by L. T. Ryan
“If by ‘nothing good’ you mean winning big on the craps table and spending the night with a couple of Tropicana showgirls, sign me up, too.” Fezz laughed.
“That’s the last thing I need.” His serious tone did not match the levity that Fezz had been attempting to inject into their exchange.
Fezz was trying to cheer him up, to make light of the situation. It was how they had always done it. Most times they were relentless in breaking each other’s stones. Often crossing the line to insult. But there was no one that Blake trusted more than this man. They would often call each other brother. And they meant it.
“I thought I was in a good place, Fezz.” Blake spoke slowly, measuring each word. The emotion behind the abrupt statement was palpable if the expression on Fezz’s face was any judge. “When it was all done. After we had finished our business. After we made our decisions, right or wrong, and we delivered vengeance. It felt like the end of the chapter. The beginning of a new one. But it wasn’t, Fezz. It really wasn’t.”
Blake paused. Fezz didn’t speak, allowing Blake the opportunity to gather his thoughts and get them off his chest.
“It’s just what we do, right?” Blake continued. “Bury the doubt, the pain, the anger. It’s the only way we could operate. Hell, we all would have been dead a long time ago if we didn’t have that ability. I guess I figured this last time would have been the same. But it was different. It was personal.”
The coffee machine spat the last drops into the mug. Blake grabbed it and passed it across the island to Fezz, who held it like a toy teacup in his enormous hand. Blake started a second cup for himself as he spoke.
“While I was traveling, I realized it had never been personal before. The lives we took. Even the collateral damage. It was for a cause. The greater good. It was never about me, or you, or Khat, or any single person. It was about the mission. And I was good with that.” Blake ran his hands over his face and rubbed his temples. “I don’t know. I’m rambling.”
“Mick,” Fezz interjected, “do you remember in Syria, I recruited that woman who had gotten tied in with Al-Nusra. Fatima was her name. She had the nine-year-old daughter. You and I built a swing for the kid out behind the safe house. Remember how she’d swing on that thing for hours?”
“I remember,” Blake said.
“I set up Fatima with a tracker so she could lead us to the Al-Nusra training camp. Except I knew she had already been made. I knew they were taking her to her death, but I let her go anyway. Because we needed to know where they would take her.”
“Yeah, that was messed up.” Blake admitted.
“It was extremely messed up. And so was I. For a long time. I had to tell this little girl her mom was dead. A woman that did nothing but help us. Knowing that I could have prevented it. I was most pissed off at myself for letting it get to me. Letting it get personal. But do you remember what you said to me?”
Blake shook his head.
“You said, ‘It’s always personal. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.’ And you were right. It’s our care for what happens to the people that allows us to bring down such brutality on others. We were always invested. Having to shoulder the consequences is our cross to bear.”
“I sound like a wise man.” Blake smiled.
“You had your moments,” Fezz jabbed. “The thing is, moving forward isn’t the same as moving on. It’s okay to move forward with your life. Maybe you never get back in the game, I’m not saying you should, but you’re the best at what you do, Mick. You shouldn’t have to hide from it.”
Fezz glanced at the stairway just off the kitchen. His movement drew Blake’s attention to it. Blake hadn’t ventured down those stairs and into the custom-built vault in months. He hadn’t even considered it. The room full of computers and state-of-the-art equipment had sat dormant. Patiently waiting for a surge of electricity to once again pulse through its veins.
“Anyway,” Fezz said. He gulped the last bit of coffee in his mug and stood up from the counter. “Enough of this serious, heart-felt crap. I’ve gotta hook up with Khat. We’ve gotta make a quick trip that never happened to a place that doesn’t exist.” Fezz smiled.
“Good luck with that.” Blake extended his hand. Fezz shook it with a firm squeeze. “It’s good seeing you.”
Fezz walked to the door and opened it. Blake watched from the kitchen.
“Vegas, man. Vegas.” Fezz nodded. And with that, he left.
Blake sipped his coffee and stared into space. Puttering about the kitchen, he put away the pans and tidied up the counter as his mind churned away. He finished his coffee, washed the two mugs, and placed them in the cabinet, turning the handles so they pointed outward. He looked around at the room, settling his focus on the entrance to the basement stairs. Hardwood steps to the past.
Blake walked over and descended the stairs to the vault’s door. He walked at a normal pace, as anyone would, but he felt as though he had teleported there. Taking a deep breath, he punched in the numbers and heard the large cylinders slide inside the thick, reinforced door. He pushed it open and walked into the darkness.
Blake ran his hand along the wall and touched the switches of the electrical panel. He switched them on in rapid succession, bringing the room to life.
Fans whirled, disks spun. A familiar symphony.
The screens on the desk in the middle of the room came to life. Blake walked to the desk and sat in the chair. The screen greeted him with the flashing cursor of a terminal prompt. The little square of flickering pixels represented an entry point to an infinite number of possibilities.
The rabbit hole.
Blake picked up his phone, dialed the number, and held it to his ear.
“Fine, Griff. I’m in.”
7
The digital compass dial spun as Blake rotated his phone. He had arrived late the night before and was just getting his bearings in the expansive Venetian hotel complex. While checking in, he had glanced at a floor plan mounted on a wall near the front desk. From where he stood, his destination was due southeast.
“Room for cream?” The barista stood poised to pull the lever and dispense the final ounce of coffee into the paper cup.
The Starbucks kiosk was on the first floor of the Palazzo, a few feet from the elevators to Blake’s suite on the forty-ninth floor.
“Yes, thank you,” Blake said. He took his coffee black and slapped a lid on it to help him keep from spilling as he walked. The distance to the auditorium—in the enormous conference center that was once part of the historic Sands hotel—was a quarter of a mile away, but the walk there would not require leaving the building. He would have to hustle to make it in time.
Blake touched his phone to the electronic pad to pay for his coffee, then set off toward his destination. He realized he could not make a bee line. Forced to walk south, he hugged the east wall until he spotted a sign overhead which pointed out the direction to the conference center.
The sign, like everything else in the place, mimicked old world Italian architecture. Frescos covered the ceilings and faux stone pillars lined the corridors. Blake had spent some time in Venice and Rome years prior, and this was no substitute. But he gave them credit because he had almost forgotten he was in the middle of a desert.
He looked at his watch and picked up the pace to a mild jog, letting the signs guide him in. He reached the security checkpoint, emptied his pockets, and passed through the metal detector. The machine beeped and blinked. He rechecked his pockets, pulled out a quarter he had missed, and tossed it into the plastic bowl. A security guard motioned for him to back up and pass through the detector again. This time, the machine did not complain.
Blake gathered his belongings and followed the crowds to the main expo area. He meandered through hordes of people gathered around booths adorned with giant screens, art exhibits, and video arcade games. Several DJs blasted techno tunes, the next one picking up as soon as the previous was out of earshot. The size of the operation was stunning. Over thirt
y-thousand people would attend, but the whole thing seemed impossibly large. He wondered why he hadn’t attended the annual event sooner.
Blake made his way toward the auditorium where he had agreed to meet Griff. The vinyl sign, pulled taut between two folding stands, read “Resist the Reset: Breaking Through Wallet Isolation,” and displayed a picture of the speaker, Adam Holt. Griff had chosen the speaker because he remembered that Blake had been interested in the topic. During their research in Bitcoin the previous year, Blake had discovered an article by a graduate student about securing cryptocurrency hardware wallets by separating the user and kernel processes into two CPUs, resetting the user processor between tasks. Blake was curious to find out how Holt had worked around this method of sandboxing.
“Mick,” Griff waved as he worked through the crowd toward Blake.
Blake gave Griff a nod. The strange collection of people in attendance grabbed his attention. Many wore button-down shirts, others were in shorts and T-shirts, while others arrived in strange costumes and eccentric makeup. Blake couldn’t think of any other place he had been that was so diverse. Age, race, style, status, skill. Every combination was represented. In his jeans, T-shirt, and thick beard, Blake represented the casual red-headed caveman demographic.
“Let’s go in, it’s about to start,” Griff said, as he reached Blake. “You don’t want to miss the beginning.”
Blake really didn’t care. He would have rather been at Spritz, the little poolside joint he’d seen on the website, having a breakfast burrito and maybe a Bloody Mary. But he didn’t want to let Griff down.
“Nope, don’t want to miss it.” Blake followed Griff into the room.
The two found seats in an empty row of chairs toward the back. Griff took out his laptop and set it on his thighs. One of the organizers was speaking at the podium.
“—if you have questions at the end. And with that, please welcome Adam Holt.”
A lackluster round of applause followed.
“Thank you. It’s great to be here today. Can we get this up on the screen?” Holt motioned to someone offstage. The two towering screens behind Holt at both ends of the stage lit up. Both displayed the words Resist the Reset. “Great. Let me start by telling you a little about myself—”
“How was your first night?” Griff whispered.
“I got in at almost 1:00 A.M. I had a bite and went to bed. Not that exciting. What did you do?”
“I played blackjack for a few hours. I started with like forty bucks and at one point I was up six hundred. I lost it all, though. But hey, at least I was only out forty. Also, I was talking to this guy from Texas. He was sitting next to me at the table. Said there’s this little dive bar down by Freemont that has great food, live music. Said it’s the best place no one knows about. I know you like the hidden gems, figured maybe we’d hop over there tonight. Check it out.”
“Sure Griff, whatever you wanna do,” Blake was half listening to Griff and half to Adam Holt.
“Great.” Griff turned back toward the front of the room.
“—before going to work for Sizzle, where I serve as Chief Technology Officer. It was the—” Holt rattled on.
Griff shifted in his chair toward Blake. He whispered, “Bet you a C-Note you can’t hijack those screens.”
Blake snickered. “I don’t want your money, Griff.”
“You don’t want my money because you can’t do it?”
“Please,” Blake dismissed. “I’m in no mood.”
“I bet I could do it.” Griff poked.
“Uh. You’re such a child. You know damn well I can,” Blake said, a little louder than he intended. He dropped his voice. “The projectors are on the Wi-Fi and I’m assuming so is your laptop. It’s not like there’s a high level of security on these things, there’d be no reason for it.”
“No reason ’til now.” Griff laughed. He held the laptop out toward Blake.
“Give me it.” Blake snatched the computer from Griff’s hands.
Griff was trying to get Blake to engage. A simple task for someone of his ability. But a challenge had been issued, and Blake couldn’t resist.
“What’s taking so long, Mister Wizard.” Griff goaded within seconds of Blake’s fingers touching the keys.
Blake hammered away at the keyboard and slid fingers around the track pad. Griff tried to look on, but Blake turned the screen away. After about ninety seconds, Blake declared victory.
“Done.”
Griff reached to take the computer, but Blake pulled it back toward himself. “Hold on, one more thing.”
After another minute, Blake grinned and tossed the laptop back onto Griff’s lap. It landed with a thud.
“Careful with this thing,” Griff protested.
Griff looked at the screen. Blake looked at Griff’s face, waiting for the reaction. A reaction which came as a burst of suppressed laughter. If Griff had had a mouth full of water, he would have spit it over the three rows in front of them.
Blake reached over, opened the screen preferences, and clicked the icon that looked like a projector. The two giant screens flickered, and the prepared slide was replaced with one that contained only the words, “I made up most of this on my way here.”
A raucous laughter erupted from the crowd. Holt stopped. His eyebrows tilted, showing his perplexity. The clamoring settled down and he continued. “As I was saying, the entire purpose was to prevent the kind of vulnerabilities found in the Ledger and Trezor wallets, but—”
“My turn,” Griff whispered, almost giggling. Griff toggled the output back to the laptop screen; he deleted the text, typed his own, and selected the projector.
“I live in my Mom’s basement.”
The crowd erupted again. Even louder than the first time.
Blake let out a hearty laugh. Griff laughed louder, causing Blake to laugh even more. Blake laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. It had been a long time. And it felt good.
The crowd began looking around, trying to spot the culprit. The laughter morphed into a chatter that prompted Holt to pause, again.
“What am I missing?” Holt said. His headset microphone feeding-back slightly.
Griff could have switched it back, but Blake was glad he didn’t. He got a kick out of seeing how long it would take Holt to figure out what was going on. A woman in the front row stood up. Blake couldn’t hear her, but he could guess what she was saying as she pointed to screen.
Holt turned to look. He took the message in stride. “Brilliant. For the record, my mother is a wonderful woman. With a very comfortable basement. Now, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Blake yelled out, “We don’t mind.” All eyes turned toward the back of the auditorium. Griff’s eyes widened. Griff had not expected Blake to speak up. Blake sat back, unfazed by the attention. He nodded toward Griff, who fumbled to switch back the feed.
Holt craned his neck until the screens displayed the correct information. He continued. “So, as I was saying. Vulnerabilities—”
Griff leaned over to Blake. “Wanna see what else is going on?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Blake had already determined within the first two minutes that there was nothing he would hear that he didn’t already know. He stood and walked toward the end of the row. Griff followed. The pair slid into the aisle and sauntered to the double exit doors.
“What did I tell ya, you’re a child.” Blake smiled and wiped some remaining moisture from under his eyelid.
“I’m a child? What would possess you to do such a juvenile thing?” Griff faked his astonishment.
Blake slammed the door’s latch bar and pushed it open with his hip as he shoved Griff into the door frame.
Griff pushed through the door to the cacophony of the main floor. Blake was already ten feet ahead of him. Griff smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Griff said to a crowd that wasn’t listening, “he’s back!”
8
Haeli Becher strutted through the lobby of the Wal
dorf Astoria with a purpose. Her eyes locked on the elevators ahead, she was keenly aware of everyone and everything around her.
The place was fancier than she had envisioned. Sleek and modern. No expense had been spared to demonstrate the pretentiousness sought after by the discerning clientele.
A couple stood at the front desk. The man wore an expensive-looking suit, but with no tie and the top button of his shirt open. The woman, wearing a simple black dress that sat off her shoulders, was as sleek and elegant as the decor.
An older man with a stoic expression and salt-and-pepper hair passed by from the opposite direction. She heard his gait slow. She could feel his eyes on her.
Haeli was no stranger to attracting men. Blessed with what many considered conventional beauty, her soft, pleasing features, bright smile, silky black hair, and flawless skin had drawn compliments daily. She had learned to use it to her advantage. But on this day, she needed just the opposite. And it wasn’t going very well.
The clicking of her heels on the polished marble was as accurate as a metronome. The sound of a woman who knows where she's going, she hoped.
She shifted her eyes from side to side. A flicker, really, but enough time to thoroughly scan her surroundings.
Were they all looking at her? Was she out of place? Maybe she should have given more care to what she wore. She had thought the white sleeveless blouse and black pants would have sufficed. Nondescript enough to discourage anyone from remembering her.
She reached the elevators, pressed the upward arrow, and glanced over her shoulder at the desk. A porter was loading the couple’s baggage onto a cart. The man and woman working behind the desk were wrapped up in the check-in process. She decided that she was being paranoid. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people passed through every day.
The elevator opened and Haeli stepped in. She pulled a yellow square of paper from her bra and double checked the number. 1211. She slid the paper over her chest until it lodged between her breast and the fabric of the undergarment. Then pushed the button for the twelfth floor.