get a job!”
Both smiling. “Yeah, he called as soon as you walked out. Said to screw with you, thought you seemed cool.”
“Ahh, man, ya’ll got me, sure did.” Lucky laughed again. Made him think of some of the pranks in special forces.
“Oh, Jock is just kicking back right now. He starts med school at the University of Miami August 15th.”
Medical school?
Lucky was sitting at a picnic table with his computer up when she brought the food. His Corona, eighty percent gone.
“Bringing you another beer, on the house. Good sport special.”
“Great, thanks, you guys are awesome.” His eyes followed her tan legs all the way back to the food truck. A doctor’s wife.
50
ZEUS WAS HUNDREDS OF MILES AWAY FROM LUCKY, sitting in his stepfather’s law office, scouring LexisNexis for any information on faulty sensors in a sophisticated line of BMWs that were causing engine fires.
He took a break, walked upstairs with a detailed report to give to his stepfather. “I need ten days off. I’ve got five interviews lined up.”