Hacker in Love, page 10
I can’t breathe. Can’t think straight. I feel murderous rage coursing through me in a way I’ve never experienced before. I look around the coffee place, feeling like smoke is physically billowing out my ears. I don’t know where Greg Smith exists in this world at this moment, but when I find out, I’m going to fucking destroy him.
After several deep breaths and a long chug of my coffee, I return to Hannah’s communications with the attorney. “Those texts are absolutely despicable,” the attorney writes. “But, unfortunately, they’re not actionable in a legal sense. Mean words alone aren’t grounds for a protective order.” After a bit more back and forth, the attorney ultimately advises Hannah not to file her legal form yet, if ever. The attorney explains, “Since he seems to be out of your life for good, and it’s also highly unlikely the police will pursue him, I think you’ll actually be safer if you don’t poke the bear, so to speak. Let him move onto his next target and forget you exist. If he contacts you again and/or threatens you in any fashion, then file this paperwork immediately.” She gives Hannah a few pointers for things to add to her form and wishes her luck. And that’s that. Apparently, Hannah never filed the form or contacted the attorney again.
My heart pounding, I click out of Hannah’s laptop and immediately dive head-first into searching the fucker’s two names. Not surprisingly, given that Hannah filled out this form over two years ago, he’s no longer at the address listed on the form. Also, the email he used to send those heinous messages to Hannah is no longer active. My “penile enlargement” spam message bounces right back.
Thankfully, I have his date of birth from the form, so I use that to collect some basic information. But, still, I can’t find a current address or any social media accounts under either of the two names supplied by Hannah, since he’s had no arrests or criminal record. Which means he’s still out there, terrorizing other women. Probably under a new set of names.
An alarm goes off on my phone, telling me it’s time to drag my ass to my meeting with the feds. With a deep sigh, I grab a screen shot of everything in Hannah’s “The Asshole” folder, since I’m never going to enter Hannah’s devices again but might need to refer back to this information when researching later. As my second alarm goes off, telling me I’m now running late, I quickly pack up my shit, throw my empty coffee cup into my computer bag to toss later, at another location, since I never leave my DNA in public places where I’ve been sitting a long time, and then, off I go to the one place I never would have guessed I’d willingly go in a million years: The FBI’s headquarters down the street.
9
HENN
Twelve days later
“Welcome to Seattle,” my Uber driver says, as he pulls away from the arrivals curb at Sea-Tac. “Coming home?”
“Visiting.”
“How was your flight?”
“Easy. I came in from LA.”
“I hope you brought some California sunshine with you. It’s been pouring all week. Only cleared up an hour ago.”
“Sorry, weather patterns are one of two things I can’t control with my superpowers.”
He chuckles. “What’s the other?”
“I’m like the genie in Aladdin. Unfortunately, I can’t make someone fall in love with me or anyone else.”
“Damn. You mean you’ve gotta wine and dine her—or him, whatever floats your boat—like the rest of us mere mortals?”
“That’s why I’m here in Seattle, as a matter of fact. To wine and dine someone the old-fashioned way.”
“Good for you. Hope it works out.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
I look out the car window and smirk to myself. I love having conversations like this with perfect strangers about my superpowers—the kind where I’m being dead-ass serious, but the other person assumes I’m joking around. I guess it helps keep me sane to vaguely confess my secrets out loud, even if only as a joke.
One of the phones in my computer bag buzzes on the car seat next to me, and when I locate the source of the sound, it’s the phone the feds gave me on my last day in DC three days ago, right before I left for LA. They said they wanted a secure means of contacting me again, in case they had any follow-up questions about the job I did for them or maybe wanted to hire me for a new job. That’s when I knew the jig was up—that I hadn’t fooled them into thinking I’m nothing but a mediocre hacker who’d gotten lucky with the data and funds I’d recovered in Vegas.
When I look at the message, I grimace.
We’ve got a time-sensitive opportunity for you. Sign into the secured server for details.
Fuck me.
“Is this the place?” the driver asks.
I look up from the phone to find him gesturing toward the random diner I selected as my destination.
“Yep. This is it.”
“Are you meeting your sweetheart here?”
“I am.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I stuff the phone back into my computer bag as the car stops in front of the restaurant, and then generously tip the driver, exit the car with my bags, and stride toward the front door. When the car is out of sight, however, I turn and walk two blocks up the street to a used car lot, where I wander around for a bit in search of the cheapest piece of shit I can find.
Bingo.
When I find a vehicle that fits my purposes—a rusted jalopy with almost two hundred thousand miles on it and a price tag of less than a thousand bucks—I head into the sales office and purchase it. It’s the same thing I’ve done multiple times during the last few weeks. During a stopover in Dallas on my way to DC. Twice during my stay in DC. During my stopover in Chicago three days ago on my way home to LA. And then, of course, twice in LA over the past three days.
This time in Seattle, like all prior times, I pay cash for the vehicle, show the sales dude a fake ID for the official transfer and registration paperwork, and then drive my new piece-of-shit ride off the lot and straight to the nearby airport, where I park in a red zone and quickly stride away. Only this time, unlike all other times, I don’t catch an Uber to my next destination, but instead, catch a shuttle to the airport’s nearby rental car facility. After some pleasant small talk with the man behind the counter, I get the keys to the luxury car I’ve reserved under my real name and head to my hotel in downtown Seattle.
In my room, I unpack and then lie on my bed with two computers. After answering a few work messages, I check the progress of some irons in the fire and make some necessary code adjustments. The usual shit. When that’s done, I continue looking for the asshole who deserves to experience all the pain the online world has to offer. But unfortunately, the fucker is still eluding me.
Frustrated, I grab one of my phones and message a buddy of mine from my Bluebird handle:
Me: Yo, Demon Spawn. Hit me back if you’re available for a job.
While I await a reply, I check my texts and discover a message from my mother. She’s asking me to call her when I get a chance.
“Hello, my love!” Mom says in greeting when she picks up my call.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s wonderful. How are you, Peter?”
I exhale with relief. Ever since my dad died two years ago, I’ve been deeply worried about my mother’s mental health. The two were joined at the hip during their long marriage, and I can’t fathom the pain and loneliness she feels every night looking at Dad’s empty pillow. Lately, it seems like she’s been turning a corner in her grief. Laughing more easily, almost like she always used to. But it’s clear the grief is still there, weighing heavily on her heart, and I don’t know how to help her, other than checking in regularly.
“I’m good. I just got to Seattle for work.” I’ve made the mistake in the past of telling my mother I’m dating someone, early on, and I’ll never do it again. The woman wants a grandchild more than anything, so telling her I’m dating someone only invites harassment about how it’s going—and then, eventual disappointment when things don’t work out as hoped.
“You’re always so busy with work.”
“Yep, the cybersecurity biz is booming these days. Business is so good, in fact, I’ve been thinking about buying myself a place. A condo, maybe.” I’d never tell my mother this, but the truth is I can’t figure out what else to do with the cool million bucks Jonas negotiated with the feds as my share of our finder’s fee.
“A condo in Fresno would be much cheaper than one in LA,” Mom says coyly.
“Let go of the dream, Mom. I’m never moving back to Fresno.”
“Pfft.”
“If I buy something outside of LA, it’ll be in Seattle.”
“Oh? Have you met someone there?”
Damn. The woman can sniff out a new girlfriend quicker than a cadaver dog looking for a corpse. Luckily, I’ve got a cover story. One that happens to be true. “No, Josh is moving back to Seattle in a couple months. He and his brother, Jonas, are starting a new Seattle-based business. A national chain of rock-climbing gyms with its headquarters here.”
“How wonderful. Tell Josh I said congratulations. And how’s the third musketeer doing these days?”
“Reed is being Reed. He’s been expanding his roster with lots of new artists. Globetrotting. And, of course, exploding every ovary in every room he enters. Probably, half the nut sacks, too.”
“Peter.”
I laugh at Mom’s shocked reaction, and she snorts in reply. Mom often pretends to clutch her non-existent pearls when I say something particularly outrageous, but she knows full well I grew up watching my father endlessly crack her up, oftentimes with jokes far dirtier than that one.
“I saw a little write-up about Reed in Rock ‘n’ Roll magazine,” Mom says. “They called him The Man with the Midas Touch.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I saw that.”
“Did Reed like being called that?”
“He didn’t say so, but I’m sure he did. Surely, it’ll add to his mystique, which in turn will help his brand, which in turn will make him even more money. Plus, it’ll help attract even more women. Not that he needs any help with that.”
“Is he still dating a different supermodel or actress every week?”
“Nope. He’s up to two or three a week now.”
Mom tuts. “Such a cad.”
“There are lots of women who find cads extremely attractive, Mom, so he’s got little to no incentive to change his ways.”
“It’s a tale as old as time. Young women always want to tame the bad boy. I know I did.”
I scoff. “When did you ever want to tame a single bad boy? You dated the nicest human who ever lived since high school.”
“Yes, and your father was quite the bad boy back then.”
I cackle.
“He was!” Mom insists. “Your father was never worried about getting into trouble like the rest of us. He was funny and irreverent. That’s why every girl wanted him.”
“But he only had eyes for you.”
“That’s right.” Her voice is dripping with pride and love. And pain. Aw, Mom. I can’t imagine this “bad boy” story of hers is remotely accurate, considering what I know about my sweet, doting father. That man didn’t have a bad or mean bone in his body. But I’d never challenge my mother’s happy memories of my late father, no matter how skewed they might be. That’s all the woman’s got left of her knight in shining armor these days, after all. Her happy memories.
“Fresno is a great place to raise a family,” Mom says, out of the blue.
“Well, since I don’t have a family, that’s not a concern of mine.”
“It might be one day. I hope and pray?”
“I don’t know if they taught you this in school, but hopes and prayers aren’t where babies come from, Mom.”
“Oh, hush.”
I laugh. “If you want to live in the same city as me so badly, then move to LA. I keep telling you I’ve got enough money saved up to—"
“No, no. I have no desire to move to LA when Nora and all my friends, and my garden, and my book club, and my favorite aqua aerobics instructor, and all my students, are here.”
My heart pangs. Mom didn’t say it, but I know the top item on that list—the list of things keeping her in Fresno—is the dream home she shared with my father, where she still sees visions of him in every nook and cranny.
“Okay, Momma. I’ve got to get some work done. Do you need anything, big or small?”
“Nope. Thank you again for those flowers. That was so sweet.”
“You’re very welcome. Those weren’t your birthday present, you know. I’ll send another bouquet for that.”
“Or you could bring it in person. Nora and some friends are coming over for dinner and cake. I’d love for you to come, too.”
“It’s a date.”
“Really? Yay! I can’t wait to see you!”
“Same here. Love you, Momma. See you then.”
She squeals with glee. “I love you so much, sweetie. Don’t work too hard! Touch some grass! Feel the sun on your face!”
“I will. Bye now.”
We say our goodbyes and end the call, and it’s back to work I go. I check my messages and discover I’ve received a reply from my hacker buddy. Hallelujah.
Demon Spawn: Greetings. What can I do for you?
Me: Greetings. Are you still living in your van?
Demon Spawn: Yes, sir. I’m on an endless road to nowhere and everywhere, all at once.
Me: Sounds fun. Can I give you some paid destinations?
Demon Spawn: Anything for you, Bluebird. What’s up?
I send him (or her?) every piece of data I’ve gathered on Greg Smith aka Angus Wellborn and ask him to locate him and get physical eyes on him, whether at his mother’s address outside of Dallas, or at whatever address he can figure out from his own research.
Me: Unfortunately, I haven’t had much time to invest in the project myself. So far, I’m running into dead ends, probably because his name is so fucking common.
Demon Spawn: Gotcha. If I get eyes on him, are you thinking a drive-by scan or over the shoulder password peek, or something more elaborate than that?
Me: He’s not a pro, from what I can tell, so maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll use public Wi-Fi or unsecured Bluetooth. Do whatever it takes, though. This one’s top priority.
Demon Spawn: Got it. I’ll get on it right away.
Me: Thanks. Also, while you’re driving around, I’ve got another project for you. I’ll pay you to do it in every major city you drive through.
I send him the information, and he asks my timing on both projects.
Me: ASAP on finding and breaching him. No timing on the second thing. Just keep at it in every new city until I tell you to stop. I’ve got no upward limit on my budget. I’ll pay you each and every time, no questions asked.
Demon Spawn: Damn, I feel like I’ve won the lottery. Thanks! I’ll be in touch.
I close my laptop and head into the bathroom, where I hop into the shower in anticipation of my date with Hannah. As hot water pelts me, I press my palms against the tile wall and consciously try to force the primal rage coursing through me. I’m not a violent man, by nature. But thinking about this fucker, and what he did to Hannah, what he said to her, Jesus Christ, it all makes me want to commit a grisly murder.
It takes a while, but after a bit, I’m able to calm myself down and feel like myself again. I get out of the shower, shave, and wrangle my unruly hair. I dress in one of the snappy new outfits I bought—with Josh’s help via FaceTime—for my big week in Seattle. And, finally, after checking my visage in the full-length mirror and deciding this is as good as it gets, I grab the bouquet of flowers I bought at the airport, send Hannah a text regarding my ETA, and stride out the door with a spring in my step and a massive smile of anticipation on my face.
10
HENN
Hello, wife.
When I see Hannah’s gorgeous face in her doorframe—when I take in her dazzling smile and big blue eyes behind thick-framed glasses—those are the words my brain supplies. I thought I remembered the power of Hannah’s magnetism, the electricity I felt in her presence. I thought I’d be ready to pick up where we left off by the end of our time together in Vegas. And yet, here I am at her doorstep in Seattle feeling every bit as tongue-tied and awestruck as I did when Hannah first entered that hotel suite with Kat. My flabber is once again firmly gasted. My gob, soundly pummeled.
“Henny!” Hannah shrieks, before launching herself toward me like a missile.
Reflexively, I open my arms to receive Hannah’s hurtling frame, and just like that, our bodies crash and cleave together like they were designed to do it. As Hannah presses her body into mine, I nuzzle my nose into her dark hair and inhale the scent of her shampoo. “All’s right in the world,” I murmur. Or at least, that’s what I’ve meant to say. Who knows what garbled syllables actually came out of my mouth.
“It sure is,” Hannah whispers back, proving, yet again, she speaks fluent Nervous Henn better than anyone I’ve ever met. “Oh, Henny,” she says, “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” I manage to say.
There’s an intoxicating scent emanating from the crook of Hannah’s neck. A touch of perfume? I follow the aroma and softly kiss the epicenter of its source, and the effect on Hannah is immediate and plain. In fact, the moment my lips make contact with Hannah’s flesh, she wobbles in my arms and lets out a soft exhale of pleasure that sends tingles skating across my skin and straight into my dick. Feeling emboldened, I trail several soft, slow kisses up the full length of her neck, all the way to her cheek, and then to her ear, which is where I whisper, “You’re a fucking knockout.”
