Project Northwest (29 page)

“Forget it. Is that sleeper program a
possibility?”

“Yes, sir.”

“F-U-C-K!
What are our options?” Mr.
Wright slammed his fist into the Tahoe’s hood.

“He lives or we get that computer or we find
out where the files are stored before they can be sent. He
obviously has some knowhow. We need to know where the digital data
is. Once we find it, we can snub him out. I say we have to give him
what he wants until then.”

Cricket knew it wasn’t entirely true. He
could break the code if he had the computer in time and there was
time to find it, but his mind was set on taking advantage of this
situation.

“I seem to recall you saying that our system
was impenetrable, right? I’m beginning to wonder if you understand
the meaning of that term,” Mr. Wright berated.

“Don’t know how he did it. I will start
backtracking from our data center.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a plan, let’s
backtrack, that’s your answer for everything. It’s like you have
some fucking time machine or something. Backtrack? What am I to do
with this problem now?”

“Sir, just find out what he wants.”

Wright was back in front of Mark. Mark had
taken a beating and was busted up pretty badly. “You’re a tough
son-of-a-bitch; I’ll give you that, Hansel. What’s your name?”

Mark could barely breathe. He blew the blood
from his nose and it congealed and slowly ran down his chin, “My
name is Mark.”

“Okay, Mark, how much do you want?”

Mark looked up, his right eye was swollen
shut and blood was stinging his left eye. “Well, a new cell phone
for starters. Let’s see, I need twenty thousand, plus fifteen
hundred for the printer, five thousand for my leg, plus thirty
thousand for the car.”

Wright tallied up the numbers. “You did all
this for less than sixty thousand dollars? Are you simple?” Mr.
Wright slapped him across the face, blood splattered everywhere and
he stepped back shaking his head.

“Didn’t do it for the money, but that’s what
you owe me,” Mark said, spraying blood from his mouth as he
spoke.

“You didn’t? Then, Mark, why are you here if
you didn’t do it for the money?”

“Did it for a friend.”

“Who? DuVall? He was a weasel. He jumped on
this deal like he was a street hooker from Cherry Street. Can’t
believe you did this for him. You need to pick better friends.”

“Didn’t do it for DuVall. Did it for a friend
that saved my life once, James Spain.”

“Spain?” Mr. Wright’s expression glazed over
as he struggled with the realization. He had miscalculated
everything and somehow Spain had been communicating without him
knowing. It was an internal sickening feeling of betrayal that made
him want to destroy James and Mark. Mr. Wright was coming
unhinged.

“So, here’s the deal,” continued Mark barely
able to speak. “We have what’s called a Mexican standoff.” He
caught his breath. “I can’t really go to the FBI because, even
though you and your boys will have fine accommodations in our
fabulous prison system, you’re still connected and will take us
out. Revenge is a bitch. We both know that James will take some
heat, but will be offered a deal.”

The Lorcet was wearing off and Mark could
feel the broken bones in his rib cage move as he talked. He
struggled to get the sentence out. “And you can’t do anything to me
or James because if we die, then the FBI will get those files.”

Wright’s anger ignited and he quickly pushed
the barrel of his gun deep into the soft tissue underneath Mark’s
chin. He so wanted to pull the trigger and let Hope take care of
this problem. “You underestimate my resolve. I’m death’s caretaker
and have no problem splattering your brains all over this
warehouse. I’ll take you out, then take myself. I have nothing to
lose. What do you think about that?”

His mouth was now just inches from Mark’s ear
as he hissed, “Standoff, huh? Don’t the three gunners always die in
the end? Each taking the other out?” Wright pulled away, fury
concentrated itself into some type of primal rage, and he exploded,
“You did this for a fucking friend?”

He raised the gun in the air and cracked it
into the left side of Mark’s skull. “A friend! This was over
principle?”

The blow was so violent that Mark couldn’t
see or hear anything for a few seconds and felt his body start to
go limp. He was surprised that he didn’t pass out and he shook his
head trying to clear the cobwebs.

Cricket was chirping in Mr. Wrong’s
earpiece.

“What? A little busy here,” responded Mr.
Wrong.

“Nathan, listen to me, switch to channel
four.”

Mr. Wrong switched the channel and said,
“Okay.”

Cricket verified that he and Wrong were the
only ones on the channel and started. “Look, there are seven of us
including Mr. Wright. Minus expenses, we’re looking at about five
million each. I can move the money now.”

Mr. Wrong was listening to Cricket as he
watched Mr. Wright’s face turn a dazzling scarlet color and could
see the veins in his throat jut with each infuriated heartbeat.

Mr. Wright screamed, his arms flailed out to
his side, “Fuuuuuuck!” he screamed as loudly as he possibly could
and it was deafening in the small bay.

Cricket was still talking. “Make no mistake,
Mr. Wright will cut us out because he’s finished. He’ll never get
another contract after this fuck up. Nathan, I have the accounts, I
have all the information. My name is on everything. We can still
walk away from this as rich men. But you have to prevent Mr. Wright
from killing this guy and you know how he is. If this Mark guy
dies, we’re all screwed. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Mark was moving again and Mr. Wright stopped
screaming. He grabbed Mark’s jaw with his left hand, then let go
and used the blood on his fingers to shape an X in the middle of
Mark’s forehead. He grabbed Marks jaw again, held his head steady
and brought Hope to Mark’s forehead, burying the muzzle into the
bloody X.

Mr. Wright locked eyes with Mark. “When a
principled man faces a gun, sometimes the ending is a hero’s tale,
the beginning of a legend. Most times, though, it ends with a spent
bullet and the body of a dead man who had principles. Guess we’re
going to find out which one you are—”

The bullet’s exit from the muzzle allowed the
compressed gases to rapidly expand and the sound of the explosion
ricocheted off the concrete walls. The sound was so loud that
everyone jumped and covered their ears, everyone except Mr. Wrong.
He knew it was coming.

Mr. Wright fell to the floor, his body
twitched a couple of times before the blood started flowing from
the exit wound on the right side of his skull. Mr. Wright had once
again miscalculated history—this time not between a husband and
wife, but between two friends.

The other associates were confused and pulled
their guns, pointing them first at Mark then at Mr. Wrong. Mr.
Wrong put his hands in the air and slowly lowered his weapon to the
floor. “Stay cool guys. Cricket will explain this.”

“Nathan. Nathan!” Cricket was screaming. “Who
fired that shot?”

“Yeah, Mr. Wright is dead. Bring the other
associates onto this channel,” Mr. Wrong ordered.

Cricket was now in charge. He convinced the
other associates that he was right. If Mr. Wright were allowed to
kill Mark, then they were all screwed. Cricket ordered them to
clean Mr. Wright’s body, collect his gun, clean the scene, and rush
Mark to the hospital.

“Take Mark to the hospital, don’t just dump
him. Roll him in. We have to make sure he gets the required care
and make sure you give him that laptop.”

Mark could feel every bump in the road as the
Tahoe moved on Pacific Street.

“What time is it?” Mark asked.

“It’s eight sixteen, do you need that
laptop?” Mr. Wrong asked.

“Yeah, and a cell phone.”

“Who are you going to call? You know if you
call the cops, today, tomorrow or twenty years from now, we’re
going to hunt you down and take you out, right?” Mr. Wrong
warned.

“I know. I’m going to call James and let him
know he’s out.”

Mr. Wrong was reluctant to give him the
phone. “I’ll call him from Wright’s cell and put him on speaker.
Listen, don’t say anything that would cause him to call the cops.
Don’t tell him you’ve been beaten up or you’re going to the
hospital. I’ll confirm he’s out when you’re done. You got it?”

“Yeah, I got it. Just dial the number.”

* * * *

James was dead to the world when his phone
started buzzing across the nightstand. He looked at the display and
saw it was Mr. Wright. “What did I do now?” he thought as he
accepted the call.

“James, this is Mr. Wrong, got a friend of
yours here. Mark wants to talk to you,” he said, and he switched
the phone to speaker.

James was already thinking the worst and
immediately grew sick to his stomach. They had caught Mark and were
about to snub him out, right then and there, to make a point while
he listened. “Where is Mr. Wright? Tell him if he hurts Mark he can
forget me playing nicely. I’ll go to the cops.”

“Wright is dead,” Mark piped up.

James jumped from the bed, his heart pounded
when he heard Mark speaking on the distant speaker phone, “Mark is
that you? What do you mean Mr. Wright is dead?”

“He’s dead, James. You’re out, buddy.”

James fell onto the bed, almost forgetting
that Mr. Wrong was there. He hugged Bridget, waking her up and put
his cell on speaker, “Mr. Wrong, is this true?”

“Yes, it’s true. Mr. Wright is dead and
you’re out. You can go about living your life now. It was business,
nothing personal.”

“What about Shelly Spenser? What about her
daughter?”

“She’s out too. We’re pulling the plug on the
whole project. Remember what I told you the first time around. This
never happened.”

“Does Shelly know?”

“No.”

“Mark, Mark, Mark,” James said with a high
level of disbelief tinged with excitement. “How did you? What did
you do?”

“That’s enough for now. He will call you
later,” Mr. Wrong interrupted.

“Wait, I want Shelly’s cell number,” James
said and Bridget, now up to speed, added, “Mark, are you okay?”

“I’ll live, Bridget, thanks. Everything is
okay and I will call you guys in a few.”

Mr. Wrong gave James Shelly’s cell number and
hung up. They pulled into Washington University’s Medical Center,
placed Mark into a wheelchair, gave him his laptop, and rolled him
into the emergency room. Marks appearance brought about more
questions than physicians and Mr. Wrong and his team silently
slipped out the door.

* * * *

James and Bridget were celebrating. James
couldn’t believe they were out, that it happened so fast. James
promptly dialed the number for Shelly. She didn’t immediately
answer. He was about to hang up when he heard her, “Hello?”

“Shelly, it’s me, Mark.” He was excited and
speaking far too fast.

“Why are you calling me, Mark, is everything
okay?”

“Everything is fine. Mr. Wright is dead—we’re
out!” he screamed into the phone.

Silence.

“Shelly, did you hear me? We’re out. Mr.
Wright is dead.”

“I heard you. Is this true?”

“It is, absolutely. I wouldn’t joke about
something like this. Call Mr. Wright’s number and Mr. Wrong will
answer and confirm. Just wanted to call and let you know. We’re
free.”

Shelly was in shock and could only say, “I
will, James, I’m praying you’re right.”

“I am. Bye.”

“Bye.”

* * * *

Shelly looked at Madeline, who was eating her
favorite breakfast, pancakes drowning in maple syrup. Shelly began
to cry.

“Mom, are you alright?” Madeline asked.

“Yes, baby. We’re going to be fine.”

* * * *

Cricket logged into the Cayman bank and
created six separate accounts. He transferred 25 million to his
account and one million to each of the other five accounts. It
wasn’t the promised five million, but by the time the rest of the
team found out, he’d be long gone.

He printed out a letter to each with their
account information and a weak explanation about unexpected
expenses. He folded them, wrote their names, and placed a cricket
novelty on each.

He entered a couple of keystrokes on the
keyboard, unplugged the four terabyte external hard drive and
placed it into his suitcase. A few more keystrokes and the servers
were systematically destroyed by his virus. He waited a few minutes
and checked each one. The hard drives were completely unresponsive
and he removed each one from its case. He’d clear the remote server
later.

He found Mr. Wright’s suitcase, peeled back
the cover, and collected a little over eighty thousand dollars in
cash. He split sixty thousand dollars into three piles and placed
each pile into an envelope, then labeled them ‘Mark’ and put the
remainder of the cash into his suitcase.

As he headed to the elevator, he was doing
the rough math. He’d take 20 million dollars and short the bank’s
stock. He guessed he’d have nearly 50 million dollars by the end of
the year. He pressed six on the elevator panel, exited onto the
sixth floor, and slid the three envelopes under the door of Mr.
Spain’s condo.

Back in the lobby, he called for a cab and
soon he was on his way to the airport.

Chapter Twenty
three

~ September 26th, 2008 ~

On the western shore
of Grand Cayman, Todd Morgan, also known as Cricket, sat in front
of the real life version of his screensaver. His bare toes danced
on the horizon of the deep blue waters as he settled into the white
Caribbean beach chair.

He’d shorted the stock of Washington Common
Bank over the last four months and amassed a respectable small
fortune of almost 55 million dollars, and rented a nice villa just
off Seven Mile Beach. He was in the lap of luxury.