by Tony Wiley
The hitman put on his gloves and pushed his way through the front door of the apartment building. Climbed up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Then walked a few steps to apartment number 5 in the dark hallway.
He rang the doorbell once. Nobody answered. Rang a second time, just to be sure. Still no answer. So his target wasn’t home. The hitman got his lock pick set out and forced the lock in a few seconds. Then he put the tool back in his pocket, got his silencer gun from under his belt and pushed the door open.
The apartment was not very big. Essentially an open living and dining room area with a kitchen corner and a separate bedroom. Contrary to what he’d assumed after the doorbell went unanswered, there was somebody in there: a young man sitting at the dining room table in front of a laptop computer. Had his back to him. Was wearing big headphones with massive ears. The type that performed some sort of noise reduction so that you only heard what came through them, not all the parasite ambient sounds.
The hitman smiled when he saw this and closed the door behind him.
His target wouldn’t hear him coming.
He stepped in closer, his silencer gun aimed at the young man.
When he was three feet away, he fired two shots in rapid succession. In the guy’s back, at heart level.
Then he aimed at the head and fired two more rounds in muted thumps.
The target promptly collapsed in his chair and fell short of the table. Ended up in a slumping position, his body half suspended over the left arm of his chair. The laptop got some splashing, of course. The hitman drew closer. He peered at the screen. It displayed data from an airline company. Some sort of boarding flight list. The hitman didn’t really care what was on there, but he had been instructed to bring back the laptop. Because he was expected to find one. So he simply folded the computer shut and took it under his arm.
That’s when he heard some muted thumps, light and slow. He turned around.
A kid had come ambling into the living room. Two years old. At most. Must have been napping in the bedroom. The hitman froze for a moment but he quickly regained his composure.
This is just a job, he thought. Don’t let your emotions take over.
The baby saw his father. Started to cry. The hitman aimed his silencer gun at him.
Don’t let things be more complicated than they are.
The baby cried harder.
The hitman felt trapped.
He increased the pressure on the trigger.
But just before he squeezed it all the way through, he closed his eyes.
Chapter 33
Morrison arrived at Johnson’s little old lady’s house just before noon.
The hacker was grumbling. He looked just as tired and dejected as the blond guy earlier that morning. His face was pale, his eyes all puffy and red from staring too long at a computer screen.
Seeing his current state, Morrison thought he would cheer him up first. He took out two fresh rolls of dollar bills from his pockets and threw them at him one after the other in quick succession. Johnson caught the rolls in midair without blinking.
“You look tired, Johnson, but you’ve still got good reflexes,” Morrison said.
Johnson didn’t respond. Didn’t show any reaction. He just dropped the money on his work table as if it were plain stationery.
“What, you’re already blasé about receiving 20K?” Morrison said.
Johnson stretched and yawned. “I’ve had a long night,” he said. “Again.”
Morrison caught the message and got right down to business. “Do you have anything on the flight?” he asked.
“My guy’s working on it,” Johnson said.
Morrison frowned. “You didn’t take care of it yourself?”
“I’ve spent the whole night on bank number four,” Johnson said. “I was still working on it when you sent your text with the flight info. I can’t split myself in half.”
This didn’t please Morrison. “This thing is urgent, man. You’re the top dog. I’d rather have you on this.”
Johnson breathed out. “When you sent me this new request, my night was almost over. My guy is good. Not as good as me, I’ll grant you that, but almost. And he works regular hours. So if you want results fast, he’s your best bet, Morrison.”
“OK, OK,” Morrison conceded. “So has he got anything yet?”
“I don’t know. He will contact me when he does. Same as he did for Candela Bank.”
“Why don’t you try him?”
Johnson grumbled. “You’re starting to be a real pain in the ass, Morrison, you know that?”
Morrison shrugged. “If you don’t want to do it, just give me his number. I’ll ring him up.”
Johnson flashed him a big wide smile. “Not a chance, Morrison. Not a chance in hell I’m sharing my contacts with you.”
Morrison returned his smile. “Doesn’t cost anything to try. But since you’re so protective, will you please ring him up yourself?”
“You’re a real pain, Morrison,” Johnson said as he opened a drawer from his work table and fished out one of the many prepaid phones it contained. Like everyone in the business, the hacker made ample use of these devices. At any time, he owned at least four or five of these beasts, and he would rarely hold on to any of them for more than a couple of months. He punched in his guy’s number. Put the phone to his ear. Stayed still for a moment, then hung up.
“No answer,” he said. “He’s probably too busy to answer.”
“Can you try him with your computer?” Morrison asked.
Johnson sighed. He swiveled on his chair to face his laptop. Typed a rapid-fire sequence on his keyboard. Then he stared at his screen and waited. One minute went by in silence. Then two. Then three.
Morrison could now see a trace of worry on his hacker friend’s face.
“Hmm. He doesn’t appear to be online,” Johnson said, swiveling his chair to face him again.
“That surprises you?” Morrison asked.
Johnson tilted his head. “A bit.”
The hacker reached for the mobile phone and punched in the number again. Waited for a moment. Still no answer. The hacker put the phone down on the table.
Now he looked worried.
“We’ve got this agreement,” Johnson said. “To reach each other. Right now, he should be working online. But he isn’t. When he’s not online, he should be getting the phone, unless he can’t, like if he’s driving or something. But then he should return my call ASAP.”
“Maybe he had to run an errand?” Morrison said.
“Maybe,” Johnson said.
“Want to try him again in a couple of minutes?”
“Sure, let’s do that.”
Johnson sat back in his chair and put his feet up on the work table. Morrison got comfortable in his lowlying leather armchair. He figured he’d use the downtime to ask Johnson about his progress into bank number four’s audit. Johnson responded to his inquiry with a dismissive wave of the hand and a gutted “Pffft …” “I haven’t gone anywhere,” he said. “I worked my ass off all night, and I haven’t made the slightest breach into their landscape. They’re tight as a tick.”
Morrison frowned. He would’ve bet his life banks number four and five had been skimmed as well, but he needed a clear confirmation. He didn’t want to steer a course based on half-truths or shaky assumptions. He needed to know the exact extent of the theft before he responded to it. And then his response would be deliberate, systematic and far-reaching. In true Frank Morrison style.
“You think you’re gonna be able to get in?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Johnson said. “I’ll get right back at it tonight. Sometimes, when you’re stuck, it’s good to take a break anyway. And right now, I’m toast.”
Morrison nodded. His hacker had proved immensely valuable these last two days. He trusted he would get things right.
They continued to chat idly for another fifteen minutes, then Johnson swiveled back to his laptop, punched a series of
keystrokes at close to light speed and came back with the same status as before. His sidekick was not online. Johnson picked up the phone and dialed his guy’s number again. Waited while it rang and rang. Then clicked it shut. Still no answer.
“OK, this is not normal,” Johnson said. “Something’s wrong here.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. He’s always been super reliable. I’ve never had any problem getting to him.”
Morrison was concerned. He really needed to know if Cowgirl had actually boarded that plane to LA or not. He needed to know that right now. And he didn’t want to be delayed by a hacker’s whims and fancies. The guy had to get down with the job immediately. That’s what he was paying handsomely for.
“Maybe I should drop by his place,” he said. “Shake him up into coming up with the goods.”
Johnson nodded. “I think it’s a good idea to check on him,” he said. Then he added a warning. “But I don’t want you to use the opportunity to recruit him directly. In the future, you want to use him, you still have to go through me. Understood?”
“Yeah, sure,” Morrison said. “Sure.”
“I’ll give you my code name, Pythagoras. So he knows I sent you.”
*
The hacker’s apartment building was a walk-up located a mere ten minutes away in a mixed neighborhood of residential and commercial buildings. Not a run-down area but one that hadn’t seen any new construction in a long time. Morrison parked a couple of buildings down the street and walked back.
A young family was going out just as he reached for the door. Father with a folded stroller, mother and baby girl in tow. Morrison moved over and let them through. Then he pushed his way in and climbed a dark flight of stairs to apartment number five.
The hacker’s apartment door was closed. Morrison rang the doorbell. Nobody came to answer.
He didn’t hear anything. No footsteps, no muted sound, nothing. He rang again. Still no answer.
He looked around. There was nobody. He was all by himself.
He shrugged and put his hand on the doorknob. It moved freely. He pushed slowly. The door wasn’t locked. He stepped in.
“Anybody in?” he called. But nobody answered.
He closed the door behind him. Took in the surroundings. First, he saw the living room, on his right. Then the dining room area.
With the body.
Slumped in the chair.
A splatter of blood, brain matter and bone splinters strewn on the table.
Morrison’s heart sank. Something had gone horribly wrong.
He walked a few cautious steps toward the dead hacker’s body and grimaced. This had been an execution. The poor guy had been shot point blank from the back. Morrison scanned the rest of the room.
That’s when he saw the baby.
From the door, he hadn’t been able to see him. The couch blocked the view. But there he was. A young infant. Two years old, something like that. Lying on his back. His eyes wide open. Shot with a bullet through the heart.
For what appeared to him a long, long time, Morrison remained still. Not that he wanted to remain still. Rather, he couldn’t get himself to move. Like his muscles were absorbing the horror of the scene and couldn’t fight anything back.
What got him moving again was a disturbing thought.
Johnson.
Morrison suddenly felt on the verge of panic. If somebody had gone after this guy, then Johnson could be next on his list. He managed to shake himself off and opened his flip phone. Then he punched Johnson’s number in.
At the other end, the ringing started.
And it dragged on.
And dragged on.
He felt dizzy. Pick up, Johnson, won’t you just pick up, dammit. While the phone rang, he kept scanning the room, as if to reassure himself that he was all alone.
With these two dead bodies.
Finally, Johnson’s tired voice erupted in the speaker. Morrison breathed a sigh of relief. “Get the hell out of your place, Johnson!” he said. “You have to leave now!”
“What are you talking about?” Johnson said.
“I mean it! Check into a motel and lay low. And bring your laptop. You have to look into that flight’s boarding list right now. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Chapter 34
On this early Saturday afternoon, the respected citizen was busy. After a long winter and a few weeks of bad spring weather, there was much to do around the property. Near the end of February, an ice storm had left a thick glaze on the trees. The episode had lasted only a couple of hours, but it had been enough to crack and break tree branches by the hundreds. Of course, some staff were on hand to take care of the heavy lifting. But the respected citizen liked to pitch in too. Make its contribution. Right now, its focus was on the two maple trees standing in front of the house. They badly needed pruning.
The respected citizen liked to wield the chainsaw every now and then. Somehow, operating this loud and noisy contraption that coughed blue smoke like a small factory made you connect with nature. Strange but highly effective.
A little less than an hour’s work had already produced an impressive pile of branches of all diameters, neatly cut in sixteen-inch lengths so they could be fed to the stove next winter.
While the respected citizen was attacking one of the last lowlying damaged branches, the mobile clipped at its belt started buzzing. The call was expected. The citizen shut off the chainsaw, dropped it on the soft grass and answered the phone.
“It’s done,” the hitman said. “I’ve also got the guy’s laptop and mobile phone.”
The respected citizen looked around. There was nobody within sight. It could talk freely.
“Destroy them,” the citizen said. “Make sure you smash them good. No piece should be bigger than half an inch. And dispose of them in at least three different public trash cans.”
“Sure, no problem, consider it done,” the hitman said.
The respected citizen hung up the mobile and clipped it back to its belt. Breathed a small sigh of relief.
It had been a drastic decision to proceed this way, but the situation didn’t leave any other choice. In critical times like this, you needed to be decisive. You didn’t procrastinate. If you were diligent and assiduous when it mattered, then half your job was done. You didn’t necessarily have to work the hardest. You had to work the smartest. With this matter taken care of, it could now focus its attention back on the trees.
Another hour of solid work and the front of the house would look immaculate.
*
After warning Johnson over the phone, Morrison wondered what he should do next. As he stood in the middle of the dead hacker’s apartment, his gut was screaming for him to get out at once. But his head said he should at least have a quick look around.
It was in these circumstances that your mind could start playing tricks on you. When the tension ratcheted up a couple of notches, you could start hearing noises that weren’t there. Seeing things that were mere shadows or just a figment of your imagination. When your senses were lit up like a burning tree, the brain needed to remain firmly at the helm not to trouble the signals.
Be aware. Totally aware of your surroundings but without overreacting. Stay on top of the moment.
He had lived his share of hairy moments.
He could handle them.
He remained calm and began perusing the dining room. On the table was a charger and a mouse but no laptop. Whoever had killed the poor guy and his baby must have left with the computer. To the right of the mouse was a scratch pad with a few scribblings. They corresponded to the flight details: flight number, departing city, destination, date and time. He figured the dead hacker had scribbled them down when Johnson had called with his demand. Below the flight information were a few other scribblings. Two IP addresses and what looked like a string of user IDs and maybe passwords. Morrison decided to take this with him. He tore the page off the writing block, then he folded
it and put it in his pocket. Next, he crouched to have a look under the table and at the top of the seats, but he didn’t find anything. Apart from a massive bloodstain on the gray carpeting, right under the hacker’s body.
He moved on to the kitchen area with its cold white tile flooring. Browsed the counter. Pulled out a couple of drawers with a tissue. Peered into the fridge and freezer. But he didn’t see anything special.
When he left the kitchen, the apartment fell into complete silence. The fridge compressor had just stopped buzzing. It made him realize how noisy it had been before. Now, if he concentrated hard, he could hear faint sounds. Whether they came from neighboring apartments or from the street, they made him tread ever more lightly to the living room area.
The gray carpeting extended there too, so he could move without too much fear of being heard. He looked around. There was a leather armchair, a couch and a coffee table. On the couch were a few toys and soft-cover children’s books. On the coffee table was a tangle of newspapers, magazines and publicity flyers. He browsed through the lot but found nothing interesting there either.
He skirted around the couch to get to the bedroom and saw the dead kid again. Still a sickening, horrible sight. But his brain had adapted to it. Had factored and anticipated its presence, as weird as it felt.
The bedroom was a mess. Queen size bed unmade, with a crib at the foot. Floor strewn with dirty clothes. Chest of drawers covered with a million things: nail clippers, scissors, stacks of clean folded shirts, children’s toys, tablet hooked on a charger … Morrison began to think that he wasn’t going to find anything important. Then he heard some scratching.
He stopped moving. Listened hard.
The scratching continued.
It came from the front door.
Morrison’s pulse quickened. He looked around him. There was no other door into the apartment.
The scratching continued.