Chapter 2
With the loss of his cherished ice cream van, Bob's life had taken a plunge straight into a clogged toilet. He succumbed to alcoholism and self-loathing. Once a bright individual of the community was now a ruined wreck sitting in the middle of his living room. Alone, surrounded by dirty laundry and empty pizza boxes.
He had done his best to reclaim his van. His only joy in this wretched and bleak universe. Without success. The police had told him it had vanished and they couldn't have done anything about it.
Bob groaned at the injustice. How come they couldn't retrieve it? How hard was it to check their databases? They always bragged how perfect this ctOS was. How interconnected and effective it was. Licence plates, ownership lists, cameras capable of identifying vehicles and people. All useless.
It was unfair, yet what was he supposed to do? Apathy crept into his soul. Nothing, that's what he was supposed to do. He wouldn't make a difference anyway.
Or would he?
Staring blankly at a switched-off TV, his eyes focused on the smartphone placed on the table, half-buried beneath dishes, papers and various junk. The device began ringing.
He disregarded it at first. Telemarketers without doubt, he thought.
But the sound didn't cease. Slowly and furtively, it was crawling into his mind. Pick it up, Bob, his inner voice goaded him. Come on. Do it. What if it's the police? What if they found your van?
He breathed in with resolution. A fleeting moment of indignation. He took it and glanced at the small screen. Unknown caller.
Why would someone hiding their number wish to talk to him? He didn't understand, but he didn't pay attention to it. And while he was holding it, he reasoned he might as well have picked it up.
"Bob the Ice Cream Man speaking," he introduced himself despite his name no longer being correct. He was simply Bob and his business was busted. His debt was mounting and his reputation plummeting.
"Berry Street, Brandon Docks," said a raspy male voice on the other end. "Eight p.m."
"Excuse me?" Bob replied, confounded by the terseness.
"You want your van, don't you? No police. Be on time."
The caller hung up, leaving Bob listening anxiously to a beeping tone. First, there was a surge of hope. Next, there was fear. What was going on? Why the secrecy? He didn't have a good feeling about this.
He checked the clock. Half past six. Although he wasn't sure who he'd be meeting, he knew that his van was big and purple and that made it a pain in the side to conceal it. Maybe if he arrived early and scoped out the area, he might get lucky. After all, fortune favoured the prepared mind.
So he vanished in the bathroom to civilize himself a bit and then he rushed out. The streets were busy in the evening. People were always hurrying somewhere.
He hailed a cab, contemplating the upcoming event. Troubles, complications. He visualised the location. A hectic neighbourhood. Lots of traffic. Lots of city life. Dirty and hideous backstreets.
He was so preoccupied by his planning that he ignored his surroundings. As soon as he told the taxi driver his destination, he believed the driving wouldn't be his problem. However, there was much more which would become his problem.
Across the street in a noisy pub, there were two crooks. They held a photo at eye level, comparing it to the person they could see on camera footage streamed to their smartphones.
They nodded.
One of them toyed with their smartphone and sent a prepared message to the team tucked in an alleyway with a view on the main road and the taxi. They had two sedans parked there. One positioned so that it could dart after the taxi, the other positioned perpendicularly, allowing a sniper to put his rifle on the hood and aim.
It was perfect for the assassins. The spot, the weapons, even ctOS. Billions of dollars spent on keeping tabs on everything, yet this little place was off their angles. They were in the clear.
The phone in the sniper's pocket buzzed. He smiled.
And pulled the trigger.
There was a silencer sitting around the muzzle of the rifle. It soaked up most of the noise, but the thump still echoed. Thankfully, it was absorbed by the ordinary din of the streets.
As for the bullet, it missed Bob by a hair's breadth. A crazy coincidence. Although the projectile travelled at insane speed, needing a mere split second to reach its target, the taxi driver had already started the engine and moved out. It managed to get just inches forward, yet it was all that was necessary to botch the hit.
Bob's heart was pounding. Glass shards were raining around him. The driver hissed and fell over the wheel, sounding the horn. His foot on the gas slid away and the car halted afterwards.
The sniper breathed in. He was under duress. While his victim wasn't particularly far, sharpshooting wasn't a piece of cake. It required enormous skill and concentration. Stress wasn't a welcome factor.
"Shit!" Bob shouted. He realized he was fighting for his life. The driver's mangled head and the brains splattered over his window confirmed it.
He leaned over to the deceased's door, opening, pushing him out, closing and assuming his place. It occupied him for five seconds. Enough for the sniper to get ready again, while his colleagues watched with anxiety and hands on their concealed pistols.
The sniper took aim, but Bob was shifting too much. Civilians in the streets began catching up to what was happening. Some were screaming, some running, others both. One woman even hurtled across the road. Just as the sniper almost pulled the trigger, the woman dashed by, obstructing his view.
"Damn it!" the sniper cursed, sensing his hands shaking. He tempered his mind and prepared to do his job. Yet as the woman cleared off, he couldn't see Bob. The man had lowered himself. The side door covered him.
It was now or never, the sniper acknowledged. So he fired at the door.
At the same moment, Bob raced out. The round drilled through composite materials and seats.
His heart was beating insanely. He was lightheaded. But he knew he couldn't stop. They were after him. He spotted two black sedans rushing out from the alleyway. In the dark of night and with only lamp lights and headlights illuminating the roads, he couldn't sight his pursuers' faces. Yet when guns barked around him, he recognized he was in serious trouble.
He drove to an intersection in the busy neighbourhood crammed with houses and buildings. He remembered the movies. Sharp turns, roaring engines and screaming tires. But he wasn't a racer with some hidden talent. He slowed down just enough and did his best to hurtle left, feeling the momentum pushing him and the chassis forth, nearly causing them roll over to the roof.
Yet he managed it. No finesse, though it didn't matter. The thugs easily cornered, smashing through a glass ad on the pavement, barely missing pedestrians. They gained view on Bob. So they started shooting like mad, breaking the window on his side.
Up until then, the traffic was sparse. But Bob was heading to the city centre. Cars were popping in from adjacent streets.
Bob hardly dodged a sluggish van, bringing himself to the wrong lane, darting directly towards doom in the form of two shining headlights. The insane speed at which he was going and his erratic reflexes neutralized his reaction. He was about to crash into the advancing vehicle.
Yet it slid to the pavement at the last second, sounding the horn.
Bullets were biting the rear window, chewing it apart. He got back to his lane, using the unhurried cars as cover. But his enemies overtook them. Bob was meandering in amidst the tangle of vehicles, evading those driving in the opposite lane. He was surviving thanks to determination and sheer luck.
Yet his foes were nearing. He didn't have much time and he knew it. Few yards separated them. Would the next projectile be the final?
He plunged into the closest backstreet, barely avoiding a collision with a brick wall. There was rummage and trash along the straight and narrow path, but he raced over it. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, yet he ignored them anyway.
They caught up. The relatively clear and unobstructed alleyway, the source of relief, became a nightmare. He floored the gas pedal and changed gears, frightened to the bone. What if he didn't handle it?
The road was approaching. He prepared to use the handbrake like in the movies.
He counted silently. Ten. Five. Three...
A clueless family was walking in. He saw the horror on their faces as they leapt aside. He emerged into a bustling street afterwards. Pavement, bus stops, people and lots of traffic. Then he tried to do the handbrake trick, aiming left.
It was rough and he almost lost control of the taxi, hurtling towards the opposite sidewalk.
One of his opponents' sedans rammed into his left. The cars trembled, sending shock throughout Bob's whole body. Yet somehow, he managed to get out of the grip threatening to pin him to the wall of a shabby old house.
The road before him was fairly empty. He dashed forward. His foes did the same. They obviously had faster cars and were better chauffeurs. One sedan drove parallel to Bob's. The window slid down. Bob glanced sideways for a spell.
He was gazing directly into the darkness of a pistol muzzle. There was nothing but death inside.
"Goodbye, shithead!" the gun's owner shouted.
Bob leaned down, temporarily unable to behold what was ahead. Yet it saved his life. The handgun barked and the bullet swished through the air, missing him.
The roaring of their engine shifted down a little, indicating they gained a bit of distance. He straightened and saw a truck in front of him. Panic grasped him. He lurched left, entering the pavement, crushing a stand and some well-stacked cardboard boxes.
They exited the streets afterwards. A bridge was drawing near. Yet as soon as the lengthy truck was behind, they crashed into his side. They attempted to spin him, but he did his best to remain in control.
They did it again. They pushed him out of the sidewalk and into grass. The car rushed through bumpy terrain, running beside the rising bridge contours. Water was directly before him. He screamed in terror, slamming the brake pedal.
The vehicle drifted madly. He couldn't keep track of his surroundings anymore. They were moving too fast. Then a bridge pillar appeared in front of him. He couldn't have done anything at all.
The collision was nasty. The chassis folded like a sheet of paper. Airbags kicked in.
The thugs pulled up at the edge of the road and paced to the wreck, guns ready just in case. Some of them had flashlights on, illuminating the dark area under the bridge where Bob had ended his flight.
They examined the buckled vehicle and grinned. "The guy's done for."
"That's what you get for pissing off the wrong people."
"A clown with an ice cream van. Who would have guessed the vigilante owned an ice cream van?"
"Do you think he sold ice cream when he was alive?"
The ruffians laughed.
"Aiden Pearce. Ice cream man. Ha."
They were satisfied. He seemed dead to them. Bloodied and clinched in a warped mess of metal and plastic. So they walked away.
But he wasn't dead. He heard every single word.
He fell unconscious shortly afterwards.