Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense

by Fynn Perry

  A dispatcher approached the host and asked for his papers. “OK! We’ll start unloading you in ten, and then we’ll load you up with cargo for…” He paused, checking his tablet before confirming, “Detroit.”

  That route would take John’s host through Pennsylvania and not through New York State, as John wanted. The nearest state border to be crossed on that route would be between New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Since the discovery of the drugs in any state other than New Jersey would draw federal attention, John preferred to find a truck and a route closer to home in New York state.

  Fortunately, his host started to engage in some casual conversation with the dispatcher and came out with exactly the question John wanted him to ask without the need for any encouragement on John’s part.

  “You guys cover the whole country from here?”

  The dispatch guy seemed happy at the interest and obliged with a detailed answer. “Sure, Canada too! Right now, those four are going to Chicago, the two over there to DC, those three to Miami and the one at the end to Montreal.”

  The number of bays in use might have dropped from the last time John had seen this place, but Lazlo was right: El Gordito was sending out the drugs to many of America’s main cities, and even into Canada. The trucks going to New York or even Boston must have already left. The next-best destination for John would be Montreal because you wouldn’t drive there from New Jersey without going through New York State. Just wouldn’t be done unless you wanted to add needless hours to your journey.

  So now, all John had to do was get into the back of that truck bound for Montreal.

  “How long before I can get going?”

  “An hour to unload and an hour to load, as usual. Are you new or what?” came the reply from the dispatcher as he walked off.

  John’s host took another proud look at his rig. It was a Kenwood flat-nose tractor, which meant that the cab was over the engine, unlike the long noses where the engines are mounted in front of the cab. He thought that the flat noses looked meaner, like bulldogs with the shiny chrome exhaust stacks sticking out behind his cab, like ears. At night, bright LEDs running down the cab and sleeper panels lit it up like a float at Mardi Gras. He was pretty sure that no other rig looked as good, but as always, he had to check out the competition.

  The trucks he walked past gave no cause for jealousy but the truck going to Montreal was a different story, and it stopped him in his tracks as he was flooded with envy. The tractor had custom blue paintwork with an intricate design and chromed parts throughout, including four—not the usual two—chrome exhaust stacks and a chrome fuel tank. He had to admit that it looked even better than his rig. John’s host had to take a closer look around the back of the cab to check out the exhaust manufacturer’s nameplate. He could see that there was a badge on the manifold linking the four pipes. It was just too small to read from where he was standing. He leaned over the wheels to get a better look. It was the last thing he saw before passing out.

  John left his host lying over the deck plate where he could be mistaken for someone doing some work on the vehicle. He walked to the side of the trailer, pulled himself through the curtains and onto the floor, immediately taking cover within a cargo of packed and stacked washing machines. Passing through the boxes, he was able to see, by the light of his own glow, that the pills were tucked away in the most central part of the cargo, as Lazlo suspected they would be. They were taped to the outside of each washing machine’s drum, to the water pump and to the inside of the casing. Ten bags in total in each machine, and there were about a hundred machines carrying drugs, he estimated.

  It was a six-hour run to Montreal, and John reasoned that after two hours the truck would be out of New Jersey and well into New York State. That would give him about a one-hour window to do what he needed to do. He had to crash the truck in such a way that the cargo would spill out over the road, break open the packaging around the appliances, and release the bags of pills. That meant a collision with an immovable object at high speed. The truck would stop, but the contents would keep going, through inertia, at quite some speed. Practical physics. The contents would all get bunched up and by dint of sheer mass and weight would force their way out of the truck, travel through the air and hit the ground at various distances, dependent on a complex cocktail of forces and factors in play.

  There were two things in John’s favor: firstly, every washing machine is built with a lump of concrete weighing around sixty pounds suspended below the drum to keep it stable during the spin-dry cycle. Secondly, their thin metal casings are left open on the underside. Both these factors tended to result in them falling apart when they were dropped.

  Thirty more minutes of loading took place before the metal doors creaked shut and the remaining curtains were unhitched and strapped down. There was a commotion outside—angry shouting. John guessed that the truck owner had returned to find John’s previous host sprawled over the back of his rig. Cautiously, he stuck his head out. The abandoned host had now gone, and John glimpsed a man dressed in a fashionable tan leather jacket, dark jeans, and expensive-looking shoes get into the cab––not the usual sort of clothes that a truck driver would wear.

  The trailer shook as the twelve-liter engine roared into life and the truck jolted into motion.

  An hour of the journey passed and John still hadn’t figured out how he could cause an accident to happen without getting anyone killed. He stuck his head out of the trailer, like a dog with its head out of a car window. A sign flashed past stating he was on the I-84, and another stating Albany was eighty miles ahead. He was already passing through New York State. Time to do something. He decided to go to the sleeper part of the cab, located behind the driver and passenger seats, where he could check out his options.

  Using the middle exhaust stacks to help him scale the back of the cab, he pushed his head through the rear wall. The sleeping compartment had the curtains drawn from the rest of the cab. As he pulled himself into the chamber, filling it with a dull orange glow, he pulled the curtains back a touch, just enough to peer through into the driver’s cab.

  The driver was alone. John instinctively looked in the mirror to see the eyes of the man driving. The eyes would show his frame of mind, giving John an idea of the type of guy he had to work with. He wasn’t for a moment expecting to see an orange fire in those eyes. But he was wrong. The driver was possessed.

  The driver carried on looking straight ahead but a disembodied voice screamed, “Who the fuck are you!” Seconds later, a glowing orange head appeared out of the driver’s head and turned to look straight at John. The features were Hispanic and the stare was vile and brutish. The driver’s head fell forward momentarily, and the truck violently veered to the right, narrowly missing a car. Enraged, the spirit immediately disappeared back into the driver, who regained his faculties, taking back control of the truck in dumbstruck panic.

  Before John realized what was happening, the spirit had whipped out an arm, and with a clenched fist, had struck John through the curtain straight into the bridge of his nose. John recoiled from the force and felt his face pulsate with pain as if he was mortal.

  “Get the fuck out of my truck,” the voice warned.

  John tried to focus past the pain and past his confusion. In all the times he had been to El Gordito’s clubs and the fulfillment center, he had only seen El Gordito and, at most, one of his men possessed. It would make sense that Santiago would want to limit the number of spirits controlling mortals in El Gordito’s organization to the minimum necessary, and then to only those that had his trust. But then why would one of his spirits possess a mere truck driver? Unless the host wasn’t a truck driver. He considered the shoes and the jacket––they were out of place.

  John had to assume that the spirit wouldn’t fully come out of his host and risk the truck crashing. He figured if he could get over into the passenger seat, he would be out of the reach of the spirit and be able to take a good look at the driver He slipped through the side of th
e sleeper compartment so that he was hanging onto the truck’s exterior, and then re-entered the cab through the passenger door to sit on the edge of the passenger seat farthest from the driver.

  The face of the spirit had appeared like an imprint on the side of the driver’s head and was staring at him. It spoke again. “What do you think you are going to do, John? Destroy the greatest criminal narrative of all time?”

  John tried to pull his mind away from the shock of finding that the spirit knew his name. The more he looked at the host, the more he thought he bore a resemblance to one of El Gordito’s lieutenants from the photo-board in Lazlo’s war room.

  “Yes, that’s Alberto Gonzalez, John,” the glowing face said, seeming to read John’s mind. “We had a problem with the scheduled driver. He wandered somewhere he shouldn’t.”

  “Who the hell are you?” John asked.

  “I’m one of Juan Santiago’s lieutenants, a sicario or hitman… back from the dead. Does that scare you John? It should!” His grin was wide and his eyes manic as he said this. “But I’m going to give you a choice, so listen carefully. Tell me where you have David and Jennifer Miller hidden and in return, we won’t destroy you, John. And when I say destroy, I mean hurt you so badly that you will cease to exist in any form. Think about it, it’s your life for theirs.”

  Any qualms that John may have had about doing what he was about to do, left him. In a matter of seconds, they would pass under a bridge and the road was completely clear ahead. He quickly looked in the side mirror: behind them the road was clear for at least a quarter-mile. They were doing over sixty. It wouldn’t get any better than this.

  Hoping to aim the truck toward the upcoming bridge’s right-hand support pillar, John lunged forward, grabbed the top of the steering wheel, and pulled it down hard in a sudden half turn. The violent change of direction caused the tractor to swerve and tilt as the trailer, continuing under its own momentum, was propelled in a shuddering and tire-shredding sideways slide toward the column of the bridge. The stink of vaporized rubber and white smoke filled the cab. Then there was a deafening creak and the sound of metal snapping as the coupling gave out, causing the tractor to flip onto its side. At the moment of impact, the trailer overshot the cab, crushing part of it and pushing it into the column of the bridge. The raised part of the trailer wedged itself between the cab and the underside of the bridge, causing the remainder of the trailer to rise momentarily upward before slamming down onto the road.

  John had seen, for a split-second, the arms of the spirit emerge to try to grab the wheel, and then his host being thrown out of his seat, exposing the spirit, who like John, ended up floating amid the chaos of billowing white smoke, shattering glass, and buckling metal.

  Once the rig came to a rest, John was dazed and lying within the mangled mess that had been the cab. He passed through it and staggered out onto the road, where he had a full view now of the chaos in the aftermath of the crash. Broken glass and truck parts, including the exhaust stacks he had held onto earlier, were scattered widely across the asphalt. He glanced back to look at what he had caused. The view was spectacular, in a horrifying way. The trailer had burst open and given up most of its load. He was relieved to see the broken carcasses of many of the washing machines, and, in the distance, a number of vehicles that had skidded safely to a halt. His plan had worked, seemingly with no casualties.

  Some people had left their cars, and were now cautiously approaching to check for survivors. A few had noticed scattered bags of pills and were examining them. John figured it wouldn’t be long until someone recognized them for what they were and, as word spread, some of the pills would no doubt be shamelessly stolen.

  Concerned that the spirit may be following, he looked around for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was looking for Gonzalez, to check if he was alive. John wasn’t going to wait to be found. He needed to get out of sight and quick.

  He heard the sound of approaching police sirens. The troopers were closing in, and once the drugs were discovered, the FBI would get involved.

  John tried to run, but his legs and chest were throbbing with pain. His energy was low, and he could only manage a fast limp as he wove his way in and out of the stationary cars. The traffic on the other side of the interstate, beyond the crash barrier, was slowing down to rubberneck. John got into one of the cars on that side, one that a driver had temporarily abandoned. It was a large SUV with tinted windows to the rear passenger compartment and a sunblind across the back window. He lay down on the back seat so as not to be seen by other spirits and waited for the driver.

  Around ten minutes passed. John could hear the sound of a helicopter approaching.

  A guy dressed in a shirt, khakis, and loafers mumbled to himself as he got in. He started the car and joined the slow-moving traffic, which gradually sped up once the drivers of other vehicles had satisfied themselves with the view. John glanced out of the back window. The tailback of stationary traffic behind the crash site was getting longer and longer. A paramedic van raced along the shoulder, followed by three state police cars and a fire engine. He lay back down. The spirit would have no chance of knowing where he was hiding. He reveled in a moment of pride, knowing that he had done all that he could to expose El Gordito’s drug manufacturing.

  Twenty-Five

  George Cromwell was an IT specialist at the FBI. His primary focus was monitoring and taking down websites on the dark web, the part of the internet used by criminals to shroud illegal activities such as drug and weapon trades, prostitution, and even contract killings. Users of these sites tended to think the privacy technology was infallible and that they could fool the authorities indefinitely, but it wasn’t so easy to hide from Cromwell.

  He had been instrumental in closing down the original Silk Road website, named after the famous historical and lucrative silk trading route between Europe, India, and China. The site even had an Amazon-style shopfront, but instead of books and soap powder you could buy bricks of heroin, Kalashnikov rifles, and other illegal goods. The website could only be accessed via a single, anonymous network known as The Onion Router, or TOR for short. It relayed communications through a number of separate servers around the globe to disguise the identity of its users. Trying to find a user on TOR would be like peeling layer after layer of anonymity from a virtual onion, hence the name. TOR had initially been developed by the US Navy Research Lab to hide military communications. It was then further developed with a number of commercial partners and made available to all, in the interests of protecting privacy and free speech. Since then, TOR had remained free and open-source to all, attracting not only legal but also illegal users.

  But TOR was only half the story. Transactions on the Silk Road website were made in Bitcoin cyber currency using a ‘Bitcoin Tumbler,’ which mixed the bitcoin tokens used in transactions with other bitcoins to destroy any link between buyers and sellers. George was a gifted programmer and had been involved in the original TOR program team. He had broken into the network using his knowledge of backdoors in software and weak spots in code. This had enabled him to break into the Silk Road’s code and fool the system into thinking he was an administrator. It was in this way that he had gained access to one of the site’s secret servers and begin to plan its demise.

  His target now was a server in Timisoara, Romania, one of many servers in Europe used by the Silk Road’s most popular successor, The Path to Paradise. He had once again deceived the website technology into thinking he was an administrator, despite the site having increased and complex security. Out of the many, many disturbing transactions on the website, one had stood out. It was a commissioning of the murder of an NYPD detective for a million dollars. Not just any detective, but a detective by the name of Daniel Lazlo whom Cromwell knew well. Lazlo, he knew, had dropped out of the FBI Training Academy at Quantico while going through a nasty divorce, but not before he and Cromwell had become firm friends.

  The transaction targeting Lazlo had, he noticed, bee
n concluded, subject to payment, between two users of the site. The buyer’s pseudonym was La Tarántula, ‘Tarantula’ in Spanish, and the seller, or commissioner of the hit, went by the name ‘Shadow Dragon.’ Cromwell didn’t need to check the FBI’s Most Wanted list to identify this ghostlike figure: the assassin known as ‘Shadow Dragon’ was top of every Most Wanted list, he already knew, including those of the FBI, CIA, and Interpol.

  He had witnessed messages going back and forth for the last two days agreeing details of the transaction. Shadow Dragon was known to always demand one hundred percent payment up front and was one hundred percent efficient. The money was to be sent that day in Bitcoins, and George would track its route to the assassin’s account. As soon as the killer logged on to check the money was there, the FBI would have him. With his deep knowledge of every change to the constantly updating TOR network, Cromwell had even managed to break through the encryption of Shadow Dragon’s IP address. He had traced it to a residence in Honolulu, Hawaii.

  An FBI SWAT team had arrived twenty hours ago in Hawaii under the command of Special Agent Arthur Chan. He and his team were holed up in a vacant property they had commandeered two streets away, watching the house rented by the assassin. Chan was now waiting for a signal from Cromwell––the signal to enter the house and catch a ghost. Cromwell desperately wanted the special agent to succeed this time.

  Lazlo found himself at home much earlier than normal, in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. His badge and service firearm had been taken away from him. It didn’t matter that he had arrested Manuel Hernandez, who was now detained, awaiting trial. What mattered, apparently, was that his unauthorized acquisition of Hernandez’s DNA evidence from the body of one of the dead chefs at the morgue had finally come to light. The department would probably be sued again by El Gordito’s lawyers, and the captain was understandably furious.