- Chapter 4 -
"The Dark Underbelly"
They sped across the desert a lot faster than the old truck could safely handle, but that was the least of their worries. With the pale moon slowly coming into view, Tavon Greene, accomplished computer hacker, finally realized they were all in deep shit! The only person who could cash in on this deal was out like a light beside him, completely incapacitated, and didn't look to come out of it anytime soon.
Slumped in the passenger seat, head bouncing off the opposite door, Jose Suarez looked more dead than alive, and this distressed Tavon, mainly because Jose was the boss, and he certainly looked "un-boss-like" at the moment.
The old Dodge Ram pickup truck in which they were riding, hit a pothole and the four men hanging on for their lives back in the hard, rusty bed, voiced their discontent loudly. "Fucking Navajo pain in the ass!" Randall Kurtz cursed. "Don't you savages know how to fix the damn roads?" Randall was a handsome man, but hard. He dressed like a cowboy, but didn't want to be called a cowboy. He'd long decided he was the toughest hombre in this group of "experts" because he was a gun expert with deadly aim, and nobody had better forget it!
Hosteen Tull, a tall, slender Navajo Indian, gave Kurtz a sour look and met the other man's accusing eyes sullenly. Hosteen was beginning to get sick and tired of Kurtz's insults aimed in his direction, and he clenched his fists to hold back the retort forming in his throat.
The mess they found themselves in right now had been entirely Kurtz's doing. Stubborn, arrogant and unwilling to bear any sort of criticism, Kurtz had screwed up royally, and Hosteen was certain that the price they would pay for the cowboy's shortsightedness was only beginning.
Getting inside the walls of the high tech corporation had been a breeze, hacking their system and stealing the program, even easier. It was getting out of there that caused the problem. Jeffries had panicked and left two innocent men dead, and now their asses were grass if they didn't make tracks out of Flagstaff, Arizona pronto. And it was all Kurtz's fault!
ONE WEEK EARLIER:
Five diverse men slouched, in varying degrees of alertness, around an old wooden table located in a hazy back room of an abandoned warehouse on the north side of Flagstaff. Mark Lansa, a tall hard-boned Hopi Indian, stood against a wall smoking a cigarette and glancing about suspiciously at the others present in the room. He did not trust any of them, and with good reason. Erik Jeffries, shave-headed and stocky, tattooed and metal-bedecked, sat on the floor against the same wall, polishing a chrome-barreled handgun that already looked cleaner than anything Lansa had ever owned in his life. Jeffries studiously ignored everyone else, and his body language shouted: "Keep out!"
The two computer hackers, Tavon Greene, dark-skinned, dredlocked, and handsome beyond measure, and Tull the Navajo, were sitting together across the table, hunched over a laptop, talking computer jargon in hushed tones that would have sailed right over the heads of the others, if they'd been able to hear the exchange. Which they hadn't!
One man was sleeping, or studiously pretending to be, greasy Stetson pulled forward over his eyes. Randall Kurtz, the annoying, foul-mouthed Texan, was snoring softly, but jumped like a kicked mongrel when the large door at the front of the warehouse burst open with a hollow thump and screeched back on its hinges to hit the inside wall.
The Boss was here!
Jose Suarez didn't look like much. He was totally unimpressive, which was the way he liked it. He was older than the rest of them, with a skinny body, always attired in dark clothing. He had steely blue eyes and long gray hair pulled back and woven into a braid, which hung nearly to the middle of his back. He reminded them all of Willy Nelson, but he had neither a gravelly singing voice, nor a battered old guitar; only a steel-trap mind and a thousand ways to use it that had the potential to make them all very rich. He commanded respect from the group gathered there to the extent that they all came to grudging attention when he walked in.
"Well, hola, boys!" He greeted them with a whiskery smile and took a seat at the table. Those not already seated, joined him. "I got us a nice easy one … big payoff. This rich gringo I know needs us to steal a computer program that doesn't even have a practical use yet. It's just sitting there under the Navy's nose. Nobody will even miss it … if we cover our tracks." He paused a moment and looked pointedly at Hosteen Tull. "That is, if Hoss here can get you guys into the building … and if you, Kurtz, can disable their security system …"
Jose shifted his gaze to the second hacker and the cowboy, and received a couple of curt nods in return. "All right! It's a 'go' then." He placed a thick sheaf of papers on the table with a whack. "Here's what ya need to get started. You've got a week to research and prepare. The name of the outfit is 'Soon Chang Corporation' and it's over on South Garfield. We get ready and go in next Friday!"
With a single nod to the other men in the room, Suarez stood up from the table, scraping his chair back. He left as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived.
"That was sure-as-hell quick!" Jeffries muttered under his breath.
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The week passed in a flurry of excited activity and preparation. The plans were studied and precisely laid out well ahead of the deadline. Everything they would need was packed into an old, stolen and anonymous white Chevy van with stolen license and registration. They were well on their way to the secure compound where the Navy's "orphan" program was housed. Arriving in the parking lot just outside the perimeter fence, Jose Suarez turned around in the driver's seat and faced the rest of his team.
"You get in there … you grab the program, plant the decoy, and get out!" He looked to Hosteen in particular. "No farting around looking for side projects!" He grinned. "This is going to be a big payoff, and nobody needs to get greedy!"
Five heads nodded agreement. They were all business now, and they needed to be able to depend on the skills of each other.
"All right! Hosteen, Randall, Tavon and Mark; you're going in. Erik will be guarding the door and provide a distraction if … God forbid! … anything looks like it's going south! The rendezvous point is the big cement block garage in the north parking lot outside the perimeter. Got it?"
Five heads nodded silently.
"Good. Go!"
Five diverse men exited the van and approached the perimeter fence boldly. Tavon was last out, lugging the laptop case by his side. Hosteen led the group, walking tall as they approached the security gate. Tavon hoped their source for the counterfeit I.D. badges had been reliable.
When they all passed through the gate with no problem, however, without even an inkling of suspicion, he couldn't hold back a sigh of relief. Tavon had been in this racket most of his life, but he was always overly careful, mindful of his family back in L.A. They didn't need to know he earned his living as a thief!
"Hey Greene! Get your ass in gear! I don't wanna be here any longer than I have to," Randall Kurtz whispered loudly in his ear. Tavon suppressed a shudder as the smell of stale smoke and stale alcohol wafted over from the sullen Texan.
"You wanna hack into the closed network then?" He asked with a smirk, knowing that ninety per cent of anything he said would go right over the head of the thick-skulled Kurtz. "I'll walk at my own pace, thanks."
Randall scoffed, but turned on his heel and trotted forward to bother Hosteen Tull, Tavon's brother hacker.
Christ! Cowboys and Indians!
Tavon stared at their backs, finding it a bit comical that both of them would shed those monikers if they could. Hosteen hated his Navajo heritage at least as much as Kurtz despised his cowboy image. Tavon had more respect for Hosteen, however. Tull had at least gone to college to study computer technology. The only thing Kurtz was good for, Tavon theorized, was shooting anything that moved!
"Hey Kurtz! Should we be worried about those gun turrets?" Mark Lansa pointed upward to a fearsome array of heavy artillery aimed toward the parking lot and the perimeter fence surrounding it. They were halfway to their destination now, walking across the open space between the guard shack and the main building. Lansa was younger, less impressive and less talkative than the others, but his innate street smarts were keen and he was unusually observant.
"Nah … look closer! They're not even manned! See? They probably have to go to full alert inside the place in order to activate 'em. Not to worry."
Lansa was not so certain about that, but he conceded the point. Kurtz was supposed to know what he was doing when it came to artillery, so he let the question drop in the face of expert opinion as they came within shouting distance of the main entrance.
Tavon heard the Hopi mutter something in his native tongue, and smiled to himself. He had had a few questions also, but if Kurtz said the weapons were harmless as they stood, then he would go along with it.
They all flashed their IDs again at the door, and were again granted access. "This is easier than I thought it would be!" Tavon mumbled to himself and looked over at Hosteen who looked decidedly triumphant. He'd been the one who had rigged up the ID badges on information bought at a high price from a disgruntled former employee. These big corporations seemed to have a glut of those! Tavon had to agree that Hosteen did very thorough work.
Tull worked his magic again, once they were inside the building. Withdrawing a small hand-held electronic device that looked a lot like an old Zippo lighter, he slid it across the keypad that locked the door to the computer room. After a few moments of concentrated maneuvering on his part, the door clicked open and they all entered with a few furtive backward glances.
The coast was clear, and now it was Tavon's turn.
He and Hosteen sat down at the computer console which was the only object occupying this windowless, scrupulously clean room. Getting a login screen, he entered a code that made the computer respond with an angry "Beep!"
"What the hell was that?" Mark hissed from behind them.
"Nothing. Just testing the waters before I decide to jump in head first!" Tavon replied curtly. He was the expert at this level, and he didn't need the peanut gallery asking stupid questions at that particular moment. Quickly, he keyed up another code, and the screen flashed a start-up menu.
"Hah! There!" He was in. Somehow, it seemed too simple. Opening up the hard drive, he found the access he'd been looking for. It was, after all, a target program that most people wouldn't even glance at twice.
He inserted CDs and quickly burned two copies of the thing: one for him, one for Suarez. Redundancy was important in this "business".
The rest of the plan was even easier. Hacking into something without being detected was difficult, sometimes impossible. But getting caught was no problem, even for the most unseasoned hackers.
Tavon entered the Defense Contract Folder and maneuvered his way through the pass codes and firewalls. After only a few more moments, he heard an external alarm start blaring. He smiled with conspiratorial satisfaction to his cohorts.
Mission accomplished!
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Jose Suarez sat in the white van that housed all the team's equipment, and smoked a cigar in triumph. He'd been correct in trusting this team. They were the best. Everyone on this job had tricked up with him before. A twelve million dollar payoff was on the line this time, and Jose had left nothing to chance. Sighing contentedly, he flipped the switch on his radio transmitter, checking in on the progress of the job.
That was a mistake!
"Hah! There!" Tavon's voice crackled in the small receiver. Soon afterward, Jose heard the external alarm that signaled completion of the mission. He clicked on the laptop sitting on the counter before him and his eyes widened. He swore loudly.
Too late, he realized that not only had his radio transmitter triggered the external alarm, but had also armed the automated gun turrets, which were now rolling into motion, searching for intruders. He watched further, frozen in fear, as one of the big unmanned guns zeroed in with the van in its crosshairs. Suarez knew he had only moments to throw his shoulder into the door and explode out of the van before the big brace of artillery exploded the vehicle and everything in it.
Jose managed to leapfrog and then roll about twenty feet away from the doomed van when its fuel tank took a direct hit and the whole works exploded sky high. Suarez felt himself being thrown into the air by the concussion, but was helpless to prevent the hard landing on his far shoulder and the side of his head, sliding like a toboggan on ice. He moaned in pain when he hit, but the world faded to black around him. He folded downward like the empty robe of Obi Wan Kenobi.
At the same second Jose realized he had screwed up and his consciousness fled, Tavon Greene was coming to the same conclusion.
Fail-safes!
"Oh shit! The Boss!" He glanced frantically at Hosteen, who was still in the clean room with him as he was finishing up. "Fuck! We're all fucked!" He raced from the room and almost ran into Randall.
"Automated gun turrets!" He screamed at the cowboy. "They're fucking automated! You asshole! And the radio signal alerted them where the damn van was at! You just blew up the boss!"
Randall looked at him with his mouth slightly agape. Then he looked at Mark, and at the other two who came running past the computer room after him.
"Let's go! Now!" Randall snarled, trying to redeem himself somehow. Trying not to attract undue attention, the team walked quickly toward the building's exit with few problems, slipping past one security guard and distracting another by telling him someone had broken into the clean room. Other than those two men, the perimeter seemed to be deserted for the moment, and they ran. Most of the other workers must have been told there was a security breach, and were busy locking up their work.
When the team exited the building and headed hell-bent-for-leather toward the perimeter fence, Tavon knew that getting away from the compound was going to be a royal pain in the ass. With the security breach, the perimeter gate was swinging closed, and two security guards they hadn't seen before were standing like statues in front of the only possible exit.
Erik Jeffries abandoned his post at the entrance and strode briskly toward the guards, already knowing there was only one option. He did not hesitate. Two human bodies were denying them escape from a situation untenable for them all. He had one simple solution. He halted in front of the two suspicious guards who both had their hands on the butts of their guns.
Erik set his sweaty face into a grimace and thrust a thumb back over his shoulder in warning, throwing off their concentration for a fraction of a second. The delay gave him enough time to pull his shiny silver pistol and shoot both men between the eyes. They dropped like stones and lay bleeding out on the asphalt. Erik grabbed one side of the closing gate and held it steady as the others ran up.
"What the fuck are you all looking at?" He snarled at the others' wide-eyed faces. "Let's go find the boss and get the hell out of here!" His blunt words snapped the rest of the team back to awareness, and they took off in the direction where the smoking remains of the old white van curled lazily into the hot, dry air.
When they reached the scattered and smoldering debris, they were relieved to find that Suarez had managed to crawl far enough away to be, apparently, safe from the worst of the blast. Tavon knelt down and shook the man's shoulder lightly. "Hey! Boss!"
Jose shuddered and looked up in confusion. His eyes were glassy. "Hijo de puta!"
He climbed laboriously to his feet and a hand went to his head, rubbing thoughtfully. "Who was the agilipollao who fucked this up??"
All eyes turned downward as Hosteen Tull spoke up. "We need to get the hell out of here before they come looking!"
Jose wobbled a bit, but nodded agreement. He gathered himself in determination and they all moved off rapidly in the direction of the street. From there it was a good fifteen-minute walk back to the old warehouse where they kept a second vehicle, an old Dodge pickup with room in the cab for two people. The others would have to ride in the bed.
Five minutes into the walk, which took them through back alleys and behind back-yard fences, Jose began to slow down. "Did you at least get the damned program?"
"Sure thing, Boss … no problem," Tavon replied with a smile. He wasn't the one who had fucked up. His part of the job had been executed with the precision that Tavon was known for. While they walked, he opened the laptop case and extracted the two discs, which he then handed across to Suarez.
Jose took them both, looked them over and inserted them into the inside pocket of his jacket. "These are worth millions." He was beginning to breathe heavily, and his steps turned uncertain, but he stumbled along and managed to keep up with the others.
They were quiet the rest of the way to the warehouse. Tavon didn't mention that he'd noticed, with a growing sense of disaster, that Jose's movements had turned to drunken stumbling. After being knocked on the head like that, a little dizziness was to be expected, he decided.
It was, however, cause for curses and alarm when Suarez suddenly wobbled and collapsed half a block before they reached the big door at the front of the warehouse. When nothing they tried to do for him made a difference, and the idea of taking him to a hospital for treatment was quickly discussed and rejected, the five fugitives dragged their leader to the front seat of the old truck and the other four scrambled into the back end. Angrily, Hosteen Tull backed out of the warehouse, locked the door behind them and took off for the area near the Indian Reservation many miles away where the contact was supposed to be waiting with all that … wonderful reward.
Somewhere within the barren, hundreds of miles of tumbleweeds, mesquite and desert heat, someone with more money than brains would be waiting for them to make the drop.
Jose was the only man who knew who or where it was. But right now, Jose Suarez wasn't talking.
ONE HOUR LATER:
Randall Kurtz swore again, loudly, as the truck's worn suspension jolted hard when its tires hit another pothole. Suddenly the vehicle swerved to the left and the four men in the back grabbed metal with both hands to keep from careening into one another. Hosteen yelled back a quick apology from the cab.
"Been awhile since I've been out here," was his only response. A few minutes further, the truck's headlights jumped into the air again, and came down hard as it hit another pothole. A front axle snapped, dragging what was left of the front end around in a dusty circle on the hard-packed floor of the roadbed.
They cursed and swore and placed blame on each other and screamed and shouted until they all finally realized that the displays of testosterone weren't getting them anywhere. They weren't even beyond the far outskirts of Flagstaff.
The Dodge was dead. It lay like a beached whale at the edge of the desert, and that chunk of blunt reality necessitated a search for another mode of transportation. Fast!
Tavon took charge, and the others were happy to let him. He stood with hands in his pockets for a time, assessing the situation. Then he turned to Hosteen and indicated the disabled truck with a sweep of his hand. Jose Suarez was still inside, leaning against the passenger-side door, unconscious with some unknown head injury. They had to get him somewhere isolated until they could find help. Their scheme was useless without the things he had stored inside his head, and right now that was top priority for all of them. That … and a vehicle serviceable enough to replace the ruined Dodge!
"Hosteen, you stay with the boss. The rest of us will go have a look around. There are some isolated houses out here, and one of them must have a car or something we can sneak out with and bring back here. Sit tight, and we'll get back as soon as we can. We can't give up on this now. There's too much at stake … as well as all of our asses! We murdered two people, and the 'powers that be' tend to look down on that." He turned in a circle to encompass the other three who stood around looking pissed. "You guys ready? Looks like we got another job to do. Let's go!"
Hosteen stood and watched as the four of them faded from sight in the moonlight.
It was going to be a long night. He lit a cigarette and leaned back against the old truck.
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