“Picking up my mail. Box ninety-four.” He raised his voice to snap her out of her trance.
“Lemme check,” she said, still typing.
He wasn’t expecting her to respond this fast, considering the multiple distractions already draining what he had assumed was a microscopic attention span.
Still typing and sucked in her phone, she disappeared into the sorting room in the back, then returned a few minutes later with a FedEx envelope.
“ID?”
He flicked open his wallet to show a fake California license.
“Cool. Just your autograph here.” Before he had finished the last stroke, she was fully immersed in her digital worship once again. He could have signed Osama Bin Laden and it wouldn’t have registered.
Back in the car he tore open the FedEx envelope, which was addressed to the D. Bell Corporation. There was a new passport with his picture in it in the name of Seth Mendoza, a Texas driver’s license for the same fictitious person, and a one-way ticket to New York early the next morning on Virgin America.
Seth wasn’t his real name, but the last of many aliases he had used over the past six years.
A silver Mercedes CLS, identical to the one he’d seen at the hotel, was tailgating him on Wilshire. Seth touched his gun instinctively and kept a close eye on the other car. He merged onto the 405 freeway doing a tad below sixty-five miles, then slid to the penultimate lane on the left. The Mercedes was hot on his tracks. He floored the gas pedal and merged illegally into the carpool lane, now roaring at ninety-five. Once again, the Merc shadowed him.
He careened into the right lane swiftly and clenched his gun, ready for whatever was coming at him. The Merc accelerated until both cars were side by side. Seth turned his head toward the other car and lowered his window. The other driver had a scrawny face hidden by black Ray-Bans. A moderately better-preserved version of Keith Richards, shouting at whoever was on the other end of his Bluetooth earpiece. He glanced at Seth once then shot away in the carpool lane like a missile.
False alarm.
When he could breathe again, Seth slid open the sunroof. The raw power of the car, the last of the fresh morning air caressing his face and the dancing rays of the sun warming his arms almost made him feel like smiling.
Gliding past the bookshop at the rear of the café where he was instructed to go, Seth sat at an empty table with unobstructed access to an exit if things got ugly. He scanned half the room once, then looked down casually. Then the second half, and glanced at the menu. All clear.
I’m here. Look for the flag of Argentina, he texted the number given to him. A response bounced back immediately. I’m parking. What’s Argentina? LOL.
Seth pulled out a tacky souvenir mug emblazoned with the Argentinean flag and placed it on the table. Minutes later, a huge man possibly of mixed Asian and Hispanic descent sauntered by his table, eyed the mug, then sank in the chair opposite with no expression. Early thirties here or there, but his weight added an extra decade. His hair long and greasy and desperate for a wash. If he was carrying a piece, it was well concealed.
“Whatcha here for?” His eyes swept the room like sensors built to detect undercover cops and federal agents.
“The wedding dress.”
“¡Me encanta Argentina!” He grinned and turned the mug upside down. “I am Bone by the way,” he said, extending his hand.
Seth didn’t reciprocate the name exchange or his hand. Just a mechanical smile, which he quickly withdrew.
“He said you’d buy breakfast?” The tentative tone in Bone’s voice suggested he wasn’t sure of that proposition.
“Order up front and they’ll bring it here,” Seth said, placing a hundred dollar bill on the table.
“I know, I’ve eaten here before,” Bone said like it was a character-building accolade he was proud to share.
“Keep the change.”
“Want anything?” Bone’s voice wheezed when he spoke. Maybe asthmatic or just the pounds of fat, flesh and bone heaving down on his hungering lungs.
“No, I’m good.”
A short while later, the gopher reemerged holding a table number.
“Turkey pesto panini with curly fries. Sex in the mouth, dude.”
“Wouldn’t know. Don’t eat meat.”
Bone eyed him with suspicion, contempt or both.
“What the hell do you eat, then?”
“Everything else. Listen, Bone, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if we quit the foreplay? I’m on a tight schedule.”
Bone’s head dipped slightly. “I gots it.”
From his backpack he pulled out a small gray case with the word Exertify embroidered in red and gold filaments.
“This is it.”
Seth tingled on the inside. The road to get here had been long and expensive. “Standard issue VitaCull life perception vest?”
Bone nodded.
“No hacks or modifications other than what I requested from Jacob?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Elaborate, please.”
“An out-of-the-box VitaCull is programmed to broadcast two signals on parallel satellite, radio and Bluetooth frequencies. One is a unique serial number, and the other is a genuine article bleep. Nothing else. We’ve disabled the serial number signal on this unit.”
“I’m all ears.”
“If someone’s listening, they’ll know this is a real VitaCull, but won’t be able to trace when it was made, and in this case, when it went missing from Exertify’s inventory.”
Seth pressed on. “Just to confirm, you’re saying they can’t dial in and disable this particular VitaCull, or relay a false signal back to my remote operator, correct?”
“They can sure as hell try but wanna know what they’ll find?”
“Aha?”
“A titanium wall.” Bone sized him up as if deciding how much respect he was going to issue him.
“Have you used one of these before?”
“No, but my crew can handle it.”
“Right...”
“Jacob said you’ll show me how to fly with one of those, without checking in luggage.”
Bone’s eyes bulged frog-like with excitement.
“Easy.”
He took out a sketch pad and a pen and started diagramming.
“VitaCulls are made up of two separate parts, the vest and the remote home-base controller. The vest has an electronic unit called the manticore that houses the power supply, the chip, the transmitter and the GPS device, all in one. The manticore is smaller than an iPhone.” Bone took out the device in question and showed it to him.
“Before you fly, unplug the manticore and house it in the dummy phone compartment we’re including in the package.” He then pulled out what looked like two halves of a burrowed shell of an iPhone 4s. He stuffed the electronic unit snug inside.
“This is now officially your second phone. It’ll clear the TSA scan like a whistle.”
The fake iPhone looked plausible enough, but who knew what was inside it that could trigger the alarm at the airport?
Bone must have read the mistrust on his face.
“You think I’m yankin’ your chain, right?”
Wouldn’t you?
“I get it. You’re the worrying bookish type. Here’s what you need to do. Put the fake phone in a separate tray and if it triggers an alarm, don’t claim it. Walk away.”
Seth scrutinized Bone’s face. All soft flesh and shiny skin with no discernible jaw structure. Nothing about him inspired much confidence, especially his naive suggestion. Then again, it wasn’t his money at stake. He hadn’t spent the better part of a year chasing this exotic tech or paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to score a hot one.
“The body sensors, the wires and the tubes of the vest can all be di
smantled and stashed in a first-aid kit or medicine bag. The vest is just synthetic fabric. Wear it under your regular clothes and you’ll be all set.”
“How about the home-base?”
“One hundred percent software. Install it on a computer with a reliable Internet connection. Not ‘somewhat’ reliable, Armageddon-proof reliable. If the connection between the vest and the home-base is cut, whoever’s wearing it will be exposed.”
“How do you install the home-base software?”
Bone placed a tiny memory card in his hand. “It’s all here on this micro SD.”
He huddled closer and his eyes swept the room once again before he lowered his head and spoke in a conspiratorial voice only a small-time criminal operative with grander ambitions could muster. “You’ll need a needle in your veins. Jacob said you have a medic and a geneticist on your team. That right?”
“Yeah. We need special needles?”
“Nah. Your medic can supply those when you get to the other side, 26g hypodermics should do it.”
A waitress deposited a huge plate of food in front of Bone. He grabbed some fries even before the plate had touched the table, then stuffed his mouth. No point contriving even the pretense of subtlety. His dimpled fingers wiped the oil from the fries on his already questionable shirt. When he had satiated his mouth with a few noisy bites of the sandwich, eyes closed like he was having sex, Bone reached inside his backpack and pulled out a small metallic marble.
“This is from Jacob,” he said, placing it in Seth’s palm.
“What is it?” Seth said, hoping it was what he thought it was.
The sphere had a tiny red button and a micro USB port and felt heavier than its size implied.
“The digital bomb you had asked for.”
“He said you’re out of stock.”
“New shipment from Stockholm just came in.”
“How much?”
“This one’s on the house.”
Seth nodded in appreciation.
“How does it work?”
“Press the red button, and this naughty little bitch will kill any video recording unit within a thousand-foot radius. Tapes, hard drives, mobile devices. And the cherry?”
“I’m listening.”
“It also jams cellphones.”
“You don’t say?”
“Fuck yeah. The tech was developed in Sweden for cinemas and theaters. Then the Estonian mafia leaked and open sourced it, God bless them.”
“How does it jam?”
“Plug it into your phone through this micro USB port. It’ll install a small app called ‘Sniffer.’ Then, to engage it, hold the sphere close to your phone and press the red button once. It’ll disable incoming and outgoing calls within a thousand feet. It’ll also keep a log of attempted cellphone activity within that radius and send live notifications to your phone.”
Seth put his merchandise inside his backpack and positioned himself to get up. “Anything else I need to know?”
Bone leaned forward. “One last thing,” he whispered. “Your techies should know this, but I’ll say it as a disclaimer. Before the VitaCull is paired, the genetic profile of whoever will use it needs to be initialized. Draw some blood, scrape some cells from your inner cheek or just jerk off, that’s what I would do.”
Very funny. Now get to the damn point.
“Then smear your biological source code on the base of the manticore here to create a primary genetic profile. It takes about fifteen hours to map, so factor that into your op time. When it’s done, feed the profile back to the home-base system via the USB port. It’ll generate an encrypted passcode based on your unique profile and will lock the device for good.”
“Define ‘for good?’”
“VitaCulls are made for one person and one person only. Monogamous for life, like dolphins.”
Bone’s unexpected poetic side was short-lived. He showered his fries with salt and then peered up at Seth. “Remember, you screw it up, it’s your useless vest to keep. Jacob will snap your head off if you come back for a refund.”
“Oh, I know. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Back in his car, Seth sat silent, starting at the digital bomb and the VitaCull. He navigated on his phone to a photo of a man on a pristine beach playing with a yellow labrador.
Get ready to wake up, Alexander Blackwell.
THREE
Saturday, November 5, 2011—12:55 p.m.
Prickly Pear Island, British West Indies
Blackwell scanned the south shore of Prickly Pear Island but found no sign of danger. The glistening waters and talcum sand of the north face glimmered through the lush green. He ran through the narrow trail of brush vegetation, remembering from previous hikes that although it was mostly sea grape, he still had to look out for the prickly pear and other nasty species of cactus.
When he got to the thatched-roof bar on the north side, the eternal reggae piping through its haggard speakers and the spirited banter of Isaac the bartender were absent. An unmixed cocktail was still in the blender and the fridge was stacked with Carib beers that hadn’t been there long enough to chill.
The restaurant across from the bar had been boarded up and locked.
Where is everyone?
He closed his eyes and listened. In the background, faint but unmistakably American voices were floating in the air. Even less detectable, intermittent radio chatter suggested something urgent was transpiring.
Not a single soul on the beach. No trace of the utility boats that ferried the staff and supplies from Anguilla, let alone other charter boats. Just the wind whistling through the bamboo frame of the bar, and the sullen cries of the gulls. Only they knew what had happened.
Blackwell stepped out on the sand, gun at the ready, his eyes alert and his ears perked. The voices were coming from the east. He sprinted toward the sounds, then took cover behind the second restaurant on the island, also shuttered.
Careful not to make too much noise, he fiddled with the flimsy kitchen door lock until he unlatched it and walked inside. He often brought his cruise passengers here for lunch and remembered the best vantage point would be from the men’s room in the back.
Standing on the toilet seat, he spied through the prison-like window with his binoculars.
A gray Seahawk helicopter was positioned on the main hump of the island like a beached whale. Two marines stood guard around the perimeter of the aircraft.
He swept the scene until he zeroed in on someone he recognized.
FBI Special Agent Frank Carter.
Lava bubbled in Blackwell’s chest cavity and head. Without thinking, he stampeded toward his former colleague and would have jumped Carter if the two marines weren’t there to block him. From behind their tight grasp, he wanted to reach out and strangle Carter, seeing in his face the sum distillation of everything he loathed about himself and his previous life.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His voice projected a primal rage he thought he had long laid to rest.
“We had no other option, he asked for you by name,” Carter responded with cool confidence and an even voice. He removed his shades to look Blackwell in the eye.
“This is not what I was promised!” Blackwell roared as he tried again to break loose so he could pummel Carter’s jaw. Or something.
Carter remained unmoved.
“We don’t have much time. I need you to gently slide your dick back in your pants and step in that chopper right now. Let’s show these young marines how the FBI rolls.”
Blackwell couldn’t keep swinging empty punches forever. At one point he’d have no option but to stop struggling. He shut his eyes, searching for the willpower to douse the smouldering fire in his chest. When he did, he inhaled a copious amount of air and relaxed his tense muscles.
Something in Carter’s eyes reminded Bl
ackwell of his old self. He too had done and said ridiculous things demanded by the job, but which he didn’t necessarily approve of.
“Speak,” Blackwell said, the tension in his body dissipating, to the relief of the two marines who gradually released their grip.
“We have a critical situation on our hands. You can beat the crap out of me if it pleases you, but only after we’re airborne.”
One of the marines picked up a duffel bag from the ground and took out a towel and a change of clothes and handed them to Blackwell. As if Carter’s orders were indisputable, and Blackwell’s compliance imminent.
He ignored the marine and stood motionless, waiting for Carter to feed him more information.
“The Anguillan government has given us sixty minutes on this island. We didn’t know what sort of crazy you would pull, so we requested they evacuate everyone. As you would imagine, for a country surviving on tourism, they’re just a tiny little bit pissed with Uncle Sam and want us out quick.”
“What happened?” Blackwell blurted, his eyes fixed on Carter’s lips.
“A hostage situation in the old Pan Am building on top of Grand Central Terminal.”
“You said he asked for me by name. Who’s ‘he?’”
“The hostage-taker. We’re assuming a Middle Eastern cleanskin.”
“What does he want?”
“No one knows. He’s given us until twenty-one hundred to get you there and only then will he talk.”
Tightness in Blackwell’s neck radiated to the base of his skull. A massive migraine was pulsating just around the corner.
“When did it start?”
“Ten thirty this morning. He’s holed up with the hostages on the thirty-ninth floor.”
Blackwell rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. The question of what was on the thirty-ninth floor must have been written all over his face.
“The headquarters of a company called Exertify.”
“What do they do?”
Terminal Rage Page 2