Betrayal: A Red Dog Thriller (The Altered Book 2)

by Blou Bryant

  “Too bad,” agreed Wyatt. “So, no work?”

  “Nope. I come here for the free refills and free tables. Hope to make money at it someday.”

  “Hard to make a job of it, no?” asked Wyatt, dropped the seven and rolled the white to the middle, short of where he wanted to stick. “Damn,” he said.

  Nick pointed to the two, which was hidden behind his mass of balls. “If you drop the three in the side and tap the white, top right, you might pull yourself back up table. If you get the two from over here,” he said, “you could roll back up for your last three.”

  Wyatt looked at the table in doubt. What the heck, he thought, lined up the shot and sent the white rolling up table. The three dropped, but the white went wide and came back up the middle of and rolled into the mass of balls.

  “Here, can I show you?” asked Nick.

  Wyatt was competitive but was willing to learn. “As you said, no money on the table… go ahead.”

  His opponent fished the three out of the side pocket and put it back where it had been and moved the white. With minimal flourish, he tapped the white. The three dropped clean, and the white rolled to the far side, banked and came to rest on the other end of the table. Nick hit the last two balls in and ended up inches from the black, a clear line to the corner pocket. “Do you want to finish it?”

  “I’m not sure who won,” Wyatt laughed and chalked his cue. He leaned over the table, his right leg in the air, and easily dropped the black. “Good game,” he said.

  Nick put his hand out, “Good shooting,” he said. “You’re steady, I bet, with practice, you could be better than me. I lose it under pressure.”

  “Thanks, man,” said Wyatt as the two pulled the balls from the pockets and rolled them back to the other side. It was his turn, and he flipped them into the rack, even, odd, even, odd.

  As Nick got ready to break, two men in stained white painters clothing came into the restaurant and made a beeline for the back table. Wyatt heard them say, “Who’s Patterson?”

  Wyatt kept listening but watched as Nick broke. It was clean, but nothing dropped.

  “Damn,” said Nick. There were several balls close to pockets. Wyatt suspected it’d been his rack, not tight enough, but didn’t say anything. He put up his hand – just a second – and walked back to his friends, where the group was whispering, too quiet for him to hear.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Hannah pointed to the two new arrivals. “They say we need to put on painters’ outfits and take their truck.”

  “What? We?”

  “Yes, we, you and me.”

  Wyatt considered it for only a moment and nodded. “Where are the outfits?”

  “You’re going along with this?”

  Wyatt saw that each of the men was carrying a bag. Without asking, he took them and handed one to Hannah. He glanced back at the almost empty room. “Henry,” he shouted. “Lock up for a few minutes.” Henry looked to Custer, and at a nod from the owner, locked the restaurant up and lowered the lights.

  That was a good start, but Nick—the only customer—was starting at him. Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to get noticed. Certainly it hadn’t been to give his real name. Oh well, sometimes you screw up. “Nick, can you come here for a minute?”

  Patterson and Custer had looks on their face that said they figured he had lost it. “Don’t worry, gents,” he said, “I’ve got this.” Hannah wasn’t getting changed, so he gave her a small wink. “Trust me.”

  “Oh, why not, you’ve done crazier,” she said, shrugged, and pulled her outfit out of its plastic bag.

  As Nick walked over, Wyatt ripped his suit out of its sleeve and pulled it on, not bothering to take off his shoes. “Hey,” he said. “Do you have anywhere to be today?”

  With a laugh, his pool partner shook his head. “Free coffee refills, that’s why I’m here,” he said.

  “And pool, I remember. Look, I gotta be somewhere, do something.”

  “You’re a painter?” asked Nick. He appeared to be nice enough, but perhaps wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “I am today. Here’s the thing, we need to keep this sorta secret.”

  “What thing?”

  “That I’m going to leave here dressed as a painter.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” asked Wyatt.

  “Why dress like a painter?”

  “It’s a secret.” Wyatt reached under the white painters’ suit and pulled two cash cards out of his pocket and handed them to Nick. “Can you stay here for a couple hours? No calls, no texting, just play pool. Can you do that? I found em, don’t know how much is on them, but they’re yours if you stay here for the day. Food’s on the house.”

  Nick looked at the two cards, “Free food?” he asked.

  Patterson nodded. “Henry will take care of you. Go play pool, he’ll bring you something.”

  Nick hesitated, and glanced at the cards. With a shrug he said, “Crazy, but free is free. Thanks.” He returned to the pool table and his game.

  “These two guys will stay behind, right?” Wyatt said to the two others. He’d made some quick assumptions about why they’d showed up and where he was going. Being obsessive and overthinking everything had its occasional benefits.

  “That’s what we were told. Stay here for the day,” said the second one.

  “You’re being well paid for it?”

  “Well enough.”

  Wyatt pulled out another two cards and handed one to each of the guys. “Do we get your car?”

  “It’s a van, and yes,” said one, and handed Wyatt the keys. “Bring it back when done.”

  Patterson looked up, his eyes registering a sudden understanding, “Oh, it’s…”

  “Yes,” Wyatt replied, cutting the man off. He’d guessed it was Seymour when the two had arrived and headed for the back. Hannah was right, he was getting crazier, but when you lived in a crazy world, you began to expect it.

  “Ready, Hannah?” he asked. At her nod, he said to the others, “We’ll be back.”

  The pair left together, finding the van parked out front, its hazards on. They got in. “What now?” asked Hannah.

  Wyatt didn’t need to respond, it started up when they’d both buckled up. “I suppose we’ll find out,” he replied. The car traveled for only ten minutes, moving steadily through morning traffic. Self-driving cars followed each other closely, moving precisely, with only brief pauses for coordinated lights.

  After ten minutes of weaving through the city, the car pulled into the basement of one of the downtown towers and parked next to a loading bay.

  They got out and looked around. A security guard greeted them before they could decide where to go, and after a facial scan, they were bundled into a service elevator. It glided to the thirty-seventh floor, and the doors opened onto an opulent hall that looked out over the city. The marble floor gleamed, white and black squares alternating. The walls were covered in colorful post-modern art, framed by vases, sculptures on stands and exotic plants. The entire room was bright with light let in by floor to ceiling windows.

  “Nice,” said Hannah.

  Wyatt was about to reply when gunfire erupted from another room. He ducked, yelled “Don’t shoot,” and started to back out when he noticed Hannah was walking forward, smiling.

  “Come on in!” someone yelled.

  Hannah gave him a wave to come with her. “Don’t you recognize the sound of a BFG when you hear one?”

  The pair weaved their way around overstuffed couches and large end tables. They followed the sound of violence until they arrived in another large, open room. The far wall, the entire wall, was a TV, across whose screen figures ran across a pothole covered dystopian landscape. Wyatt recognized the game.

  A small, plump man sat cross-legged on a double stuffed red and purple couch that dwarfed him, a controller in his hand, intent on the screen. Wyatt glanced from the man to the TV and watched as a rocket flew towards them. The main
character on the screen dove left and the man on the couch leaned into a pile of pillows, echoing his avatar. The sound of an explosion behind them made Wyatt jump. Never had a sound system like that in any of our hideouts, he thought.

  “Hey there. Get a controller,” the man said with a nod at three spares on the table.

  Wyatt shook his head, no. “How about you tell us what’s going on.”

  “You’re going to die,” said the man, leaning forward, intent on the screen. Wyatt assumed he was referring to someone online. He hoped so, at least.

  Hannah picked up one of the controllers and sat down next to him. Wyatt had played her many times, and he felt bad for the small man. The screen switched to split mode. “No cheating,” she said.

  “Don’t frag me girl. Let’s work together.”

  “Answer my friend’s questions and I’ll work with, not against you.”

  “Seems fair,” he said and reset the game. He picked a shotgun as his weapon while Hannah selected a BFG.

  “Ouch.”

  Wyatt sat down in a huge carved wooden chair with a thick cushion, positioned so he could better see the man. “Who are you? Are you Seymour?”

  “I am.”

  “Why are we here?” A bell announced the start of the match, which started in a desert. Wyatt looked to his right and watched as the avatars took off at a run. He’d played a lot online over the years, especially when he was locked away, and not allowed out. “Take the hill,” he said.

  “Smart,” said Seymour. “Already on my way. Where’s Hannah going, that’s the question.” His avatar ducked behind some barrels and turned left and right, scouting the territory. “And you’re here because I wanted you here. You were looking into stuff that could get you—and me—into a lot of trouble.”

  Hannah’s avatar switched from Bazooka to a small pistol. A shot rang out, glancing off the barrels next to Seymour. “Don’t play coy, gamer boy.”

  “That was you?” he asked.

  She switched back to the BFG. “Next one is a much bigger bullet.”

  Seymour giggled, leaning back into the couch. His hair was long, unruly, and his clothing looked like he shopped in a vintage thrift store.

  Wyatt asked, “Why did you want us here? What do you mean, get into trouble? We’re always in trouble.”

  “Not according to the system, you’re not,” said Seymour. “Sec…” he trailed off and focused intently on the screen. Wyatt turned and watched as he edged around a corner, switched his character’s weapon to a garrote, and surprised another character from behind. The room filled with the sound of choking, accompanied by background explosions.

  “Nice,” said Hannah.

  “Thanks. See, you’re interesting, ‘cause you’ve not been in the system for the last few years. Everybody—well, almost everybody—is in the system. You two blew up a lot of stuff and then you were erased. Professional job, too.”

  “What does that have to do with us wanting information about a couple drug dealers?”

  “Wait…” said Seymour, edging around a pile of rocks.

  Hannah fired a rocket at him. His character exploded and body parts flew in all directions. A deep voice intoned, “You’re DEAD.”

  “Bitch!” said Seymour.

  “Yes, I am, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” replied Hannah with an evil grin. “Don’t mess with me.” She queued the game up again. “Go again, but make sure you answer the questions.”

  This time, he picked a sniper rifle. “Your history is what made me consider helping you. That, plus your attempt to guilt me into it worked.” The game started, and the two took off at a race. “Go left, I’ll cover you,” he said.

  Wyatt watched as Seymour took a position on top of an abandoned oil tanker, with Hannah visible through his scope. “So, help us. We need to know who the guys are, why all the mystery, why make us put on the painters’ outfits?”

  Seymour aimed at an opponent who was sneaking behind Hannah and killed him with one shot. “Because they’ve got a powerful protector. There’s a spider that’s tracking anyone who tries to track them. When you searched for them using my app, the code warned me and shut you down before we could get caught. I needed to see you, but didn’t want you followed.”

  “How’d someone get a spider in your system? What’s a spider? And for that, what is your system?”

  Hannah interrupted, “Can you see over the hill? Is it clear? I wanna make a run for the river.”

  Dumbfounded that she’d prioritize playing a game over their mission, Wyatt stood in front of the wall TV. “You’re kidding me, come on.”

  “Out of the way,” she yelled, twisting in her seat to be able to see the screen. “Learn to multi-task. Seymour, answer the question so he’ll let us play.”

  The other man laughed out loud and said, “I like you. Yes, it’s clear, go, go!”

  Wyatt threw his hands in the air and sat back down.

  His eyes on the screen, Seymour said, “My system is a bit of code that gets information from other systems. The System is the industry that tracks everything you, me—everyone—does every day.”

  Hannah shouted, interrupting the conversation. She’d ran under a bridge and found two other players hiding there. Their guns were at the ready and she went down fast, fake blood splattering the screen. “Damn,” she said.

  A message popped up on the screen from one of the killers, “Loser, lick my ass.”

  Hannah sighed. “Online multi-person gaming would be much more fun without the multi persons.” She put down the controller. “Okay, how about some answers?”

  Seymour clicked twice on his controller and the game disappeared, replaced by an internet browser. “That’s enough,” he said. “I wanted to see you play, thank you.”

  “Why?”

  “I know more people online than I know in real life. You can learn a lot about a person by how they game.”

  “And?”

  “And I trust her, but you, I’m not one hundred percent sure about, but yup, I like her.”

  Wyatt grunted. “Everyone likes her.”

  Hannah leaned back on the couch, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Play him, but don’t expect much, he ain’t as good as me though.”

  “Time’s short, another day. You two wanted to know who you’re up against,” he said, leaned across the mountain of cushions and took a wireless keyboard off a side table. “I checked out the images you searched and none of them have a profile. They’re like you, they’ve been deleted.”

  “What’s a profile?” asked Wyatt. “Like in a police database?”

  Seymour shook his head. “Nothing like that. The police have rules they have to follow about what information they keep. There are laws, there’s the Constitution. None of that applies to private companies.”

  He typed in some letters and the screen changed to a picture of a pretty middle-aged woman. The name ‘Rebecca Chambers’ appeared underneath. Two clicks and a stream of data flowed on the right side of the screen. “She’s in New York today. Had lunch a few minutes ago with three friends after she took a cab there from her hotel.”

  Wyatt wasn’t impressed. “That’s all easy enough to find out. You hacked her credit card.”

  “Let me finish. Actually, only two are friends, she really hates the third. She’s having an affair with her husband’s boss and will be spending the evening with him. Oh, ouch, she’s got a tumor and is being treated by an underground DNA therapist.”

  Now Wyatt was impressed. “How’d you do that? How do you know that?”

  “With enough money, anyone can get this. All you need is to run algorithms that check for patterns in publicly available information. And none of it required a hack. All this data is for sale.”

  “What sort of details—how’d you figure all that out?” asked Hannah.

  “Who she ate with came from a cross-reference of various databases. First, people she’s connected to on social media and their use of credit cards, second, the online
reservation book at the restaurant and finally cab registrations. That’s accurate to within one thousandth of a percentage. If I wanted to be 100%, I could use photos taken by people in the restaurant, publicly available ones—no hacking needed—to confirm it.”

  “And the affair?”

  “Data point one, she and her lover were connected through the husband. Point two, their cars were tagged on a regular basis at the same hotels and restaurants.” Seymour clicked twice. “And data points three through eight, the lover made purchases of wine, flowers and… oh my, some unmentionables online… before the hotel visits.”

  Hannah stood up and walked to the wall, where she pointed at some of the scrolling information on the right of the woman’s picture. “Purchases there, and there. Oh, she bought naughty stuff too. But it could have been for her husband.”

  “Could have, true. That’s why we use a lot of data points. Have you ever heard that there are no coincidences?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, that’s wrong. In fact, it’s really stupid. There are tons of them and they happen all the time, non-stop. You meet someone with your birthday or your name, or you run into someone you were thinking of, who you’ve not seen in years. This happens all the time, the only difference between a coincidence and the thousands of non-coincidences we have every week is that we notice them. We’re surprised by them. The algorithms aren’t surprised, they look for them, and once they find enough of them, they tag them.”

  “What about the tumor?

  “That’s easy. Her medical records are online as are her internet searches for treatments and her scheduled appointments with the therapist.”

  “All that’s online?” said Hannah.

  “What isn’t online? Your searches are, your comments, your purchases… everything you’ve ever done is tagged and stored somewhere online, and for a few dollars, anyone can get access to it. Social networks sell your information as do your banks and the stores you shop at. It’s all gathered by big data companies and can be mined for patterns. Even where you drive is recorded—by your car, by your phone GPS, and by cameras that private companies have established throughout the country. That’s how I can find out so much about Rebecca, how I knew she was away today and how I knew how to get into her apartment.”