Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (17 page)

Morrison arrived at Johnson’s
little old lady’s house just before noon.

The hacker was grumbling. He
looked just as tired and dejected as the blond guy earlier that morning. His face
was pale, his eyes all puffy and red from staring too long at a computer screen.

Seeing his current state,
Morrison thought he would cheer him up first. He took out two fresh rolls of
dollar bills from his pockets and threw them at him one after the other in
quick succession. Johnson caught the rolls in midair without blinking.

“You look tired, Johnson, but
you’ve still got good reflexes,” Morrison said.

Johnson didn’t respond.
Didn’t show any reaction. He just dropped the money on his work table as if it were
plain stationery.

“What, you’re already
blasé
about receiving 20K?” Morrison said.

Johnson stretched and
yawned. “I’ve had a long night,” he said. “Again.”

Morrison caught the
message and got right down to business. “Do you have anything on the flight?” he
asked.

“My guy’s working on it,”
Johnson said.

Morrison frowned. “You
didn’t take care of it yourself?”

“I’ve spent the whole
night on bank number four,” Johnson said. “I was still working on it when you
sent your text with the flight info. I can’t split myself in half.”

This didn’t please
Morrison. “This thing is urgent, man. You’re the top dog. I’d rather have you
on this.”

Johnson breathed out. “When
you sent me this new request, my night was almost over. My guy is good. Not as
good as me, I’ll grant you that, but almost. And he works regular hours. So if
you want results fast, he’s your best bet, Morrison.”

“OK, OK,” Morrison
conceded. “So has he got anything yet?”

“I don’t know. He will contact
me when he does. Same as he did for Candela Bank.”

“Why don’t you try him?”

Johnson grumbled. “You’re starting
to be a real pain in the ass, Morrison, you know that?”

Morrison shrugged. “If you
don’t want to do it, just give me his number. I’ll ring him up.”

Johnson flashed him a big wide
smile. “Not a chance, Morrison. Not a chance in hell I’m sharing my contacts
with you.”

Morrison returned his
smile. “Doesn’t cost anything to try. But since you’re so protective, will you
please ring him up yourself?”

“You’re a real pain,
Morrison,” Johnson said as he opened a drawer from his work table and fished
out one of the many prepaid phones it contained. Like everyone in the business,
the hacker made ample use of these devices. At any time, he owned at least four
or five of these beasts, and he would rarely hold on to any of them for more
than a couple of months. He punched in his guy’s number. Put the phone to his
ear. Stayed still for a moment, then hung up.

“No answer,” he said.
“He’s probably too busy to answer.”

“Can you try him with your
computer?” Morrison asked.

Johnson sighed. He
swiveled on his chair to face his laptop. Typed a rapid-fire sequence on his
keyboard. Then he stared at his screen and waited. One minute went by in
silence. Then two. Then three.

Morrison could now see a
trace of worry on his hacker friend’s face.

“Hmm. He doesn’t appear to
be online,” Johnson said, swiveling his chair to face him again.

“That surprises you?” Morrison
asked.

Johnson tilted his head. “A
bit.”

The hacker reached for the
mobile phone and punched in the number again. Waited for a moment. Still no
answer. The hacker put the phone down on the table.

Now he looked worried.

“We’ve got this agreement,”
Johnson said. “To reach each other. Right now, he should be working online. But
he isn’t. When he’s not online, he should be getting the phone, unless he
can’t, like if he’s driving or something. But then he should return my call ASAP.”

“Maybe he had to run an
errand?” Morrison said.

“Maybe,” Johnson said.

“Want to try him again in
a couple of minutes?”

“Sure, let’s do that.”

Johnson sat back in his
chair and put his feet up on the work table. Morrison got comfortable in his
lowlying leather armchair. He figured he’d use the downtime to ask Johnson about
his progress into bank number four’s audit. Johnson responded to his inquiry
with a dismissive wave of the hand and a gutted “Pffft …” “I haven’t gone
anywhere,” he said. “I worked my ass off all night, and I haven’t made the
slightest breach into their landscape. They’re tight as a tick.”

Morrison frowned. He
would’ve bet his life banks number four and five had been skimmed as well, but
he needed a clear confirmation. He didn’t want to steer a course based on half-truths
or shaky assumptions. He needed to know the exact extent of the theft before he
responded to it. And then his response would be deliberate, systematic and far-reaching.
In true Frank Morrison style.

“You think you’re gonna be
able to get in?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” Johnson said.
“I’ll get right back at it tonight. Sometimes, when you’re stuck, it’s good to
take a break anyway. And right now, I’m toast.”

Morrison nodded. His
hacker had proved immensely valuable these last two days. He trusted he would
get things right.

They continued to chat
idly for another fifteen minutes, then Johnson swiveled back to his laptop,
punched a series of keystrokes at close to light speed and came back with the
same status as before. His sidekick was not online. Johnson picked up the phone
and dialed his guy’s number again. Waited while it rang and rang. Then clicked
it shut. Still no answer.

“OK, this is not normal,” Johnson
said. “Something’s wrong here.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. He’s always
been super reliable. I’ve never had any problem getting to him.”

Morrison was concerned. He
really needed to know if Cowgirl had actually boarded that plane to LA or not.
He needed to know that right now. And he didn’t want to be delayed by a
hacker’s whims and fancies. The guy had to get down with the job immediately. That’s
what he was paying handsomely for.

“Maybe I should drop by
his place,” he said. “Shake him up into coming up with the goods.”

Johnson nodded. “I think
it’s a good idea to check on him,” he said. Then he added a warning. “But I don’t
want you to use the opportunity to recruit him directly. In the future, you
want to use him, you still have to go through me. Understood?”

“Yeah, sure,” Morrison
said. “Sure.”

“I’ll give you my code
name, Pythagoras. So he knows I sent you.”

*

The hacker’s apartment
building was a walk-up located a mere ten minutes away in a mixed neighborhood
of residential and commercial buildings. Not a run-down area but one that
hadn’t seen any new construction in a long time. Morrison parked a couple of buildings
down the street and walked back.

A young family was going
out just as he reached for the door. Father with a folded stroller, mother and baby
girl in tow. Morrison moved over and let them through. Then he pushed his way
in and climbed a dark flight of stairs to apartment number five.

The hacker’s apartment door
was closed. Morrison rang the doorbell. Nobody came to answer.

He didn’t hear anything.
No footsteps, no muted sound, nothing. He rang again. Still no answer.

He looked around. There
was nobody. He was all by himself.

He shrugged and put his
hand on the doorknob. It moved freely. He pushed slowly. The door wasn’t
locked. He stepped in.

“Anybody in?” he called. But
nobody answered.

He closed the door behind
him. Took in the surroundings. First, he saw the living room, on his right.
Then the dining room area.

With the body.

Slumped in the chair.

A splatter of blood, brain
matter and bone splinters strewn on the table.

Morrison’s heart sank. Something
had gone horribly wrong.

He walked a few cautious
steps toward the dead hacker’s body and grimaced. This had been an execution.
The poor guy had been shot point blank from the back. Morrison scanned the rest
of the room.

That’s when he saw the
baby.

From the door, he hadn’t been
able to see him. The couch blocked the view. But there he was. A young infant.
Two years old, something like that. Lying on his back. His eyes wide open. Shot
with a bullet through the heart.

For what appeared to him a
long, long time, Morrison remained still. Not that he wanted to remain still.
Rather, he couldn’t get himself to move. Like his muscles were absorbing the
horror of the scene and couldn’t fight anything back.

What got him moving again was
a disturbing thought.

Johnson.

Morrison suddenly felt on the
verge of panic. If somebody had gone after this guy, then Johnson could be next
on his list. He managed to shake himself off and opened his flip phone. Then he
punched Johnson’s number in.

At the other end, the
ringing started.

And it dragged on.

And dragged on.

He felt dizzy.
Pick up,
Johnson, won’t you just pick up, dammit
. While the phone rang, he kept scanning
the room, as if to reassure himself that he was all alone.

With these two dead
bodies.

Finally, Johnson’s tired voice
erupted in the speaker. Morrison breathed a sigh of relief. “Get the hell out
of your place, Johnson!” he said. “You have to leave now!”

“What are you talking
about?” Johnson said.

“I mean it! Check into a
motel and lay low. And bring your laptop. You have to look into that flight’s
boarding list right now. It’s a matter of life and death.”

On this early Saturday
afternoon, the respected citizen was busy. After a long winter and a few weeks
of bad spring weather, there was much to do around the property. Near the end
of February, an ice storm had left a thick glaze on the trees. The episode had
lasted only a couple of hours, but it had been enough to crack and break tree
branches by the hundreds. Of course, some staff were on hand to take care of
the heavy lifting. But the respected citizen liked to pitch in too. Make its
contribution. Right now, its focus was on the two maple trees standing in front
of the house. They badly needed pruning.

The respected citizen
liked to wield the chainsaw every now and then. Somehow, operating this loud and
noisy contraption that coughed blue smoke like a small factory made you connect
with nature. Strange but highly effective.

A little less than an
hour’s work had already produced an impressive pile of branches of all diameters,
neatly cut in sixteen-inch lengths so they could be fed to the stove next
winter.

While the respected
citizen was attacking one of the last lowlying damaged branches, the mobile
clipped at its belt started buzzing. The call was expected. The citizen shut
off the chainsaw, dropped it on the soft grass and answered the phone.

“It’s done,” the hitman said.
“I’ve also got the guy’s laptop and mobile phone.”

The respected citizen
looked around. There was nobody within sight. It could talk freely.

“Destroy them,” the
citizen said. “Make sure you smash them good. No piece should be bigger than
half an inch. And dispose of them in at least three different public trash
cans.”

“Sure, no problem,
consider it done,” the hitman said.

The respected citizen hung
up the mobile and clipped it back to its belt. Breathed a small sigh of relief.

It had been a drastic
decision to proceed this way, but the situation didn’t leave any other choice.
In critical times like this, you needed to be decisive. You didn’t procrastinate.
If you were diligent and assiduous when it mattered, then half your job was
done. You didn’t necessarily have to work the hardest. You had to work the
smartest. With this matter taken care of, it could now focus its attention back
on the trees.

Another hour of solid work
and the front of the house would look immaculate.

*

After warning Johnson over
the phone, Morrison wondered what he should do next. As he stood in the middle
of the dead hacker’s apartment, his gut was screaming for him to get out at
once. But his head said he should at least have a quick look around.

It was in these circumstances
that your mind could start playing tricks on you. When the tension ratcheted up
a couple of notches, you could start hearing noises that weren’t there. Seeing
things that were mere shadows or just a figment of your imagination. When your
senses were lit up like a burning tree, the brain needed to remain firmly at
the helm not to trouble the signals.

Be aware. Totally aware of
your surroundings but without overreacting. Stay on top of the moment.

He had lived his share of
hairy moments.

He could handle them.

He remained calm and began
perusing the dining room. On the table was a charger and a mouse but no laptop.
Whoever had killed the poor guy and his baby must have left with the computer. To
the right of the mouse was a scratch pad with a few scribblings. They
corresponded to the flight details: flight number, departing city, destination,
date and time. He figured the dead hacker had scribbled them down when Johnson
had called with his demand. Below the flight information were a few other
scribblings. Two IP addresses and what looked like a string of user IDs and
maybe passwords. Morrison decided to take this with him. He tore the page off the
writing block, then he folded it and put it in his pocket. Next, he crouched to
have a look under the table and at the top of the seats, but he didn’t find
anything. Apart from a massive bloodstain on the gray carpeting, right under
the hacker’s body.

He moved on to the kitchen
area with its cold white tile flooring. Browsed the counter. Pulled out a
couple of drawers with a tissue. Peered into the fridge and freezer. But he
didn’t see anything special.

When he left the kitchen,
the apartment fell into complete silence. The fridge compressor had just stopped
buzzing. It made him realize how noisy it had been before. Now, if he
concentrated hard, he could hear faint sounds. Whether they came from neighboring
apartments or from the street, they made him tread ever more lightly to the
living room area.

The gray carpeting extended
there too, so he could move without too much fear of being heard. He looked
around. There was a leather armchair, a couch and a coffee table. On the couch were
a few toys and soft-cover children’s books. On the coffee table was a tangle of
newspapers, magazines and publicity flyers. He browsed through the lot but
found nothing interesting there either.

He skirted around the
couch to get to the bedroom and saw the dead kid again. Still a sickening, horrible
sight. But his brain had adapted to it. Had factored and anticipated its
presence, as weird as it felt.

The bedroom was a mess. Queen
size bed unmade, with a crib at the foot. Floor strewn with dirty clothes. Chest
of drawers covered with a million things: nail clippers, scissors, stacks of
clean folded shirts, children’s toys, tablet hooked on a charger … Morrison began
to think that he wasn’t going to find anything important. Then he heard some
scratching.

He stopped moving.
Listened hard.

The scratching continued.

It came from the front
door.

Morrison’s pulse quickened.
He looked around him. There was no other door into the apartment.

The scratching continued.

Three feet away, there was
an open closet. He could squeeze in there to hide. But then what? He’d still
have to get out.

He heard the dead bolt
slide open.

He took another quick look
around the room.

A soft thumping sound
accompanied by a metallic thud followed. Like someone was trying to push the
front door open with the doorknob still locked.

Morrison remembered he had
locked both after his entry. This afforded him a few more precious moments.

He looked around the
bedroom again in desperation. What was he going to do?

Then he noticed it.

Right at the corner of his
eye. A sight so familiar that you could easily see it without really noticing.

The fire escape. Its black
rusted structure snaked by the bedroom window.

He aimed for it at once. Pulled
the window open in one swift move. Then he strode into the opening and rushed
down the wobbly metal stairs.

When he was a few steps shy
of ground level, he heard a scream.

Loud.

Piercing.

Gut-wrenching.

It came from a woman.