“Very funny.” McClane didn’t always appreciate Sam’s sense of humor. “Actually, somebody walked off from Langston Marlin’s Fort Worth facility with a half-ton beam director.”
“Beam director? As in, the business end of a laser?”
McClane nodded. “Or other directed-energy weapon, yes.”
“Like the kind you could use to fry a satellite?”
“Precisely.”
Dan looked at Sam. “I hear Texas is nice this time of year.”
“But how do we get there? Payment systems are all down.”
“I’ll leave those kinds of details to you two experts,” McClane said.
“That’s bureaucrat for ‘I don’t know what the hell to do, either,’” Sam said.
McClane smiled. “You saw right through me.”
8
Washington, DC
Sam drove south into the growing darkness. She had taken a government vehicle from the DHS motor pool and filled it with gas at the vehicle farm. The gas pumps provided for official government use didn’t require a payment method, because the government had already bought the gas. The pumps just required a key fob, which Sam checked out along with the keys. As long as she could continue hopping between federal installations, she’d be fine.
Running out of gas could be more than a little inconvenient, she reckoned. She had the feeling from her conversation with McClane that the payment problem wasn’t going to sort itself out for a long, long time. Bet we just end up scrapping the whole thing and starting over, she thought.
On second thought, maybe not. She figured there would be significant pressure from the people at the top of the current system to restore it to its former state. They’d probably prefer not to start all over again with zero dollars on the ledger, since they’d had billions just a day ago. I’d probably feel the same way.
She patted the pancake holster and her trusty Kimber .45. She loved that gun. Indirectly, it had saved Brock’s life a day earlier. More like twelve hours ago, she realized, looking at her watch. It had been one hell of a weekend. And the week wasn’t shaping up too well, either.
She checked the hastily-packed duffel bag she’d thrown together before leaving home. Six full clips of ammo, plus a .40 FNX backup weapon and more ammunition.
Sam had the feeling they would come in handy. When people lacked important things like food, water, and gas, they tended toward violence. She was pretty sure her Homeland badge would give any would-be opportunists pause, but she was even more sure that her Zombie Killer hollow-point ammunition would encourage circumspection.
Six gallons of water slid around on the passenger side floorboard, and a backpack full of freeze-dried food made her among the most self-sufficient humans on the continent at the moment. Six days, if she was smart about it. After that, all bets were off.
It better not last that long, she thought to herself. She’d barely had time to become carnally reacquainted with Brock after his harrowing kidnapping had ended. Two days. That’s it. After that, come hell or high water, I’m going home to ride that magnificent meat stick of his. The world could save itself. Or not. She didn’t really care either way, she told herself, though she knew it was a lie.
Traffic snarled in the usual place, just a few miles south of DC, where I-95 necked down from four lanes to three. It was one of Sam’s least favorite spots on the planet.
But it was worse today than she’d ever seen it. Some drivers had been smart enough to pull their cars over to the shoulder, or even onto the grass beside the shoulder, before their tanks ran empty.
Other drivers, the maddeningly stupid ones, had simply sat in traffic and run out of gas. The only way around the stalled cars was to weave between them, an infuriating exercise that required her to drive everywhere between the shoulder and the median, picking her way past loitering motorists, who were wandering around while they awaited help that Sam was certain wasn’t coming.
People gravitated toward her car as she drove past. These people think I’m going to whisk them away to safety, she realized. I knew better than to take an official-looking car. She locked the doors, turned on the emergency lights, put on her sunglasses, and didn’t make eye contact with anyone as she drove past.
This is going to get extremely ugly, she realized. It was only a matter of time before people started knifing each other over candy bars, and shooting each other over siphon hoses to steal gas from parked cars. Guess we’ll see exactly how First-World we are, won’t we?
It took just over an hour to cover the next three miles to the Triangle exit. As she drove past the overpass, she saw the exit ramp on both sides completely packed with cars. The surface street was a parking lot, and lines of stagnant cars all seemed to originate at one of the three gas stations within view from the interstate. Figures. Live by car, die by car.
She drove past a stalled food truck, its driver throwing packages out to a crowd of stranded motorists. Sam applauded the philanthropic gesture, but then she realized it was probably entirely pragmatic. Wouldn’t do any good for the food to rot on the truck, and the driver probably just wanted to unload it all before it started stinking to high heaven.
After the Triangle exit, the southbound lanes opened up considerably, and she started making better time.
She turned on the radio for company. “Fed Chairman Arnold Goldblum today denied reports that the nation’s money supply is in jeopardy,” the reporter said.
The newscast cut to Goldblum’s familiar, patronizing voice. “The fundamentals of our economy and our monetary system are no different today than they were yesterday,” he said in patrician tones. “The dollar remains fully supported and backed by the full faith and credit of the United States government, and the United States economy. Rest assured, we will quickly put this anomalous event behind us, and our systems will soon return to their normal, smooth operation.”
Somebody should show him a picture of I-95.
“Other reports are not quite as optimistic,” the reporter said.
A man’s voice came on, pitch elevated, speaking in quick, clipped New York sentences: “There’s no communication between banks, and nobody knows what anybody’s account balances are. It’s not like the money got stolen, or misplaced someplace. That money is just gone. It simply ceased to exist.”
It’s going to be a long week, Sam thought.
9
Near Ardmore, Oklahoma
Stalwart walked slowly into the brick rest stop building, Jimbo’s shotgun pressed into the small of his back. Fat, slovenly, smelly Jimbo appeared to be the second-in-command behind Clem, the policeman-turned-highwayman. Stalwart wasn’t sure where the kid with the rat’s face, who flanked the procession and giggled occasionally when nothing was funny, fit in the pecking order. Village idiot maybe. Or the community fluffer.
“Shoes off,” Jimbo commanded.
“If it’s all the same, I’ll keep them on,” Stalwart said.
Rat Face’s rifle butt caught him in the ribs. He doubled over in pain.
“It ain’t. Shoes off. And your shirt.”
Stalwart knew from his Air Force training that the best chance of escape was during capture. Once they locked you up, your odds decreased dramatically. From the Great War on, the vast majority of hostages and prisoners of war who got thrown into a concentration camp either died in captivity or had to await the cavalry. From the sound of things, Stalwart didn’t think the cavalry was coming – especially with a cop at the top of the vagabond pecking order.
He stayed doubled over longer than necessary, feigning pain even after the pain had subsided, using the time to assess the situation, evaluate alternatives, calculate his odds.
Pretty shitty odds.
There were two shotguns and a pistol trained on him. He wasn’t a ninja.
He took his shoes off, then his shirt. Rat Face snatched the shirt, held it up, produced a lighter, and set it aflame. Not a good sign. The kid then disappeared outside with Stalwart’s shoes in one hand and burn
ing shirt in the other.
Stalwart heard two loud shotgun reports, interspersed with a feral cackle. Rat Face returned to the building holding the remnants of Stalwart’s shoes, the fine leather shredded by buck shot. Stalwart felt his spirits sagging. Doesn’t look like it’s going to be a short stay. “What do you want from me?” he asked.
Jimbo smiled a wicked, dirty smile by way of reply.
“You’ve already taken the car. Let me go.”
“Nah.” Jimbo spat on the floor. “Reckon we’ll keep y’all a spell.”
“Why?”
Another blow to the ribs from Rat Face. And more cackling. As he recovered from the strike, Stalwart noticed a set of double doors in front of him, secured by a chain wrapped through both handles.
As he stood back up, he watched Jimbo produce a key from the front pocket of his overalls, unlock the padlock, and unwrap the chain from around the door handle.
“Yer new home,” Jimbo said, opening the door. “Play nice with yer new friends.”
The stench hit him first. The chamber was full of people, shirtless and shoeless, sweating in unventilated semi-darkness. Their heads turned as one to look at him.
A hard shove in the small of his back vaulted him into the room. He stumbled over a small child seated on the hard tile floor. The door slammed shut behind him, and he heard the chain snake its way through the handles on the other side.
As he surveyed the room full of people, he couldn’t help but wonder whether he had just experienced the iron fist of instant karma.
10
Seattle, Washington
Sabot had missed his lunch date. The time had come and gone in a flash, and he was oblivious to its passing until it was too late.
Angie would be pissed. Probably mad enough to freeze him out for a couple of nights, whip him real good by denying that sweet thang of hers, get him running back to her on his best behavior.
He didn’t mind. He was sitting at a computer for the first time in years. He was back. No Bureau overlords breathing down his neck. At least none that he knew of.
Satoshi. It was a weird name, kind of a random thing to have to search for. It was linked to someone called Satoshi Nakamoto.
Wikipedia:
Satoshi Nakamoto (中本 哲史 Nakamoto Satoshi) is a person or group of people who created the Bitcoin protocol and reference software, Bitcoin Core. In 2008, Nakamoto published a paper on The Cryptography Mailing list describing the Bitcoin digital currency. In 2009, he released the first Bitcoin software that launched the network and the first units of the Bitcoin currency, called bitcoins.
Nakamoto is said to have continued to contribute to his Bitcoin software release with other developers until contact with his team and the community gradually began to fade in mid-2010. Around this same time, he handed over control of the Bitcoin.org domain and several other domains to various prominent members of the Bitcoin community.
Nakamoto is believed to be in possession of roughly one million bitcoins. At one point in December 2013, this was the equivalent of US$ 1.1 billion. Nakamoto's true identity remains unknown, and has been the subject of much speculation. It is not known whether the name "Satoshi Nakamoto" is real or a pseudonym, or whether the name represents one person or a group of people.
Sabot read the passage again. He’d read about Bitcoin before, ironically in a newspaper article, but his exile from all things digital had prevented him from learning much more about it.
A billion freakin’ Georges, man. That was a lot of money. With a sum that large, a vato could completely rearrange his life. Might even be able to slip away from the FBI. Get a little place on a little island, maybe. And a big goddamned boat. Maybe then Angie wouldn’t be afraid to settle down with him, squeeze out a niño or two.
All I gotta do is invent some new money, then hoard it like crazy. He chuckled. Sabot had no idea why they’d asked him to look up Satoshi and his crazy crypto coin, but he’d wasted enough time on it. It was time for some fun. Sabot’s back, baby.
Fingers trembling and heart pounding, he started to type in the address to an exceptionally obscure site whose complicated web address he could still recite in his sleep.
He had but a few characters left to type when the computer dinged and an instant message window popped open. Someone named Balzzack011 had somehow sent him a message: “The dollar is worthless now. Suddenly everyone’s a libertarian.”
Sabot had no idea what that might have meant. Something to do with politics, which he couldn’t care less about. As a felon, he wasn’t even allowed to vote.
“??” he typed. He noticed that the instant messaging program automatically listed his name as Sabot. That was a problem he’d have to fix immediately, if not sooner. Anonymity was everything. The internet was no place to be yourself. He’d learned that the hard way.
“12,769,500 Bitcoins in circulation,” Balzzack011 replied. “I want ten percent of them by the weekend.”
Sabot shook his head. I knew it. Entrapment. “Get them yourself.”
“Not open for discussion.”
Sabot fumed. “Not going down for theft.”
“Then you’re going down for parole violation.”
“No way. I’m legit. Special Agent Adkins’ orders.”
“Who? Is he the one who launched that DDoS from your computer this morning?”
Sabot’s heart lurched. Distributed denial of service attacks were felony offenses. Of the ninety years of jail time still hanging over his head, sixty-five of them were for orchestrating and engineering DDoS attacks.
“Go to hell, man,” he pounded. “I’m clean.”
The reply came quickly “Fingerprints say you slammed a credit card company. I hear they get pissed when their transactions don’t go through. They like to press charges.”
Sabot sat, shaking his head, clenching his jaw.
The phone rang again.
Adkins again.
Sabot laid into him.
“You finished?” Adkins asked when Sabot paused for breath.
“Damn right I am. I’m walking. Right now. This is over.”
“Calm down, Sabot. I don’t know all of the details, but this is absolutely legitimate. It comes from extremely high up. They just called me again, and told me you were having some trouble coming to grips with things. They asked if I could maybe help you understand their bona fides.”
“Bone what?”
“They also wanted me to tell you something. They said to tell you that you should think of Miguel, how happy he was when he got the Subaru running again. They said you would understand.”
Loud and clear. Owned again.
“Who are these people?” Sabot asked.
“I don’t know,” Adkins said. “And I sure as hell am not going to ask. But the Deputy Director is the one who gave me the message, if that helps.”
Another fine predicament you’ve managed to land yourself in.
Sabot hung up.
He sat back down at the computer. It dinged. Balzzack011: “Attitude adjusted?”
“Hardly,” Sabot typed. “WIIFM?” What’s in it for me?
“LOL,” Balzzack011 typed. “You liked prison?”
“Who are you?”
“An employee. Just like you.”
Sabot fumed.
The computer dinged again. “You get 0.5% of assets collected.”
Sabot snorted. Didn’t seem like too much upside, given all of the risk.
“If you’re not anxious to get to work, you’re obviously not doing the math right,” Balzzack011’s next message said. “Show of good faith: Click on the ‘wallet’ icon.”
Sabot looked at the computer’s desktop and found a Bitcoin Wallet application. He opened it. “Synchronizing with the network,” it announced. Twelve small transactions registered.
He stared at the strange nomenclature, then cross-referenced one of the Bitcoin websites he’d found earlier, struggling to decipher the meaning of the ledger transactions.
�
��You just sent me 10 BTC?” he typed to Balzzack011.
“You’re welcome.”
Sabot huffed. He thought he might be able to buy a beer with ten Bitcoin, but little else. He googled the exchange rate to be sure.
The exchange rate chart looked strange. Either the figures were wrong, or something crazy was happening.
If the chart was right, you could have bought one Bitcoin yesterday for a hundred bucks.
But today, one Bitcoin cost two thousand.
And climbing.
Sabot whistled. They just threw twenty large at me? A compelling show of faith, he reckoned. He’d never seen that much money at once.
He picked up the wall phone and dialed Angie’s number. Voicemail. “Sorry, babe, but something’s come up at work. Something big. Don’t worry. And please don’t wait up.”
11
Lost Man Lake Ranch, Colorado
All was silence. There were no generators humming, no forced-air climate control systems blowing, and no voices. Archive, Protégé, and Allison sat on the balcony off of the lodge’s exquisite dining room, enjoying an evening constitutional. The cool mountain air was well on its way to frosty, and the timberline breeze had the beginnings of a nasty bite.
“Helluva place to pick for a cult camp,” Protégé joked.
Archive chuckled, exhaled a ring of smoke from a cigar rolled on the thighs of virgins somewhere in the Third World, and patted Protégé on the leg with an affectionate, avuncular air. “Kool Aid service begins at nine sharp.”
Theirs was a somewhat unlikely friendship. Archive was a multi-time winner in the tycoon games, captaining giant banking and business empires. His wasn’t nearly as flashy or public a persona as some of his contemporaries and friends, but Archive was significantly more accomplished than all but the world’s richest men.
To the extent that a billionaire could grow disillusioned, Archive had. Rather than buying a few dozen politicians to legislate higher margins for his various enterprises, as was the norm in his tax bracket, Archive and a few like-minded pals had decided the whole oligarchical system had to go.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 146