by Gage Grayson
I don’t think I could frustrate the creepy guy even if I tried. He’s still talking, speaking to the side of my face while I pretend he isn’t there.
I extend my finger to the air again, and the bartender gives me another drink. I’m starting to sweat now from the liquor―plus the stress of having Creepy Guy monologue into my ear.
Fugazi sings about being so tired, and I’m drunk enough to worry if the song might actually kill me by stirring me up. I’m Fugazi tonight. So tired, the sheep are all counting me.
I smile to myself at the reference―and then realize there’s no one in my life who would smile at that reference, too.
Once again, I feel incredibly lonely. The last of the day’s excitement has been completely drained from me.
Another drink has appeared in front of me, but I don’t remember ordering it. I decide that it’s time to go home.
I get up from my seat and lean against the bar. I pull out a credit card and slide it across the bar. As the bartender runs it, I take a pull from my glass.
I realize Creepy Guy has gone quiet, so I turn to see if he’s still there or if he’s gone away. My vision has started to blur, but I can see his shape: he’s still on the stool, and he looks lame and sad. I try to focus on his face.
“You could have said something,” he says, staring into his glass. “I just needed someone to talk to.”
I shrug in response, too drunk to feel anything. I slap him on the back, and the bartender brings me the bill. I give the guy a generous tip and draw a smiley face over the signature line.
Then I push my way from the bar, stumbling, as Elvis begins to sing “Jail House Rock.” I wind my scarf around my neck twice and then half-salute, half-bow to the creep and wave to the bartender. Then I throw my backpack over my shoulder and stumble towards the door, stepping outside on the sidewalk.
The cold air hits my face like a fist, and I fall against the wall, closing my eyes against the icy wind. I lean my face against the scratchy brick surface.
Just make it across the street, I tell myself. I promise I’ll let you take a nap in the lobby if you can make it.
My head falls forward, scraping my cheek. I push myself upright, bobbing and weaving, as I try to make myself walk towards my building’s entrance.
I trip off the curb, and a horn sounds. Lights flash. I realize I’ve slipped onto my knees.
The car door opens, and the pieces fall into place: I’ve stepped out on the street, blind drunk, in front of a cop car.
Oops.
I hear the officer asking a question, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.
I try to form my own words, attempt to communicate that I live across the street, but I can’t get them out.
Some small, sane part of me is protecting myself still. It knows to keep my mouth shut. Back home in my small apartment, my computer is open. All anyone would have to do is nudge my screen awake to see the chat window open, and then I would officially be in trouble.
The cop helps me to the sidewalk. I sit down and immediately slump over. The last thing I remember is hearing the officer say “drunken disorderly” into a phone.
Just in time, everything fades to black.
By the time I manage to crack my eyes open, I see I’m alone in a cinder block room that smells like dirt and mildew.
I push myself to a seated position, bringing my right hand to my aching temple.
Where the fuck am I?
And like a slap, it hits me.
I realize that I―a notorious hacker who, just hours earlier, brought down one of largest banks in the country―have just woken up hungover in jail.
I can’t remember much of anything—certainly nothing about what I said to the cops.
Well, fuck.
Fuck.
2
Marcus
Send out the email, I type into the phone. I’m sitting in a black town car a corner away from my office. Let’s be generous today: tell them 2:10 pm.
That will give them about 15 minutes to get it done.
Here’s the game I play: my disapproving assistant sends out a building-wide email with the subject line Not A Drill, plus a specific time and a place. In the body of the email, I’ll tell him to write added instructions―a fun little Easter egg for those who know to open the email and follow directions.
In the past, I’ve asked people to do all kinds of shit, like leave their shoes at their desk or bring me a lottery ticket or tell me the password specified in the email before entering any and all rooms.
One time, I had Jeremy write in the body of the email that everyone should disregard the emergency meeting we had that day and reply to the email with their lunch orders instead. Then I sat in the conference room and waited for the distracted masses to roll in.
I fired everyone that showed up.
I fire them myself, and it’s better than bi-yearly layoffs. It keeps everyone—management and the lower rungs—paying attention. I won’t let my company be peopled with slackers and finance bros coasting off of their pedigreed MBA reputations; I require my staff to be completely present, keyed into my needs and our customers’ needs.
Today’s game is a good one: Everyone who is in their seat at exactly 5:10pm will receive one BitCoin. Those who aren’t there will be duly noted and out the door in the next hour.
“Sir?” My driver George gestures to the clock on the dash. 5:08 p.m.
I nod at him, meeting his eyes in the rearview. He gets out to open the car door.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say, and move past him through the backdoor of the building. I make my way through the belly of the bank’s headquarters, and I move quickly but without rushing.
I know I will make it to the room at exactly 5:11pm. And I know Jeremy has made sure that everyone has to use their badges to get into the room and that he’ll send out the severance email to the appropriate people.
I get to the large conference room and walk to the front. Everyone quiets down immediately. They’re waiting for me to begin speaking, but I wait, savoring their collective discomfort. It’s so quiet I swear I can hear their hearts beating against their rib cages.
How many made it to the room? I look them over—looks like a good turnout, actually. A couple hundred people. I try to push away my feeling of disappointment. As I pace, I remind myself that I’m a businessman and a ruthless competitor, but I’m not a monster―no matter what Jeremy says over on our office Slack to his co-workers.
“Hello,” I say. There are a few scattered murmurs in response. “This is an emergency meeting for two reasons: first, I want to thank you all who have shown up today―and every day, in fact. You’ve worked hard to push this institution from a medium-sized regional bank to a major player in today’s investment landscape.
“I’ll personally be sharing a single BitCoin with each of you who showed up today. To your brethren who did not or who were not fast enough, they are waiting on the other side of this door, already part of our past.”
I hear a sharp intake of breath from the audience. My head snaps up, and I look into the crowd. “Does anyone have an issue with how we do business here?” I ask. “Please, go ahead and share your concerns with the group.”
Of course, someone will be feeling too empathetic. Someone will be wrestling with their conscience and standing up for their principles. Or something.
I begin the countdown in my head: Five, four…
“The floor is yours,” I say. I smile, aware of how cold I can be. “Go on. Have the courage for your convictions.” I’m goading the one person. I know they’re there.
Three, two…
I can see people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I’m enjoying it. Maybe I am a monster, after all.
One.
Someone stands up. It’s a young woman, someone I recognize but can’t place. She’s short, wearing all black. Her hair is piled in a bun on her head.
She looks tired. Her eye makeup isn’t working to cover the circles bene
ath her eyes. I step towards her and arrange my face to project something like pleasant curiosity.
“Please,” I say. “Speak up.”
She clears her throat. I expect her to look scared, but she doesn’t. She’s furious. My smile becomes genuine. Ah, an opponent with some life, I think.
“First, according to the email, I needed to show up here, and now, according to you, I get to keep my job and receive a BitCoin, is that right?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Okay,” she says. “That’s good.” She inhales. “I think the way you run your business is a travesty. There are people behind that door who didn’t get into this room because they were home sick or had to run to the restroom. There are people who were across town at meetings or appointments, whatever.
“But now, because you’ve decided that you’re our dictator-in-chief, you’ve fired them. Their families will suffer, and they will suffer for no good reason other than for your enjoyment. I think that’s sick.”
The room is even quieter now.
“Does anyone else agree with―I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Andrea,” she says, her chin jutting out.
“Does anyone else agree with Andrea?”
No one moves.
“Andrea,” I say, “I admire your courage and your common human decency.”
“Thank you,” she says, somewhat shocked. I’ve caught her off guard.
I move towards her, looking her in the eyes. “But I’m afraid this isn’t the right environment for you,” I say, my voice clipped and my expression cold as ice. “You may keep the prize, but please be out of the building in the next hour—”
“What? But you said—”
“I did,” I agree. “You’re not fired for ignoring an important email or lounging at a long lunch. No. This is an ‘at-will’ company―and it’s my will that you leave.” A beat.
“Now,” I say, my voice soft.
We stare at each other until she lowers her eyes and pushes past those sitting in the row.
“Thanks for nothing,” she says, throwing her middle finger in the air. She pauses halfway up the aisle before turning around to look at me.
“Do you know what I do?” she asks.
“No one here is irreplaceable,” I say, moving towards her.
“I’m one of your computer security monkeys,” she says. “I’m the one who’s keeping the masses of hackers and viruses and whatever the fuck at bay. Me and my very overworked staff―several of whom didn’t make it to this bullshit meeting because they’re back at their desks trying to manage the latest disaster.”
She has my attention. I clench my jaw.
“Oh,” she says, “did none of your terrified henchmen tell you? Well, let me get you up to speed. If you look at your phone, you’ll see a slew of terrified emails and calls asking about what’s happening to your bank’s reserves. You’re not a popular man, Marcus. You’re the enemy.”
By now security is in the room, racing towards the woman calmly telling me my company is under attack. The two men grab her, gripping one arm each. They pull her from me.
“They’re going to take everything,” she says, shaking her head. “And they fucking should.”
When the door closes behind her, I take my phone from my pocket and see that she’s right. There is a flood of panicked emails. I see my staff look down at their phones and get up, racing out of the room and back to their desks.
I leave from the back, heading up to my 42nd floor office from the private elevator reserved only for my use. Inside the elevator, I stare at my phone.
There’s a missed call from a D.C. number. Another from a N.Y.C number.
The elevator door slides open to my office, and from my cell phone, I call Jeremy, who should be sitting and sweating in front of my door.
I keep my voice low. “Get in here. Don’t look panicked.”
I turn around, staring out the floor-to-ceiling glass that looks over the Hudson. I hear Jeremy come in, and I wheel around to look at him. I’m so angry, I’m fucking shaking.
“What the actual fuck is going on?”
“They’ve been calling,” he says, looking very panicked now that he’s out of the public eye. “Tim was trying to head them off.”
“Who’s been calling?” I’m speaking low, forcing myself not to run towards him and rip his head off with my bare hands. “Why didn’t I hear about this, whatever the fuck this is, earlier?”
“It happened—we realized it—just before the meeting. We—Tim, all those IT guys—they didn’t know what was happening and—”
The phone rings outside the door on Jeremy’s desk. He jumps, looking like he’s about to wet himself.
“Get that,” I hiss. He nearly sprints out the door. Then sticks his head back in. “It’s the Feds,” he says. “Tim called them, but they want to talk with you.”
“I’ll take it in here,” I say. Moving behind my desk, I exhale, force a smile, and pick up the phone.
“This is Marcus Hall. What the hell is happening to my company?”
“Hello, Mr. Hall. This is Agent Horner. I’m with the cyber terrorism unit with the FBI.”
I wait.
“We spoke to Tim Nelson, your chief technology officer, earlier today. Here’s what we’ve been able to figure out: your company was the target of a vigilante hacking group, Project Tomorrow. They’ve drained your bank’s cash on-hand and destroyed your security measures. The equivalent of breaking in, stealing everything, then dousing the building with gasoline and throwing a grenade instead of a match.”
“That sounds bad,” I say carefully.
“It’s not good,” Horner replies. “My partner and I are on our way to you as we speak.”
“I’ll have my assistant meet you downstairs.”
After we hang up the phone, I look out the windows again. I can hear people shouting for each other in the outer offices. I can hear phones ringing. My phone is ringing.
I need to tell Jeremy to meet the Feds downstairs. I need to figure out what’s happening around me. An hour earlier, I could have bent the world to my will and now, well, now I’m listening to the sounds of my company disintegrating around me.
Jeremy opens the door, but I don’t turn around.
“Marcus?” he asks.
“Here’s what I know,” I tell him. “There was a group of people who did this to us. Find me the best investigators in the city. Get them over here.”
I decide, in that moment, that I will destroy whoever did this to me―or I’ll kill myself trying.
The lead investigator, Nancy Blackburn, has a mousey brown bob. She looks like a soccer mom, not an elite cybercrimes investigator, but nothing about today is going as expected, anyway.
“Here’s what we know,” Nancy says. It’s nearly daylight, but she looks neither tired nor wired. She keeps talking. “There’s a group, and they’re decentralized and very effective at covering their tracks. But they made a mistake. One of them lingered long enough that we were able to track to her.”
“Her?” I ask.
“Her. Katy Pearson. And,” she says, “How’s this for luck?”
She smiles. Pleased like a fox who’s found the hole in the fence blocking him from the chicken coop.
Nancy taps on the keyboard. “It seems our Katy got herself into a bit of trouble last night.” She looks at me and smirks. “Guess who’s drying out in a drunk tank in Brooklyn?”
I look at her and start laughing.
3
Katy
I wake to the sound of my stomach growling for food.
Starving. I’m starving. Again.
I open my blurry eyes and look around the place and groan when I remember: I got arrested.
Fuck.
Not that this is new. This isn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened. Luckily for me, I’m adept at getting out of…sticky situations.
I look around and realize I’m alone in here. Thank God for that. I don’t need some
lesbian trying to hook up for the night or for however long I’ll be in here.
I do, however, see a young policeman lounging around. I decide to take a crack at him.
“Psst, hey, man,” I whisper and he looks at me. “What do you say you get me out of here, and I pay you a special favor?”
I have no intention of favoring him in any way, but he doesn’t need to know that. He looks me up and down, taking in my tight body, pert breasts, and beautiful eyes and hair.
I can tell he’s interested, but maybe this moron of a cop is more interested in keeping his job.
“You’re not getting out of there unless you make bail. I suggest you be quiet,” he says to me.
Rude. I just got intoxicated. It’s not like I’m a criminal or anything―at least not as far as he’s concerned. These cops don’t know about my secret hacking life.
No one does.
I guess he’s gonna play the hard way.
“Come on man, I’m not even drunk anymore. Can’t you tell?”
I start walking a straight line in my cell to prove it. Or try to, anyway. I stagger and sway.
Of course I’m still drunk. I just hope he can’t see that.
I tease him a little bit, but it’s starting to dawn on me that I need to get out of here, and quick. I’m not feeling so good. I have one of the worst hangovers in the history of humankind.
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “You’re walking that line really well.”
He’s being sarcastic, and I can tell that he knows I’m not sober yet.
“Can’t you just cut me a break? My stomach is growling something fierce. I need food, and I need to rest,” I say, taking a final shot at him.
“No can do,” he says.
Unfortunately for him, I’m gonna have to escape under his watch. He’ll probably get fired for being a lazy guard when he could’ve just let me out early and avoided all the conflict. He obviously doesn’t know who he’s messing with.
I always get what I want. It’s part of who I am. I’m stealthy, and I’m good at virtually everything I do―cracking codes, lying my way out…