by L. T. Ryan
Blake chuckled under his breath at Griff’s attempt at being smooth. But, as ridiculous as it sounded, that part was true. The Navy had afforded him the ability to get his master’s degree in computer science, and his extraordinary skill had not gone unnoticed. The Agency recruited Griff before he even finished the program. As much as Griff loved flying, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity for his master’s degree.
“How about you? You live in Vegas?” Griff asked.
“Yeah, moved here last year. I’m a dancer. Kind of in between gigs at the moment.”
“That’s too bad,” Griff said. “I’d love to see you dance.”
Blake noticed Sandy’s chair had crept closer to Griff, who was one hundred percent on the mark. She was into him.
“Well, I’m going to settle up and head back to the hotel. I’ll leave you kids to it.” Blake scanned the room to find the server. He didn’t see him, but he found someone else. The muscular man that had accompanied their new friend was now standing by the bar, surveying the room. He appeared to spot what he was looking for. From the direction of his angry stare, his target of interest was sitting next to Blake. The man charged across the dining room.
Blake stood. “Heads up,” he said to Griff while keeping a laser focus on the approaching man.
Griff stood just as the man approached.
“What the hell?” The man looked back and forth, unsure who to direct his anger toward. “Get away from my girl.”
“Calm down, friend.” Blake’s voice was devoid of stress. “We’re having a friendly conversation. Nothing to get bent out of shape about. Let’s take a step back.”
“Screw you, asshole.” The man’s temper flared. “Let’s go, Sandy.”
“I’m not yours.” Sandy reached for Griff’s hand. “I just met this guy.” She remained seated at the table with her back turned to the aggressive suitor. “Leave me alone.”
“You heard the lady,” Blake said. “Why don’t you grab yourself a cab and we’ll all move on. Whatta ya say?”
“Who asked you?” The man moved in closer, not stopping until he and Blake were nose-to-nose. Blake remained inanimate. “How about I kick your ass?” Spittle landed on Blake’s face.
Griff lurched forward as if about to lunge at the indignant prick. The table grated against floor. Blake held out his hand, never breaking the lock of the man’s glare. Griff backed off.
“I don’t want to fight you, friend,” Blake said. It wasn’t just something one says in these situations. It was the truth. Blake harbored no fear or apprehension. He had made a promise to himself that he would avoid violence. It was a core tenet of his new self. But it was a harder proposition than he expected. Every muscle ached to lash out. To put an end to this man. Blake turned his eyes down and took a step back. A clear message of deference.
“That’s right, you don’t.” The man inflated his chest with victory. He turned toward Sandy, who had remained fixed in her position, head bowed toward the table. “I’ll catch you outside,” he sneered.
The man backed away slowly. Either in fear or relief, Sandy’s entire body vibrated. Griff placed his hand on her forearm as the man turned to leave.
Blake looked at Griff, his lips pursed, and his chest risen. He had won. By his own reinvented standards, he had done the right thing. But it didn’t feel right. There was an imbalance lingering inside of him. And he couldn’t help himself.
“I like your shirt,” Blake said.
“What?” The man’s head turned first, his body following gradually.
Every person in the establishment focused on the exchange taking place. The continuous lack of normal chatter and clanking of forks and knives meant the room was still tuned in.
“Your shirt.” Blake repeated. “It’s nice. I was wondering if it came in adult sizes.”
“You mother—” The man charged. His fist cocked back like it weighed a ton and was being dragged behind him. He swung wide and hard on a trajectory with Blake’s face.
Blake moved subtly. An inch or two. Enough to ensure the blow missed him. The man’s momentum carried him past Blake and toward the ground, but he regained his balance.
Blake spun to face him. Sandy leapt from her chair and scurried around Griff. She pressed up against his back as if using him as a shield.
Then came another right hook. With his left hand, Blake slapped at the side of the man’s forearm, diverting the punch. In a fit of rage, the man swung again, this time with his left. Again, Blake diverted the blow.
The silence of the room had morphed into sporadic outbursts of grunts, groans, and cheers. It appeared to the crowd a choreographed routine as Blake parried and dipped, exerting little energy. That was the point. The enraged man provided all the energy Blake needed to use against him.
The man picked up the empty wooden chair. He raised it up over his head. The chair, heavy and sturdy, would not have been out of place at a farmer’s table or country home. Blake held steady as the chair reached its crest and descended toward his head.
With both hands, Blake pushed the chair to the right, sending it swinging in an elongated arc. The other man lost his grip with his right hand but hung on tight with his left. The momentum caused the chair to deviate from its full path, just missing the man’s leg and ending up behind him. Blake slid around the man’s side as the clunky piece of furniture slowed to a stop. Blake snatched the chair free and slammed it into the back of the other man’s knees. The force knocked him backward, causing his legs to kick out like a toddler in a highchair.
The man gripped the arms of the chair to push himself up to a standing position. Blake crashed his foot into the rear leg of the chair, causing it to spin almost ninety degrees, facing the table. The thrust had again knocked the man back into the chair in a comical twist. To anyone who hadn’t seen the events leading up to that moment, it would have appeared as though the man had tucked himself for dinner.
The random noises generated by the patrons’ reactions had turned to pure laughter. Blake fed off the energy. He stepped on the rear cross-brace of the chair, pinning the man against the table. The man pushed against the edge of the table, furiously trying to escape from the embarrassing prison. Sweat glistened on his face and his desperate movements showed that his own fury had rendered his fine motor skills less than useful.
As if to appease his loyal audience, Blake timed his movement with the man’s heaving motions and abruptly removed his foot. The man tipped back and crashed to the ground, knocking his head against the ragged wooden floor.
Blake casually picked up his glass of bourbon and took a sip. He glanced over at Griff and gave him the faintest shrug. Griff shook his head, but the beaming smile on his face gave away his approval.
The man staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Blake, who placed the glass back onto the table.
The man balled his fists and raised them to just below his chin. Then, his body snapped around a hundred and eighty degrees as Griff tapped him on the shoulder. Blake only wished he could have seen the man’s face as Griff’s fist barreled in and connected with the underside of his jaw. The man collapsed as if the punch had ripped his entire spine out through his neck.
Blake picked up his glass and finished the last sip. He took out his money clip, peeled off several hundred-dollar bills, and dropped them on the table.
Griff took Sandy by the hand. “Let’s get you home.”
She nodded.
The three walked to the exit in silence, leaving the sleeping man where he laid. No one else moved or spoke, including the staff.
Griff opened the door and Sandy walked outside. Blake held the door as Griff followed. The air outside was heavy and warm, a jolting contrast to the conditioned air of the bar. As the door creaked closed behind Blake, they could hear the eruption of chatter from within.
Blake couldn’t help but smile.
10
“Good morning, sunshine. You’re alive.” Blake looked at his watch. 12:52 PM.
“I
’m gonna be a little late.” Griff groaned.
Blake held the phone to his right ear while he plugged the other ear with his finger. The bustle of the conference center overwhelmed the crackling transmission.
“You sound like a tank ran over you.” The statement had a sympathetic subtext. Blake had been there before. A few too many times.
“I might as well have,” Griff scoffed. “Sorry to leave you hanging.”
Blake had called and knocked on Griff’s door for several minutes before heading to the conference center on his own. Griff’s lack of response did not surprise Blake. He never expected Griff to make it back by morning.
“Nah, brother. It’s all good. I’ve been checking out a few of the speakers. Some worthwhile stuff, actually. I’m guessing you had a hell of a night, where’d you end up?”
“Uh. I have no freakin’ idea. Right now, I’m standing next to an inflatable pool in some crappy-ass trailer park. Sandy’s inside making breakfast.”
“I think you can just skip to lunch,” Blake said. “You’ll have to fill me in on the rest later, I can barely hear you in here. You good getting back?”
“Yeah, I’m good. I’ll Uber back soon. I told her I was flying back to Alaska today and had to be at the airport in two hours. Gives us enough time for one more goodbye.”
“Ah. Roger that. I’ll see you when you get back,” Blake said.
“Later.” Griff disconnected.
Blake pulled the day’s itinerary from the pocket of his jeans. He picked out a seminar called Owning Docker: Attacking and Auditing Containerized Infrastructure. Now comfortable with the layout of the venue, Blake weaved through the booths and exhibits, arriving at his destination with plenty of time to spare.
He chose a seat in the back, settled in, and waited for the event to start. As he waited, his mind wandered. Deep in thought, he entertained any random notion that popped up. He observed the attendees as they entered the room and interacted with one another. He tried to separate them into two general categories, those who were interested in security and technological advancement, and those who were more interested in causing harm, mayhem, or most despicably, hoping to prey on the vulnerable for personal gain. In his world, these two opposite groups were classified as Black Hat and White Hat hackers, a reference to the good guy/bad guy dichotomy of old Western movies. Blake liked to think he fell in the White Hat category.
As a bonus round, Blake also tried to pick out who was representing federal and state agencies. All the attendees knew that most, if not all, of the federal agencies attended the event. Griff was there for that purpose, even if he had applied his own interpretation of his directive to infiltrate, but he wasn’t the only one sent on a fishing expedition. His agency would have sent dozens of operatives, all working independently or in small groups. Not to mention the others. FBI, DHS, NSA, DIA, a myriad of private government contracting companies. That did not seem to dissuade anyone from showing up. In fact, it had the opposite effect.
Small-time criminal organizations loved the attention of law enforcement, especially federal law enforcement. Small chapters of biker gangs and the fringes of revolutionary organizations fancied themselves as dangerous and powerful. In their minds, any attention by law enforcement would serve as proof of their self-aggrandizing roles in the underbelly of society. But anyone of consequence preferred to keep a lower profile.
Don’t worry about the threat you see, worry about the one you don’t.
Blake had no way to know for sure, but he thought he could identify the agents and operatives. The ones he had noticed seemed obvious. He wondered if he stood out in the same way.
The lights dimmed to half their original brightness, and a volunteer began unhooking the rear doors, allowing them to swing closed. A guy in his mid-twenties wearing a vintage Pacman t-shirt and carrying a backpack slipped through the doors before they closed. He ducked into a seat in Blake’s row and pulled a laptop from his pack. In the old days, Blake and his teammates would assign nicknames based on some unique feature to people they didn’t know. When communicating on coms, it allowed them to refer to people without ambiguity.
Pacman.
As the last door closed, the roar of the crowd outside the room transformed into a muted buzz.
“Thanks for coming. A bit of housekeeping before we bring out Kip. Please turn your cell phones off.” The moderator started with the usual spiel.
The sound of the crowds flooded the room for a moment before receding again. Blake turned back to see the latest arrival. A petite woman wearing tight black jeans and deep purple top. The dark-colored clothing, combined with her black hair and dark features, gave her a mysterious aura. Blake tried to place her in one of his categories. She looked youthful but wasn’t a kid. She was beautiful but didn’t look as though she spent a lot of time or energy addressing her appearance. She was jittery, but in the same way he might be. Scanning the room. Hyper-aware of her surroundings. There was a visible tension in her body. He found the woman a curious case.
Pegasus.
It was the first nickname that popped into his head. He went with it.
The woman found an aisle seat about halfway down. She looked over her shoulder, locking eyes with Blake. He winced at being caught staring and looked away. After a few moments, he couldn’t help but shift his focus back in her direction.
As attractive as she may have been, Blake wasn’t interested in her. Not sexually. That was the last thing he needed. But he found her interesting.
Definitely not a Fed.
Blake had tuned out the speaker. The woman captivated him as her head swiveled back and forth. She’d look over her shoulder at the rear doors, scan the crowd, squirm in her seat, and start the pattern over again. The more Blake watched, the more he realized that the woman appeared to be hiding from something. She didn’t seem interested in the seminar's content. Was there someone she was trying to avoid? An ex-boyfriend or something? He reconsidered. The bottom line was that she looked scared. The question was, what was there to fear while surrounded by strangers at a public event? Should he be concerned, too? Should they all? What did she know that no-one else was aware of?
What’s your story, Pegasus?
Again, came the rise and fall of the exterior chatter. This time, louder. More distracting. The speaker did not skip a beat, but Blake paid no attention. He looked back to find that two more men had entered the room. Unlike the woman, these men were not a mystery. But their presence was peculiar. Dressed in black cargo-style tactical pants and synthetic black T-shirts, they stood on either side of the door. It wasn’t only their pants, their high-and-tight haircuts, or their rigid posture that made Blake so sure. It was their belts. The style of nylon belt screamed military. Were these men federal agents? It was possible.
Thing One and Thing Two.
Both men’s eyes darted back and forth as if looking for someone or something. Blake ran through the options. Bomb threat? If that were the case, there would be dogs. There would be an attempt to evacuate the room. Maybe a wanted person? There were several people on the FBI’s most wanted list who would fit in just fine at a hacker’s conference. But why take the risk of appearing in such a public place. A place teeming with undercover agents?
Blake peeked back at the woman and saw that she had slumped down in her seat and placed her hand along the left side of her face. Were these men looking for her?
He had been familiar with most of the high-level hackers who had not yet been apprehended. But he didn’t recognize her face. Then again, he had been out of the game for quite a while. He felt the hair on his neck stand up. The situation grew more intriguing by the second.
Blake turned back toward the doors, trying his best to be inconspicuous. He saw one of the two men lean toward the other. The man spoke too soft for Blake to hear the faintest bit of conversation, but he didn’t have to. His motion, pointing toward the area where the young woman sat, said volumes. The scowl on his face said even more. They both moved do
wn the aisle.
The woman peeked over her shoulder just in time to glimpse at the men before they had closed the last forty feet. She leapt up and sprinted toward the front of the room. The meeting space, created by sectioning off a larger ballroom with floor-to-ceiling collapsing partitions, had two exits at the front of the room. These doors, positioned at either side of the portable stage, were marked with glowing red exit signs. It wasn’t a stretch to guess that she headed for the nearest one. It also went without saying that the two men would do the same. They picked up their pace. The woman put another twenty feet between her and her pursuers before they kicked it up to a full sprint.
Maybe his judgment was not what it used to be, but Blake’s gut told him that something wasn’t right. Thing One and Thing Two seemed desperate. Their method was unorganized. If this woman were the target of a federal agency, more agents would have been placed in the room. The two men would have been more inconspicuous, or at least attempted to be. They would have waited until the woman was pinned in from all angles. And then there was Pegasus. She portrayed vulnerability. A genuine fear. He could see it in her eyes.
Blake had watched the entire scene unfold, beat by beat. Every other soul in the vicinity had been oblivious to the performance until the climactic action sequence demanded their attention. It meant, sadly, that he understood the characters in this story better than anyone else at that moment.
In the fleeting seconds that followed the start of the pursuit, a tug of war ensued inside Blake’s brain. He had never been one to stand by and watch. He was a man of action who fought for the vulnerable, stood up for what was right. Even if it meant sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But that version of Blake was supposed to have been dead and buried. So why couldn’t he shake the instinct to follow? He didn’t have time to find the answer. If a few more seconds elapsed, the question would have been moot.