by Matt Rogers
As far as black hat hacking was concerned, it was incredibly complicated. Penetrating an encrypted messaging service on its own was next to impossible, and that wasn’t to mention then “spoofing” a close contact’s information to make it look like it was them sending the message instead of Alonzo. But Alonzo was levels above your everyday black hat. He used to write the programs that protected digital intelligence for U.S. black ops. Issues like these were non-factors.
Everything was relative.
Without missing a beat, Alonzo said, ‘Of course I can do that for you.’
32
Amongst the Audis and the BMWs and the Mercs, Ronan’s pickup truck stood out like a pile of shit in a sea of gold.
He trawled down Marlborough Street once, driving slowly from end-to-end, then made the executive decision to park three streets back on the other side of Commonwealth Avenue and do the rest of his scouting on foot. Thanks to all manner of unofficial covert training — the sort of wisdom they didn’t impart on you in the Marines, for whatever reason — Ronan was confident in his ability to blend into any scene, no matter where in the world he was, or what state of inebriation. Certain habits are entrenched in your blood and your bones.
He killed the engine beneath a “No Parking” sign on Newbury Street, in front of a swanky Zara shopfront, and hoisted a black all-weather backpack off the rear seat. Slammed the door closed with his boot heel and strolled effortlessly towards the Charles River like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Thanks to training undertaken more than a decade ago, it was easy to be a chameleon, and it made him wonder about the ten years he’d just wasted in a hole. If it was this simple to pretend he had his shit together, like he was just a regular schmuck going places, then why hadn’t he used this tactic to enforce some order in his life, pull himself out of the depths? He came to the conclusion that subconsciously he’d wanted to be there, too lazy to leave the house unless he absolutely had to. He made the decision as he sauntered across Commonwealth Avenue without catching a second look from anyone, the decision to sort his life out after this was over. He’d fake it until he made it, and he wouldn’t look back.
He could do it.
He was no weaker than Brad, and look what Brad did.
Look what Brad did…
When Ronan reached Marlborough Street, he stuck to the shadows like he was made of them. He glued himself to the darkest stretches, made himself invisible the way he’d been taught, with patterns of movement that took advantage of the tendencies of the human eye to gloss over certain patterns. When he was sure no one looking out their townhouse windows had any clue he was there, he ghosted slowly along the sidewalk, creeping from nook to nook.
He avoided whole swathes of concrete, thinking of where he’d place surveillance cameras if the roles were reversed.
It took him ten full minutes to cover less than a hundred feet of sidewalk, but it paid off.
He froze when he noticed a finger-sized camera with a wide field of view taped to the underside of a metal balustrade. It was nearly invisible in the dark, without so much as a red light blinking. The stairs sporting the balustrade led up to a raised entrance of one of the ochre townhouses, but Ronan very much doubted they’d choose an elevated — and therefore vulnerable — position for their safe house.
Set deeper behind the balustrade was a descending stairwell.
From where Ronan stood pressed to the wall, it was unclear where the stairs led to, but he hazarded a guess that the townhouse had a sublevel.
He smiled in the dark.
Eased his way up to the balustrade from the side, staying just outside its field of view. He was convinced that his sickening habit of consuming staggering quantities of alcohol and nicotine actually helped him here, the booze steadying his nerves and the cigarettes zoning him in. He managed to reach out and pluck the camera off the balustrade and cover the tiny lens without it capturing a sliver of his profile.
He crept down the set of stairs set further back off the street.
He came to a sealed metal door in an alcove. Warm light bled from the crack at the bottom of the frame. He inched toward the reinforced material, crouching down as he pressed his ear to it at waist height. Heard muffled voices speaking quietly on the other side.
Two females.
That’s all he needed to know. It was highly likely to be King and Slater’s women, and their kids. Of course there was a chance it was innocents, and that the surveillance camera had been placed to monitor a property further down the street, but Ronan couldn’t find it within himself to give a shit.
He had his suspicions, and couldn’t find any reason to investigate further. If he was wrong, so what?
He crouched all the way down, and slung the backpack off his shoulder at a snail’s pace. It was worth being careful. He wasn’t to know how much training King and Slater had imparted on their significant others’. King’s girl used to be a handler. Ronan had seen a couple of photos of her government IDs from back in the day — part of the files passed down to him — and he was mightily disappointed she’d never handled him when he was in Afghanistan.
The world was changing.
He sure hadn’t seen any blonde, blue-eyed supermodels in the secret world in the late 2000s.
He was sure she’d been a statistic, only there to meet some quota.
He placed the backpack delicately on the ground, making sure its considerable weight didn’t let out a thump.
He quietly unzipped it, reached inside, and extracted eight pounds of clay-like Semtex explosive.
33
King dialled Violetta as Slater drove.
She answered on the first ring, which brought him inexplicable relief. ‘Did you get them?’
‘Two of them,’ King said, tone quiet, voice soft. ‘There were others. They must have known we wouldn’t interrogate anyone in our homes. We were predictable.’
He heard the breath seize in her throat. She said, ‘What happened? Is Will okay?’
‘Will’s fine. We’re both fine.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘The houses are gone. By the time we got back they were both burned. There’s cops and firefighters everywhere, but there’s nothing left.’
A long period of nothingness from Violetta’s end. King could taste the tension. Slater sat rigid in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel.
Finally she said, ‘That’s not true. That there’s nothing left. Everything that matters is still fine.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘We’ll rebuild.’
A muffled voice mumbled something in the background of the call. It could only be Alexis. Violetta must’ve covered the receiver but King still heard her say, ‘They torched both our homes. Everything’s gone.’ After a beat, she took her hand away and said to King, ‘See? We both know. We’re not panicked. You shouldn’t be either.’
‘You think I’m panicked?’
He could tell that made her smile, despite it all. ‘No. I don’t. But worry about what you can control. You said there’s more of them out there. Go get them. Then we’ll worry about the other stuff.’
He breathed out. ‘You’re a godsend, you know that?’
‘Oh, I’m aware.’
‘All okay at your end?’
‘Everything’s fine here. Nothing amiss.’
‘Keep an eye out.’
He heard her audibly tense, the chair creaking under her. ‘Why? There’s trouble?’
‘Not that we know of, but there’s still men out there, and we’re no closer to figuring out what this is about. I’m not taking anything lightly.’
‘Wouldn’t expect you to. Do you have a lead?’
‘The brothers who tried to take you at Ingleside … they gave us an address. They told us one of the men in their squad is the weakest link, that we should start with him. We’re headed there now.’
‘Where?’
King glanced at the GPS Slater was following. ‘Some walk-up building. South Roxbury. Bad neighbourhood.
Apparently they have an apartment there.’
‘What’d you do to get the address out of them?’
‘They gave it up willingly.’
‘Then don’t trust it.’
‘I don’t. Not for a second. But it’s a place to start.’
‘They’ll be ready for you.’
King glanced at Slater, who’d looked over with venom in his eyes. Then he said, ‘We don’t care.’
‘I can hear your voice. The anger in it. Don’t let it cloud your judgment.’
‘I never do.’
‘I don’t want you walking into a trap.’
‘We’ll be on guard. As wary as we always are. I promise.’
‘Okay.’
‘In the meantime, let me be angry.’
He sensed her thinking up a retort, but she stayed quiet, lacing the silence with understanding. She must’ve weighed up what impulses were coursing through King, the rage at not being able to protect the sanctity of the family home. It had happened before, but not with a child in the mix. It felt different. Like more of a failure.
She said, ‘Get it out of your system. We’ve got a life to get back to after this is over.’
‘I know.’
Slater made a left turn, and they flashed past a sign that read: Roxbury.
King said, ‘When that last head’s on a stick, I’ll let the anger go. Until then…’
‘Until then,’ she said, ‘use whatever you need to as fuel.’
‘I love you.’
‘Because I’m okay with you going to war?’
‘One reason amongst many.’
‘Just be careful,’ she said. ‘I don’t like any of this. Something seems off.’
‘You know it.’
He clicked off as Slater pulled into the street Dominic had named. As to be expected, it was devoid of visible security, just another stretch of Boston you didn’t want to be loitering around late at night. Lots of low-income tenement housing and streetlights set too far apart. Slater parked in shadow, a couple of hundred feet from the building they were looking for. It loomed on the horizon, considerably taller than its neighbours, brick and metal casting shadow under silver moonlight.
On the sidewalk, close by, King saw shapes detach from the darkness.
He muttered, ‘We’ve got company.’
Slater was staring out the corner of his eye. He had a hand on the Glock under his windbreaker, the huge Osprey suppressor poking at an upward diagonal angle against the material. If he fired, the trajectory would send the bullet whizzing up past King, blasting out the passenger window and killing whoever was approaching the car.
Slater quietly said, ‘That’s Alonzo’s work.’
King imperceptibly raised his eyebrows. ‘He got it done that quick?’
‘He texted me a couple minutes ago, while you were on the phone. These guys are wanted for rapes, murders, drugs. He got into their encrypted “Signal” app and found them planning a drug deal with a gang called “Cash Boyz.” Best part — none of them have met yet. He spoofed the guy’s email, organised the meet in a couple of text exchanges, said there’d be two of us. Gave them my description, not yours.’
‘What else?’
‘Just look tough,’ Slater said under his breath as two large men walked right up to the passenger window, tapped on the glass. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard for you.’
When King slowly rolled his window down, one of the huge guys — six-four, maybe two-fifty, African-American — leant over and spoke directly past him, addressing Slater. ‘You with Cash Boyz?’
Slater didn’t miss a beat. ‘That’s me.’
34
Troy felt like he was back at school, summoned to the principal’s office.
He didn’t like Otis, and Otis sure as hell didn’t like him, but there was a difference in their mutual animosity. Otis saw him as a puppy, a weak little child, and Troy saw Otis as a rabid pitbull on Ronan’s leash. Ronan — and, by extension, Brad — were all that was keeping Otis from becoming totally unhinged, and everyone knew it. When it was just the two of them, alone, Troy knew not to even lift a finger in disobedience.
He sat straight-backed in the armchair. Otis sat across the room, perched on a kitchen stool. Between them, the filth of the squad’s general untidiness lay strewn across the floor.
Otis had been distracted with his phone for the last half hour. Troy almost felt relieved. When Otis had nothing to do, he liked to stare at Troy without looking away, sometimes for nearly an hour, the whole time practically unblinking. He knew how uncomfortable it made Troy, how much it made him squirm. Troy thought Otis got off on that, the power imbalance, the sheepishness Troy carried.
Finally, Otis snorted to clear a snot blockage and glanced up from the phone, across the room. ‘Guess what?’
Troy squirmed. ‘What?’
Another snort. ‘Dom and Zach are dead.’
Troy’s face fell, his insides twisted. No. Please, no.
Otis laughed. ‘Look at your face, kid. Oh, God. Golden.’
‘Wait,’ Troy said, his voice infinitesimally small, ‘are you fucking with me?’
‘No. They’re really dead. I just love the look on your face.’
‘You—you don’t care?’
‘Why would I?’
Troy shrank inwards. He wanted to curl up into a ball and go to sleep. Dreamless sleep.
Otis stared across the room, eyes wide, in that devilish mood he so cherished. ‘You shouldn’t care either.’
When Troy returned the stare, his eyes were wet. ‘Shouldn’t I? Hell, Otis, tell me why. Sounds like they were nothing to you but vermin.’
‘They thought you were vermin.’
Troy froze.
Otis said, ‘Shit, kid, I wasn’t gonna tell you. Look what you made me do. But you know what they said to me? That you’re just a shell of the man you used to be. They said you used to be an operator who held his own, a serious soldier, but ever since you got back you’ve been getting more and more spineless with each passing day. They wanted to get rid of you. They called you a traitor. Because you disregarded everything the military stood for, carried none of it back home to hold your life together.’
Troy didn’t know if any of this was true, but it sure felt true. He’d thought Dom and Zach were his closest friends in the squad. Self-pity washed over him in a horrid wave.
Otis rocked back on his stool, like a sudden realisation had just thumped his chest.
Troy said, ‘What?’
‘I hadn’t considered that. It’d be the first thing Dom and Zach would give up, if they were forced to.’
Troy still didn’t understand. Had he always been this stupid, or had it developed over time? ‘Huh?’
Otis looked across the room. ‘You.’
Troy clammed up.
Otis shot off the stool, beckoned to Troy. ‘Come on.’
Troy gripped the armrests with white knuckles. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I don’t think this place is safe. Damage control.’
‘What? Code red? ’Cause of some hunch?’
‘You want to get caught here with your pants down by two of the scariest men in human history, be my guest. Personally, I’d rather a level playing field.’
It spurned Troy into action. He’d thought after hearing what Dom and Zach truly thought about him he might be nihilistic enough to just sit there and take whatever was coming his way, but he guessed he still wanted to survive, because he got up and followed Otis.
Otis fetched a frayed length of rope off the kitchen bench as he went past. Then he reached out and snatched the back of a dining chair with his free hand, started dragging it behind him. Troy followed, tentative. Otis positioned the chair with its ornate curved legs in the entrance hallway, facing the front door.
Troy eyed the objects fixed to the back of the door and said, ‘Are we using those?’
‘Like I said. Code red.’
‘Damn.’ Troy looked around. ‘I liked this place.’
/>
Otis snorted. ‘Why?’
Troy looked at the chair. ‘What’s that for?’
Otis ripped his SIG Sauer pistol from its holster and levelled it at Troy’s head. ‘For you.’
Troy always thought it wouldn’t surprise him when Otis finally turned on him, but his knees started shaking uncontrollably. ‘Come on…’
‘Sit.’
‘Otis—’
‘Sit.’
Troy obeyed. He knew he wasn’t going to get back up again if he sat, but he sat all the same. What was he going to say: no? Inconceivable.
Otis lowered his aim as he bound Troy to the chair with the rope. If he wanted to, Troy could have leapt up and made a break for it. The barrel had drifted all the way to the floor. But he sat still, let his master tie him up.
He said, ‘Please, Otis.’
Otis yanked the knot tight, then thundered back into the kitchen and rummaged through drawers. Half a minute later, he was back wielding a power drill.
Troy paled.
There was some meagre relief when Otis used the drill not to inflict sadistic pain but to bolt the curved chair legs to the floor.
‘There you go,’ he muttered when it was done. ‘Not going anywhere.’
Troy mumbled, ‘Is this it? You’ll leave me here to die?’
‘Maybe. You are vermin. And you’re a liability. And Ronan’s preoccupied with a million other more important things, so there’s no one around to keep me in line.’ He stepped back from the chair, admired his handiwork. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, but there’s something wrong about doing it myself. You were on the frontlines with us, after all. That doesn’t mean zero. So … maybe you’ll live. Maybe you’ll die. It’s all up to whether the dead man’s switch gets triggered.’