Hacker: The Outlaw Chronicles (15 page)

J
ON STONE walked
the starkly lit hallway of San Francisco General Hospital, the heels of his shoes clacking, clacking against the tiles.

The girl was in the building, he could feel her the way a shark could smell blood from miles away. He had to take her. Once she left with the FBI, getting to her would prove far more difficult, if not impossible. It was now or never. And never wasn’t an option.

After securing her, he would head east into the Nevada desert and there, away from prying eyes, extract the information he needed. Then he would eliminate her.

Eliminate her.
He smiled at that. What was with these word games people played, even with themselves?
Kill her.
He would kill her. Yes.

“May I help you?” A vibrant, large-haired woman said as he approached the first- floor information desk. She was all teeth and entirely too happy.

“I do hope so,” he said, donning his best worried expression. “I’m looking for a family friend who was just admitted. This place is so big I don’t know where to start.”

“I know, right?” she said with a wave of her hand. He half expected her teeth to hop right out of her mouth. “It can be overwhelming. What’s your friend’s name, darling?”

“Parks,” he said. “Elizabeth Parks.”

After a few keystrokes on the computer she looked up. “She was just moved to a private room on twelve.” She paused. “But I’m so sorry. Visiting hours are officially over.”

He wrinkled his brow and checked his watch. “I’m actually on my way to the airport. This is the only chance I’ll have to see her. Make an exception . . . please?”

She looked him over slowly. “Just a few minutes?” she said.

“I’ll be in and out, I promise.”

“When the nurse makes her rounds, you skedaddle.” She smiled more broadly at her use of the word. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

She twisted and pointed behind her. “You want to take the elevators down the hall, on the right.”

“Thank you,” he said and headed down the hall. When he reached the elevators, he continued past them to the end of the corridor. Without a glance back, he turned right and pushed through the doorway to the stairwell.

This time, the girl wouldn’t get past him.

A
USTIN HEARD
the sensory-deprivation tank close behind him as he headed for the control console. Water streamed off his body, leaving little puddles in his wake. He pressed a palm against his chest and felt his heart pounding as fast as a paint-mixing machine. He’d started without Nyah because—well, because progress, now when they were so close, was more important than the promise he’d made to her.

He’d made four solo hacks since she’d left, each one longer than the previous one; the last one, he’d been under for four minutes. He had to ride the momentum, with or without her.

Subjecting his body to such stress was taking its toll, but nothing compared to the alternative. Desperate situations require measures sufficient for the task. He’d known what he would do before she walked out the door.

He had no other choice. He had to find Outlaw again and he couldn’t wait.

Nyah had discovered the very thing he’d been searching for all along: the intersection of what
was
and what
could be.
It was that zero point on the quantum level that enabled energy to be changed, transforming physical reality.

He’d theorized about it, researched the efficacy of its existence, and had become convinced with time and his own experience that it was possible. But she had proven it beyond a doubt.

Now it was within reach and he couldn’t simply let it slip away. If she could heal her scar then he could heal the tumor rotting his brain. Heal or die. There were no other options.

She had barely left the building before he’d rebooted the system and began formulating new protocols to extend the time he could spend inside the tank. The key was properly balancing the neurocompounds in the Kick with the frequency and placement of the laser pulses via the TAPs.

The sessions had been back-to-back and he’d left the tank only to adjust the software to push him deeper with each new hack.

But something was wrong. Despite the added time, nothing new had happened. In fact, he’d lost significant ground since hacking with Nyah. He could walk around his apartment, but that’s as far as he could go. No matter what he did, he couldn’t find the red door or Outlaw. Like his earliest hacks, he was limited to a localized experience. Why? It was as if he’d been locked out.

Why?

He paced nervously, tapping each finger seven times with his thumb, mind sifting relentlessly through the problem. Maybe his tolerance for the Kick had increased to the point it no longer worked. Maybe the answer was amping up the dosage . . . but that was dangerous.

Exhaustion had settled into his bones. Weeks of insomnia and pushing his body farther than it was meant to go had finally caught up with him . . . and it was rolling over him like a freight train. Each new hack stressed his body to near breaking.

Austin shivering uncontrollably as he shuffled toward the control console. A few more sessions, that’s all he needed. He had to shut his mind down, be aggressive with the Kick. He had to go all in.

That was the key: quiet the brain, quiet the brain, quiet the brain. But each time he returned from a hack without making progress, the more desperate he became and the more his brain churned, frantic for answers. Combating his own manic state meant going much deeper for a much longer time than he had before. Physically, he was worn dangerously thin, but he was too close to let off the gas. If anything, he had to push harder. Jam the accelerator through the floor. The alternative was to do nothing . . . and die.

He already had one foot in the grave: he was beginning to notice dramatic changes in his fine motor skills and cognitive ability. A heavy fog had settled in his mind that he couldn’t clear away.

No, he couldn’t wait. Not for Nyah. Not for anyone.

He had to find Outlaw. He was the answer to all of this; Austin was sure of it. The girl that Nyah had seen was undoubtedly a projection of her subconscious. Outlaw was a projection his, which meant that any hope of healing his mind rested there. With Outlaw.

The software was already analyzing the new data when he reached the console and sank into a chair. He squinted at the blurry monitor and wheeled closer. Even after dialing the monitor’s brightness down, the light speared his eyes like shards of glass.

He palmed the computer mouse with a trembling hand and clicked on the diagnostics summary. His vital signs were still deteriorating. Blood pressure: Elevated and rising. Heart rate: Off the charts. Respiratory: He did need a machine to know he was close to hyperventilation. Temperature: Now, that was the most troubling. His fever had spiked to 104.3 degrees, up two degrees with the most recent hack.

What was causing these alarming vitals? Lack of sleep? The tumor? He’d never suffered any physiological changes from hacking, but then again he’d never subjected his body to so much so quickly.

What was he missing? The answer was beyond his reach, but only barely.

He needed more time.

Ticktock, Austin.

A headache burned the inside of his skull. He snatched the amber bottle of pain meds off the console. Empty. He tossed it across the floor and reached for a second bottle. Two pills left. His fingers trembled so badly that he could barely open it.

He dumped them straight into his mouth and swallowed hard. They scraped his parched throat on the way down.

C’mon, Austin. Just a few more hacks, a few more.

The solution’s there, waiting for you to find it.

Unsteady fingers lingered over the keyboard.

He who hesitates is lost.

Austin tapped the keys, setting the protocol parameters for the next hack. Target session time: twenty minutes. He had to go deep. Twenty minutes in clock time, nearly a day inside the hack. That would be enough. It had to be.

The software ran a series of calculations to determine the necessary levels of laser stimulus and neurocompound for the Kick.

The software recalibrated and cycled through a series of check protocols as it prepared to run what he was certain would be the final session. Almost ready. All he had to do was prep the headgear and get back in the tank.

Steadying himself with a hand on the console, he stood and stepped toward the tank room. An electronic chirp stopped him. He scanned the console, confused. Then he saw its source: the black phone, his landline, sitting atop a yellow legal pad.

He picked it up and glanced at the screen. BLOCKED ID. It wasn’t Nyah’s number, which he’d programmed in when he’d given her the other prepaid phone. He set it back on the console and walked away.

Prepping the tank, he ground his molars together and cursed his body for its betrayal. Every part of him prickled with pain and a dull, throbbing ache seeped into his bones. He was in bad shape, but soon that would change. He believed it. He had to believe it.

The saltwater felt frigid against his skin as he sat in the tank connecting the headgear. Why did it feel so cold? The salt smell too—it was overwhelming.

Your mind’s unraveling, that’s why.

He shoved the thought aside, but the fear had already set in.

This is what it feels like to lose your mind.

No.

You can’t stop it. You’re losing yourself. Your mind is dying.

“No,” he said out loud, but he knew the truth. “Computer, initiate hack protocol Delta.”

A digital voice responded. “Hack protocol Delta confirmed. Initiating solo hack. Engaging in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

Austin drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly, letting his body go limp in the water. The pain in his chest was spreading through his arms like fire.

“Seven . . . six . . . five . . .”

Pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced exploded behind his left eye. It was barbed and terrible as if a thick, rusted spike had been hammered into his eye socket and through the back of his head. His jaw stretched wide, but no sound came out. His throat clamped tight as a second wave of pain hit.

Somewhere in the distance a voice said, “Four . . . three . . . two . . .”

His entire body arched in a spasm of pain that pulled every muscle so taut that he thought they would start snapping like rubber bands. Every bone felt ready to shatter. Mentally, he screamed and felt his entire being—mind and body—collapsing in on itself.

“. . . one . . . Engaging hack protocol . . .”

A streak of brilliant light blinded him and the roar of a vast explosion sucking all the oxygen from the world filled his ears. Then . . .

Silence. Utter silence.

L
ETTIE SHOWED
me long ago how to maneuver Mom into a wheelchair. It was all about leverage and letting gravity do its thing. On any given day, one of us would have to move Mom on our own, and when there’s no one else to rely on, you get good at things that no one should have to be good at.

I positioned the wheelchair close to the bed and stripped the top blanket and sheets off Mom. “Ready to go, Mom?” I said and leaned over her. I worked my arm behind her until I had a good grip and tugged her torso toward me.

Like me, Mom was small framed and her body slid easily across the sheets. I spun her upper torso toward me until I could hook my hands under her armpits and take her weight as it leaned against me. Her head flopped back onto my shoulder and I shrugged to hold it steady.

Leaning back, I took a step and then another, slowing dragging her toward the wheelchair. I saw too late that I’d yanked the IV hose loose. Saline water streamed from the bag and onto the floor.

I took another step and Mom’s feet reached the mattress’s edge. With a final heave, they came free and swung to the floor. Her heels hit with a dull splash in the saline puddle. The sudden impact caused her to list sideways.

My slight frame sagged under her weight and I stumbled back, but caught my footing. I was breathing hard now, my muscles aching from the effort.

A few more sharp tugs and she was in the chair. Without pausing to rest, I disengaged the brakes, spun the wheelchair around, and pushed it toward the door.

The plan was simple: Get her down the hall and to the elevator before anyone could see us. Success depended on speed.

I cracked open the door and leaned out to check the hallway. Seeing it empty, I opened the door wide and kicked a rubber doorstop beneath it. I wheeled Mom out turned right and headed for the elevators. In my heart, hope glowed a little brighter with each step, like blowing on a hot coal.

Keep moving.

I had a direct line of sight to the alcove and, just beyond it, the elevators. The waiting area where Jill and Lettie sat was down another hall, out of view. At any moment, one of them could come down the hall and catch me. Driven forward by that thought, I pushed Mom faster.

I considered the obstacles that lay ahead. The biggest one was the wristband Mom wore. It was a Wi-Fi-enabled device that connected to sensors on her body and fed heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels to a nurse’s station. Once she got out of signal range, the data on their screens would flat line. Someone would come running and it wouldn’t be long—a minute? less?— before Jill got wind of our absence. Most likely, we’d be in the elevator when the alarms sounded.

As we passed by open patient rooms I heard the electronic murmur of ventilators and monitoring equipment. I kept a smile on my face and my gaze straight ahead. If a doctor or nurse spotted us, I needed to look confident. I was just another visitor giving her loved one a change of scenery.

A woman laughed as I hurried past a room. A man too, and I looked over my shoulder. The hall was still clear.

You’re okay. Keep moving.

Thirty feet to the elevator . . . twenty-eight . . . I abandoned my careful pace. I was too exposed—and too close to get caught now. Putting all of my weight on the wheelchair’s handles I leaned forward and sprinted to the elevator doors. Jammed the DOWN button. A gentle hum filled the elevator shaft.

“All right, you can do this,” I whispered through gritted teeth, eyes flitting nervously between the elevator and the hall to my right. If anyone saw me, I was done.

An eternity passed before the doors parted with a whispered
shoosh.
I wheeled Mom in, reached to my left and smacked the “1” button just as voices approached from one of the hallways.

The doors closed and the elevator jerked slightly beneath my feet before beginning its glacial descent back to earth.

11 . . . 10 . . . 9 . . .

Just as I’d feared, the monitor on her wrist chimed as we passed the eighth floor. It had lost the Wi-Fi signal. Trembling now, I spun Mom’s wheelchair around to face the doors. The moment they parted, I would have to move fast and find Lettie’s minivan, which was in the Emergency Room parking lot.

8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . .

S
TONE PASSED
the third-floor landing and continued his upward climb, taking the stairs calmly. Somewhere above him a door banged shut and a twinge of urgency rushed through him. He quickened his pace.

Pausing at the door to the twelfth floor, he drew his gun from its shoulder harness and attached a silencer. He hoped firing on anyone would be unnecessary. Drawing attention would create problems, particularly being on an upper-level floor. He needed to get the girl with as little commotion as possible.

The gun hung loose at his side as he pulled the door open a crack. The hallway resonated with activity. Frantic voices echoed down the hallways. Something was wrong. He leaned closer as two nurses rushed from a room across the hall. A doctor followed, running behind them with a phone to his ear.

Holding the gun just inside the flap of his jacket, Stone stepped into the hallway and angled toward the room they’d exited.

He reached it within a few strides and his eyes found the patient’s name handwritten on a strip of whiteboard. Elizabeth Parks. The girl’s mother.

The door was propped open and he went in. His practiced eyes took in everything instantly: The bed was empty. Water on the floor. No girl. But there was a woman. She stood at the window, her back to him.

“She must’ve taken her,” the woman said into a phone. “I don’t know why, I don’t know where—” She turned and their eyes met. It was Jill Corbis, FBI. Her eyes widened and she grabbed for the gun holstered at her hip.

Stone pulled his pistol and put two rounds into the center of the woman’s chest. The shots were muffled snaps, hardly louder than a clap.

Her body jerked with the impact and fell backward, against the window. The phone clattered across the floor. He covered the distance between them in a few strides and grabbed her before she could topple into a cart of medical equipment. Pressing the muzzle of the silencer into her ribs, he squeezed the trigger again then gently lowered her to the floor.

He quickly gathered the three spent cartridges from the floor and pocketed them, ignoring the blood pooling from her body. The girl was gone, but likely still nearby, if not still in the building.

Holstering his weapon, he slipped into the hallway. No one in sight. Judging by the spilled IV bag, the girl had moved the mother, obviously without the agent’s knowledge. But why would she do that? More importantly, where was she now?

Stone studied the hallway, looking left and right, then entered the stairwell. He knew exactly where she was going.

I
PUSHED
the wheelchair through the parking lot as fast as I could manage. Using the key fob’s controls, I had the van unlocked and the chairlift electronically unfolding from the side door before we reached it. Even so, we had to wait as the lift whirred and hummed, dropping to the ground slowly.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

It settled on the asphalt with a scrape and I wheeled Mom on. I pushed another button and the list slowly raised her. My mind was numb with fear. No one had seen me yet, but they’d surely realized by now that I was gone and so was Mom.

With the chair in the van, I strapped Mom in and climbed behind the wheel. I backed out so fast that I scraped a parked ambulance.

My eyes shot forward as a man came through the Emergency Room exit. The security guard saw me and began running toward the van, yelling. Close on his heels was the FBI agent Jill had told to wait on the first floor. I had expected to see him in the lobby, but he hadn’t been there when I stepped off the elevator.

I shoved the van into drive and yanked the wheel hard as I floored it. The tires barked, and I careened through the parking lot toward the exit. The minivan banged over a speed bump and bounced like a carnival ride when I came out of the parking lot. Engine straining, I turned right into traffic, cutting off a Volvo that blared its horn. The van fishtailed, found its bearing, and shot forward.

The hospital grew smaller in the rearview mirror and I sighed with relief when I saw Mom was okay. Glancing at both outside mirrors, I determined we weren’t being followed. Yet. I had to put as much distance between us as possible. I had to get her to Austin. There, we would be safe.

I jammed the pedal down, accelerated through a red light, and roared up the highway on-ramp.

“Hang on, Mom,” I said, looking in the rearview mirror. Her head lolled forward and side to side in rhythm with the jostling of the van. I took the first exit I came to and picked my way through side streets toward Austin’s. I hoped the FBI would think I had stayed on the highway and crossed the Bay.

Fifteen minutes later I turned into the underground parking garage at Austin’s. He’d told me to never park at the building itself in case I was being tailed, but there was no time to park down the street. I needed to get Mom upstairs as quickly as possible.

The wooden access gate was down, but I had no time for etiquette. I rammed through it, sending the thing flying in an explosion of splinters. I bounced through the dimly lit garage and stopped by a doorway that had to lead inside.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably and my entire body buzzed with adrenaline. I climbed out and stared for a moment at the garage entrance. I didn’t think anyone had followed me here, because if they had I’d be dead.

I pushed the button to open the side door and lower the lift, then got Mom out of the van. How was I going to explain this to Austin? I’d brought up the idea of putting my mom in the hack, but talking about it and doing it were different things.

Mom’s breath was ragged and shallow by the time I got her on the lobby elevator. She was in serious condition. She was dying and no one could change that using medicine. If Mom was going to live, it would take a miracle and she of all people was due one. Just one.

The elevator jarred to a stop on the top floor, and I wheeled the chair to Austin’s door. I threw the door open, circled back around the wheelchair and pushed Mom in. The moment I set foot inside I heard the alarm echoing through the room.

“Austin?” I called and pushed Mom deeper into the room. “Where are you?”

As I moved forward, the alarm grew louder, and I realized it was coming from the console.

“Austin?” I engaged the wheelchair’s brakes and rushed to the control panel.

I saw him first on the monitors. His face stared into the camera with vacant eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream. He was in one of the tanks.

“Oh, dear God . . .” I said, eyes on the biometric data flowing across the screen. “What have you done?”

The erratic tone of the heart rate monitor fed through the speakers and the diagnostic panel. I ran to the controls, which flashed with warnings. His pulse was 200. Now 205 . . . 215 . . . climbing with each second.

He’d hacked without me . . .

His pulse spiked at 224 beats per minute and, as I watched, the erratic beep of his heart rate coming through the monitor’s speaker gave way to a singular tone, long and mournful. It was the loudest, most horrific sound in the world. The numbers on the monitor clicked to zero.

On the screen, his face went slack and he exhaled a hollow breath. Just one.

I was too late.

Austin was dead.