The Gates of Hell

by Chris Kennedy

  The last entry in her door records had been yesterday, and as it seemed unlikely they’d be back for a couple more days, I broke into her apartment.

  It had all the things a twenty-something waitress might have.

  Except laundry. Except half-empty containers of things that would spoil. Except trash. Except dirty dishes, either in the sink or sitting next to the couch in front of her Tri-V. I looked at her Tri-V’s viewing history and found nothing in the last two years, though previously she had watched every reality show.

  The assholes behind Gregg’s betrayal had nested family blackmails to hide their tracks. I bet they’d fed Maria’s body to some alligators at about the same time as Vincent’s aircar dove straight into the ground. Unfortunately I didn’t find any clue to the assholes behind it. Their method had the virtue, so to speak, of avoiding most financial trails.

  I looked for other electronic devices and found none. No pad. No comm. No gaming system. Not even any photo displays like at Vincent’s. Nor did I find any physical media. I went through the apartment with deliberate attention to detail.

  It was as sterile as an operating theater.

  I turned to the door, and that’s when I found something. Or rather, it found me.

  I almost didn’t realize the door had started to open, so smoothly did the man behind it bust in. However, that same smoothness warned me.

  I reached for my GP-90 and stepped to the side.

  The man slid into the apartment, feet moving in the precise manner of a trained operator. He had sharp, dark eyes, a grim smile, and his own GP-90 already aiming at me.

  So fast!

  I ducked out of his shot. The low-energy flechettes, designed to avoid penetrating the walls, flickered past me. One sliced through my sleeve and along my shoulder. They thunked into the drywall behind me.

  Another set slid past. And another.

  I couldn’t get a shot, so I kept moving away and went around a corner. Another splash of flechettes followed me.

  When he couldn’t see me, I jumped back to the corner just as his GP-90 poked around the door. I smacked it out of his hand, sending another round of flechettes skittering off the floor.

  He launched a spinning kick almost faster than I could see.

  Almost.

  But my own training kicked in, and before I knew it, my GP-90 barked. The 10mm round ripped up through his center of mass, tumbling through the wall, and somewhere off into the complex’s courtyard.

  Time to go.

  I checked the guy quickly for any devices or ID. Nothing, of course. I snapped a picture of his face and grabbed his GP-90 in case I could find someone to do ballistic tests. After making sure I hadn’t left anything useful, I walked out of the apartment and to the rental.

  I drove away just above the speed limit, eyes half on the road and half on the sweeper watching for any pursuit. I drove to the first hotel I could find and caught a cab to a completely different rental car place.

  In another city, a wound on my shoulder might have mattered. Not in Orlando, where tourists got mugged every day. Within minutes, I had another aircar and was on the way back to Houston, having altered my transaction records so anyone trying to follow me would be looking for a different car.

  I dropped the aircar off at the rental company in Houston, altering those records, too, and then hailed a cab. The cabbie looked at my shoulder, but shrugged when I asked to go to the Den. Not the first bloody trooper to wash up on these shores.

  * * *

  I slid the GP-90 over to Lyons as he gave me a Ragnar’s.

  “And what’s this?” he asked, glancing at the blood on my sleeve.

  I described what I’d discovered so far.

  He nodded and slid it under the bar. “Go up to the room and take a shower. I’ll send up a shirt and some good news.”

  “I can use both.”

  The shower was delightful, the shirt an awful Hawaiian print, and the Ragnar’s in the room’s mini-fridge all I could hope for. I had just kicked back in the comfy chair when someone knocked on the door.

  I palmed my GP-90. “Come in.”

  A cute-as-a-button face peeked in. “Mr. Lyons said I should—”

  “Heidi!” I jumped out of the chair. “Please, come in!”

  “Mr. Blaine?” She ran into my arms and started sobbing. “Oh, Mr. Blaine, Mr. Bullitt’s dead!”

  “I know. I’ll miss him.”

  We spent the next few minutes catching up. I listened intently to her description of the explosion, but heard nothing I hadn’t expected.

  “Heidi, I’m not Bullitt. For that matter, I’m not really Mr. Blaine. Anyway, I’m going to find out what happened to him. I got work to do while I investigate, though, and I could use your help.”

  She shrugged. “I’d like to help, but—”

  “This will be proper employment. I’d like to hire you as part of the African Queen’s crew.”

  “The African Queen?”

  “Yes. I’m her majority owner now, and Captain Allnut—errr…Captain Barkley is one of my employees.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Bullitt left me some gifts, including the money to afford her and its crew.”

  “What would I do?”

  “What you did before. You’re one of the best hackers I’ve ever seen, and I’m going to need help.”

  She sighed. “It’s all so effing much.”

  “I bet you’ve said ‘holy effing poop’ more than a few times.”

  She giggled and lowered her eyes. “Well, yes.”

  “Would you say that if I offered twice what Bullitt payed you?”

  “Holy effing poop, Mr. Blaine.” She smiled sadly. “But you don’t have to. I’m going to say yes. I liked Mr. Bullitt.”

  “Total bastard, but I liked him, too. I’m not going to let them get away with blowing him up.”

  “Good.”

  “But for now, we have other work to do. You see, I have a new boss, too.” I showed her my new UACC.

  “A Peacemaker? Holy effing poop!”

  “I know!” I laughed. “Anyway, I want you to go up to the African Queen and look through a bunch of money trails.”

  “Uhhh…I’ve never really done much of that.”

  “Mostly you’ll be making sure you’re hacking into the right accounts and overseeing some of Bullitt’s programs.”

  She looked at me dubiously. “I guess…”

  “You’ll love it. Besides, these’ll be useful skills for you. First, let’s start with the blockchain concept.”

  “OK.”

  “These list transactions of a bunch of accounts into one ledger, thereby obscuring which account does which. I need you to use Bullitt’s blockchain separation program to pull out the various accounts. Then you’ll track those accounts, which may very well lead to another blockchain, or tumblers, but you’re to keep going until you’ve separated as many accounts as you can.”

  “Tumblers?”

  “Yeah, an old scheme from the early days. It’s an account that takes in credits from a number of accounts, jumbles that money all together, and then uses it for whatever they want. It’s useful as hell for money laundering. Bullitt had another program for those. Basically, his programs sift through huge amounts of data and, bit by bit, come up with connections.”

  Heidi sniffed and wiped her eyes. “He spent a weekend teaching me about tweaking algorithms. I thought I knew things, but holy effing poop, he was smart.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you want me to look for?”

  “I have a file of notes on the system up on the African Queen listing all the bank accounts I’ve seen so far. You’ll be looking for any connection to those accounts. All the details you can find.”

  “OK.”

  I smiled. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here, Heidi.”

  A tear went down her cheek. “I’m glad you found me, Mr. Blaine. I didn’t really know what I was going to do after…I mean, I had plent
y of money. We all did after Bullitt left us some. But…”

  “But you had to do something.”

  “Yes, Mr. Blaine.”

  “We got stuff to do, my dear. Lots of stuff. I’ll be bringing you donuts for years.”

  She giggled. “With sprinkles.”

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  After getting Heidi sent up to the African Queen, along with an update of new data to my notes file, I slid into my spot at the bar. “Thanks for finding her, Lyons.”

  “No problem. She was the easy one. I haven’t found anything yet about that Zuparti you asked about. I did track down the financials of all the bastards who attacked those Foresters here. I didn’t see any connection to a Zuparti or any offworlder, though I bet you’ll have better luck.”

  “I’ll add those accounts to the ones I’m having Heidi run through.”

  “More of Bullitt’s legendary programs?”

  “He really was a genius, and he knew how to make stock markets do his bidding.” I sighed. “Anyway, find anything new about Gregg or his mom?”

  “Not yet, though I’ll keep checking. As for the GP-90, it’ll take a week or two for me to get anything.”

  “You won’t find anything.”

  Lyons grimaced. “Not the way they’ve locked this whole thing down.”

  “Still gotta check.”

  “Yeah.”

  I projected a picture of the shooter. “Recognize him?”

  Lyons’ eyes narrowed. “Not off the top of my head.”

  “He had training. Moved too well to be just a thug.”

  “I can ask around.”

  “Thanks.” I sent him a copy of the photo.

  “Where are you off to now?” he asked.

  “I’ve been going after the way they controlled Gregg, but now that they’ve eliminated the Sasakis, I think that trail is cold. I think it’s time to see if I can find anything up at Owen Sound. I can still claim I’m working for Elite, after all.”

  “Yeah, that part of the company is still working, though there’s been some confusion from what I hear.”

  “I’m not surprised. It was always a legitimate business, after all.” I finished the Ragnar’s and stood up.

  “Keep your powder dry.”

  “Will do.” By dinnertime I was hailing a cab at Pearson Airport, still designated YYZ. I checked into the nearest Marrilton, pleased to find my corporate card still worked. I barely had the presence of mind to push all the locks and set up my sweeper’s alarm programs before falling asleep.

  I woke up the next morning far more refreshed than I had any reason to feel. I stopped by a Tim Horton’s on the way over to the Forester House at Jarvis and Carlton. I dropped the box of TimBits on Corporal Stanley’s desk.

  He seemed very happy to see me. Too happy.

  “Mr. Blaine!” He leaned around the corner. “Master Warrant Russell, Mr. Blaine is out here.”

  “Send him in!”

  I shut the door as I walked in. Master Warrant Officer Graham Russell was standing up, offering his hand. “You’re alive!”

  “Of course.” I looked at him with hard eyes. “I apologize for the delay in getting back to you. My schedule’s been crazy of late, but I should have checked in sooner.”

  He shut his mouth, nodded, and waved at the seat. I sat down and started my anti-snooping programs. I asked him questions about the training software we’d sold him until my sweeper told me we were in the clear.

  “You heard my company had an incident?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He grimaced. “I’ve been helping Lieutenant Fournette with intel work, and I found out what I could.”

  I leaned forward. “Who have you told?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Just the officer staff.”

  I grimaced. “So, everyone knows.”

  He opened his mouth and then shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

  “Well, what’s done is done.”

  “Why are you worried?” he asked.

  “I’m an intel specialist. I don’t want anyone to know anything.”

  He smiled briefly. “What happened?”

  “My boss always had enemies. It’s part of the business.”

  “Now what?”

  “Elite will continue to work for you.”

  “I meant for you.”

  “I’m going to keep helping Edmonds as much as I can.”

  “Good. We need it. That victory on Maquon,” his lips twisted, “may break this regiment.”

  “If anyone can keep it together, it’ll be Edmonds.”

  “Yes, sir! Tenacious and versatile!”

  “Good qualities to have these days.”

  “Yes.” He stared at me for a long moment. “What do you want?”

  “I was just thinking about what I should tell you.”

  “Everything, of course.” He smiled without humor. “But you won’t.”

  “I don’t even tell Lyons everything.”

  “So what can you tell me?”

  “The people going after the Foresters aren’t done.”

  “I already figured that.”

  I pursed my lips. Then I got up. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “You think someone’s betraying the unit.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You’re tap-dancing around things, trying not to tell me anything while clearly being worried about what I told people about you.” He shook his head. “I’m not the best intel guy that’s ever walked, but I’m not dumb.”

  “No, you’re not.” I paused. “You remember Cox?”

  “Corporal Bag O’Dicks? Yeah. I’m still surprised he jumped in front of that rocket for the Cochkala.”

  “I’m not. He was actually working for the Peacemakers.”

  “What?” Russell’s jaw dropped. He tried to say something, but shook his head. Tried again. Then he said, “I’m not sure if I’m glad he wasn’t really that much of an asshole, or I feel betrayed he spied on us for the Peacemakers.”

  “I’d go with the first choice. That’s why your Cochkala’s still alive.”

  “I guess.” Russell shook his head and grimaced. Then his eyes sharpened and looked at me. “There are more spies, aren’t there?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Cox, whatever else, did his job and died saving another trooper. We wouldn’t go ass over teakettle about that even if his connections to the Peacemakers became common knowledge. But someone set us up on Peninnah and here on the Bruce, and we want that asshole.”

  “I’m going to tell you a story, Master Warrant Officer.”

  “I hate stories,” he growled.

  “It starts with a girl—probably not smart, but not a bad girl. She had a brother. That brother was a good man. He made helping people his career, and he was good at it. However, one of his patients had a relative someone wanted to control. I think that someone kidnapped the sister and used her brother to gain control of that relative.”

  “My troopers would never let that happen!”

  “What would you do if someone held a gun to your mother’s head?”

  “I—” He shut his mouth. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s really why I don’t want to tell you. I need to be around the Foresters to figure out the exact chain and see if I can flip it around.”

  “And then we cashier the bastard.”

  “Oh, no, Master Warrant Officer. I think Kukuluki the Zuparti is behind it all. If I can turn this source, we have a chance to hammer that fucking rat by feeding misinformation through it.”

  “That isn’t my way, Blaine.”

  “Would you throw away a weapon?”

  “One I couldn’t trust, yeah.”

  “Trust is its own weapon.”

  “Look, Mr. Blaine. Whoever it is, my regiment’s been hammered. I’m not going to let them get away with it.”

  “I doubt they’ll ever think that.” I sighed. “Let me put it this way. Y
ou can always cashier someone, but you don’t always get a chance to trap the other guy.”

  He grimaced. “Very well, what do you need?”

  “Nothing really, just authorization to check into the performance of our software and training systems. That’ll give me all the reason I need to roam around Owen Sound.”

  He sighed, but punched something into his system, then reached around his desk to get the pass card. He tapped it on the desk a couple of times, but eventually handed it to me. “You could probably have hacked into the system and done this yourself.”

  “I expect so, but it’s better this way.” I smiled. “Is Captain Gregg still in charge of the sims?”

  “Yes.”

  “Might as well start there. Can you schedule an appointment?”

  He punched something into his computer. “Done. Do you need anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ll get with Gregg and go from there.”

  He sighed again. “I trust you, Blaine, but don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t.”

  As I was leaving, my message icon pinged. Heidi already had an update for me. I went back to the Marrilton and spent the evening reviewing her data.

  She hadn’t discovered many new accounts, but she’d gone through all we had with a much finer-toothed comb than I’d had time for. Her list included far more data on each, including biometric data and passwords.

  Most had intelligible passwords, presumably because most people who used accounts designed to hide money trails didn’t want to record passwords in any way.

  It’s amazing how many criminals use passwords like “Password123.”

  Most, however, had combinations someone could remember, but were still difficult to guess. “Casablanca=GeorgieIII=11111885” caught my eye. Apparently Bullitt wasn’t the only one who used old movies to help hide things.

  I snorted. For that matter, there’s nothing to say Bullitt didn’t set up that file himself.

  I spent several hours correlating the data, sorting it in different ways, and looking for connections. Boring work, but I didn’t have much else to do at the moment, and you never know. All I managed to achieve was to give myself nightmares where strange alphanumeric strings kept making strafing runs at my head.

  * * *