Grand Palace Hotel, Rome
Caesar watched the screen, arms crossed, waiting. After paging through article after article about Mason Mince, the screen froze on a picture of him standing at a podium, speaking to the crowd in front of him.
Searching for some of your greatest hits, are you? You make me sick.
Caesar winced at every new headline, every story about Hancock’s rise to power, about his hunt for Caesar Black.
Looking up at the username in the top right corner, he saw the username “MA-MI-90067” staring back at him. He gripped the edge of the desk, squeezing with all his power.
An eye for an eye.
>>>>>
NSA Texas Cryptologic Center
“Mary Milward,” Wilcox began, pulling over a thin, blue folder laid carefully next to her laptop. “The United States Government, and specifically the NSA, is in debt to you for your assistance over the past few days.” She opened the folder, pulling the top sheet from the stack. “I’m satisfied that we’ve found our suspects, and it’s time to make right on our deal.”
The room fell silent as Mary’s eyes flicked around to each soul, now all facing the two of them with hushed reverence.
“Ms. Milward,” Agent Wilcox continued, “in recognition of the assistance you have granted the National Security Agency, you have been granted a full pardon from your sentence, assuming you waive all rights to further contest your initial conviction.”
Mary stared back, blinking a few times, trying her best to process the information. “So, that means…”
“Sign this paperwork—this right here—and you’re a free woman,” Wilcox said, her southern charm shining through along with her smile. “I took the liberty of arranging a flight to Chicago tonight, a small commercial jet that will be all yours, along with an NSA escort for the trip, of course. I’ve sent electronic copies of all the documents and travel details to a temporary electronic account. We’ll just need you to forward those to your own email account and—”
“I haven’t been out in the real world in about twenty-five years,” Mary laughed, accepting the folder with a trembling hand. “I’m afraid I’ve never had an email account.”
Nodding, Wilcox smiled. “Of course. You feel free to keep this one until you get home, get settled. You leave in a few hours.”
Mary closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, mouthing the words as they ran through her mind. She opened her eyes to find tears streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s been a real pleasure, Ms. Milward,” Agent Wilcox said, extending a hand to Mary. “Any time you find yourself in Texas, I hope you’ll stop by and say hello.”
I don’t believe it.
>>>>>
Grand Palace Hotel, Rome
The glow from the pixels lit the dim room as Caesar watched the screen, wringing his hands together. The cursor on the other side of the connection began to move slowly. Taking a delicate breath, he watched, waited.
All he wanted was a place to twist the knife.
An email window opened on the other side of the connection, showing only a single message in the inbox. Caesar leaned in, grabbing a pencil from the hotel desk and quickly jotted down the details as the email went to full screen. He scowled as the connection went fuzzy.
Is that what I think it is?
He began to drum his fist on the base of his laptop, whispering “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” as the connection tried and failed to render a clear screen. He could see the message scrolling down, but the details had all gone to fuzz.
Caesar checked his Wi-Fi connection—it was at three bars out of four. Standing and clutching the laptop with both hands, he walked towards the center of the room, holding the pad of paper and pencil in his mouth as he searched for a sweet spot. He found it over by the closet, crammed in the tiny hallway between the front door and the bathroom.
As the picture became clear, he could make out the details in the email: it was a boarding pass—flight AA1161, flying out tonight at 8:45PM, Gate 10, seat 1A—it had everything but the name of the passenger, which just read as “CLASSIFIED.” It was scheduled to leave San Antonio airport that evening, headed for Chicago.
He pinned the laptop with his forearm, pulling the paper out of his mouth and slamming it up against the wall. He scribbled down the important parts with violent strokes. He tossed the laptop on the bed, feeling his heart pound through his t-shirt as he stared down at the screen.
Holding the flight information in a shaking hand, he studied the edges and curls of his sloppy handwriting, backlit by the white glow of the screen.
His rage built as he felt the paper fibers tear under his grip.
He tossed the note on the bed and craned over to his laptop. Searching his local directory, he fought the coughs that were rising in his throat as he double clicked the folder labeled “Commercial Airline Systems Access.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Townhouse Coffee
Frankfurt, Germany
November 3rd, 2:21PM
Haylie watched the traffic stutter by in fits and spurts, each tiny, dull-colored hatchback waiting its turn at the three-way intersection. Her view from inside the café—past the small sitting area outside and onto the street—was blocked only by a few lazy pedestrians and the gray blanket of drizzle that had rolled into Frankfurt. Her hands were wrapped around the porcelain mug, absorbing its warmth but letting the coffee sit untouched.
It had been hours since they had scrambled into that random hotel room and waited for the police to clear out. Feeling the clock ticking away was bad enough—knowing that her brother was still out there somewhere, on the run—but the thought of her laptop in the hands of the police was a checkmate punch in the gut. She wasn’t sure how long it would take the police to get some hard evidence off her laptop, but she knew it could be measured in hours and not days.
Haylie winced, trying to push the thoughts out of her head as she felt a tear rolling down her cheek.
How could I be so stupid?
She could feel her bottom lip quivering slightly every time she thought about her brother, or the mess she was in. Stranded in a foreign country, a fugitive herself. Caesar was about to make the biggest mistake of his life, and she was without any way of stopping him.
She felt a palm on her left shoulder and looked over to see Vector stirring his coffee with his free hand, offering the best smile that he could conjure up.
The harsh buzz of the barista grinding beans caused Haylie to jump, edging away from Vector’s touch and sliding her shoulder free, back to its defeated slump. Gazing outside, she saw a pair of locals waiting to cross the street, shopping bags in hands and wearing matching khaki jackets to deflect the rain. She could see their mouths moving, speaking gently, effortlessly, occasionally throwing glances at each other. The misting rain highlighted their matching white hair, clinging to the strands like dew on a cobweb. As the crosswalk light turned green, the man took a step, clutching his wife’s hand without even looking down, knowing exactly where to find it.
“The laptop was encrypted, right?” Vector said. “That’s good, it means they’ve got nothing.”
“Fingerprints,” Haylie said, managing to push the words past her tears. “That’s all they need. They’ll have those within the hour. They’ll tie me to Caesar, to every hack he’s been responsible for over the past few weeks. This is it—there’s nowhere to run anymore. Plus, without my laptop, we’ll never track him down. We needed more tech, not less.”
“Don’t get all doom and gloom on me,” Vector said. “I still have my machine. And even if they get prints on you, we can still run. Just like Caesar. This could be the start of our adventure, out in the world. I have my laptop, and we still have money. We can—”
“Does that really sound like fun to you?” Haylie stammered. “I can’t live like this—waking up and not being able to remember what city I’m in. Not being able to stop and breathe.”
“I bet once we got into it, we could—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Haylie reached down into Vector’s bag and placed his laptop on the counter, pushing it over towards him. “Read me the headlines—like you used to do in school.”
“But—”
“Just read.”
>>>>>
San Antonio Airport
Gliding through the sliding doors and into the main terminal, Mary felt a wave of memories wash over her. She froze in the center of the walkway, in awe of the crowd all around: people hugging and kissing each other goodbye; children pulling colorful wheeled luggage behind them, adorned with comic book characters. The NSA agent at her side kept a respectful distance, adjusting his tie and waiting patiently as she took it all in.
Mary’s last visit to an airport was still etched deep in her memory. It was December of 1989, and she had floated into Chicago’s O’Hare airport on her tiptoes, trying to contain her excitement. Her boyfriend was about to land from San Francisco, and she vividly remembered clutching a bouquet of hand-picked flowers, wanting to be the first face he saw in Chicago. She remembered lining up at security, ready to make her way through to greet him at the gate—back then, you could do that—when a firm hand took grip of her left arm.
Then another on her right.
Then, it was just a swirl of activity. Agents swooping in from every direction. Her Miranda rights being read as she tried to find her bearings. All the while, she kept one eye on the gates, watching the next phase of her life drift away.
But this morning, Mary felt a different force—pushing instead of pulling—as she walked with a new sense of purpose across the polished floors, ready for the next stage of her whatever was to come. As they approached the security ropes, the agent took the lead, cutting the line and flashing his badge. Mary was quickly waved through.
No metal detectors today. Nothing to stop her from getting on that plane.
As they made their way through the terminal, Mary took a moment to admire her reflection in a store window. Her new street clothes—a pair of what she was told were fashionable jeans, t-shirt, and light jacket. After decades in a prison jumpsuit, she felt like a movie star. She felt like a person.
“We have this plane all to ourselves?” Mary asked the agent keeping pace on her left. “Seems a bit wasteful, don’t you think?”
“It’s necessary until you’re officially out of our custody,” the agent replied without a hint of emotion. “This is a government operation. Waste is just part of the process.”
He pointed to an open set of double doors ahead, with a “10” sign hanging overhead, leading out to a jetway. Mary stopped and looked down the empty hallway, wondering what she would do after they landed.
Anything I want, I suppose.
>>>>>
Grand Palace Hotel, Rome
Caesar coughed into his fist, fighting his body’s urge to slump over onto the desk. He propped himself upright and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Just get it done.
He raised a trembling hand, hitting command-R to refresh the status of flight AA1161, headed from San Antonio to Chicago O’Hare. The system indicated that the plane was still on schedule for an 8:45 p.m. departure, all seats blocked out by the airline’s ticketing system.
You can’t do this, you can’t do this. How can you even think about this? What have you become?
He rubbed his eyes, stood and walked to the bathroom. Turning the faucet knob on full with a quick twist of his wrist, he bent over and splashed cold water across his face. The chill woke him as he continued to cup liquid with his hands, feeling the beads run down across his skin as his hurried breath blew mist from his nostrils. He snatched a towel from the rack and buried his face in it. As he lowered the cloth, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He stared deep into his own eyes, looking for signs of life.
All he saw was rage.
“What else?” he whispered back into the mirror. “What else can I do? What other choice do I have?” Tears began to fall from his eyes as his hands shook, wiping them away with disgust. He was afraid—afraid of what they’d do to him if they caught him. Afraid of what he had to do. “This isn’t your fault. They did this. Just this once, you can push back.”
He let the towel fall into a heap on the ground. He glanced over at his laptop screen in the distance.
“There’s no other way.”
He stepped towards the machine and brought up the airline systems package, checking the documentation one last time. The code gave him remote access to the control systems of most commercial aircraft in operation across the United States through a backdoor into the thrust management system. It was triggered by a vulnerability in the inflight entertainment system—all he needed was a flight number, and the NSA’s code took care of the rest.
He exhaled and typed out a few, solid keystrokes.
AA1161
>>>>>
San Antonio Airport
Mary looked down the aisle seeing rows and rows of empty seats staring back at her. It was an eerie sight; even the two flight attendants chatting in the aisle didn’t know what to do with themselves. The closest attendant made a mocking sweeping gesture with her arm—as if to say “take any seat you like.” Mary performed a slight bow with a smile and picked the second row of first class, gently setting her bag down on the seat next to her. She looked up at the screen embedded in the headrest in front of her, running her hands across its edges, her mouth wide open.
“It’s her first flight in a while,” the agent explained to the flight attendant.
“Well, then,” the flight attendant replied with a wide smile, “we’d better make sure it’s a great one.”
>>>>>
Grand Palace Hotel, Rome
The flight status indicator flashed over from “Boarding” to “Departed” as Caesar checked the time in the corner of his screen. He prepared the commands—enough thrust in the left engine, then the right, then the left again, to cause the plane to become imbalanced. The auto-throttle settings in the onboard computer would fight against the pattern, so Caesar double-checked that he had disabled that function.
He focused his vision on the small blinking indicator crawling its way across the map, taxiing across the runway. He pictured Rancor sitting comfortably in his seat, sipping a drink and feeling like he was on top of the world. Caesar’s jaw locked as his fingers hovered, ready to let the code get to work.
>>>>>
San Antonio Airport
The plane accelerated, pulling Mary back into her seat. She gripped the armrests and closed her eyes, ready to go home, finally free.
The first thing I’ll do is plant a garden. Some flowers, some vegetables. Take good care of them.
I’ll watch them grow.
>>>>>
Grand Palace Hotel, Rome
Caesar watched the dot zoom across the runway, the altitude rising as the flight veered slightly to the left, on course for Chicago.
You started this. You’re not getting me, not like you got Sean.
He blinked through the burning in his eyes, looking down to the keyboard. He hit the “return” key with two strong fingers. He walked away from the machine, not able to watch.
Don’t think about the people. Just a few lines of code.
>>>>>
San Antonio, Texas
The Texas hill country—a mix of scrub brush, rocky terrain, and peaceful oak trees—was lit by a fireball of orange and yellow and red. The wreckage of flight AA1161 carved a deep, half-mile trench through the landscape. The plane had been reduced to twisted metal and burning insulation haphazardly scattered across the ashes of grass and dirt, now all charred black.
The only sounds came from the flickering fire as the smells of burning fuel, plastic and metal filled the morning air, the sun shining down from above.
CHAPTER FORTY
Townhouse Coffee
Frankfurt
November 3rd 3:12PM
“Anything else?” Haylie muttered, staring out at the rain. She wasn
’t looking for good news, necessarily, just any news that could distract her from the uncertainty swimming through her brain. Anything to take her mind off the road ahead. She would have taken pop culture trash or even sports scores, anything to distance her from the reality of knowing that she had to make a decision soon. But Vector had run out of unclicked links, and she knew the clock was ticking.
“No links that we haven’t already read, some of them twice,” Vector said. “They still don’t know what happened to that plane outside of San Antonio. A few scattered reports that it was empty, which is odd.”
“Just hit refresh,” she said, sipping at her coffee. “One more time.”
He hit command-R and looked back at the screen with a new sense of interest. “I’ve got something here. A livestream—some breaking stuff.” He brought the video feed to full screen and tilted the laptop so Haylie could see.
She saw an empty podium that was quickly filled by a man with a stack of papers and an angry snarl etched across his face. He looked around the room with a flavor of confusion, a bit like he had never done this before. The camera zoomed in as reporters took their seats and the man tapped the microphone a few times with a closed fist.
“Is that … that Mason Mince guy?” Vector asked.
“Quiet, he’s about to start,” Haylie said.
Crash Into Pieces (The Haylie Black Series Book 2) Page 25