THUGLIT Issue Seven Page 4

  That meant many things to many people. To me, it meant I couldn't walk away.

  IV

  Espionage is 99% relationships, 1% stealing.

  The problem was that, having only stolen 1% of the time, I was bad at it. Usually, I worked a situation until the mark brought me the goods. I was not a secret agent/action star. No matter what Edgar wanted to do with AniMate—liberate the poor from a tyrannical corporation or extort that same corporation for billions—I needed to produce the software.

  Wayne cooked up a program that, he hoped, would locate the AniMate software, and once it did, it would cycle through viruses to compromise security.

  I had it on a USB flash drive.

  To get inside and to a terminal, I had to take a calculated risk. While Jeremy Wagner did not have remote access to the unencrypted AniMate, chances are he could access the server from his work terminal.

  A week in advance, I called his secretary, pretending to be from a second-tier client. I set up a lunch meeting with Jeremy and I hired an actor off Craigslist to keep Jeremy occupied.

  On the day of the operation, in a suit and a tie and with the flash drive in my pocket, I waited outside the AgroLife building. When Jeremy left for this lunch, I entered. The company directory on the main floor told me which floor Jeremy worked on, and using a doctored security badge I had lifted off a woman I met three nights before, the elevator allowed me access to the restricted 35th floor.

  I told the receptionist. "I'm from the Chicago office. I know where I'm headed."

  It worked, and I walked the hallways, each office and cubicle with a nameplate beside it. One could only wander aimlessly for so long, so I stopped a young person, someone who might be intimidated by me, and I said, "I'm looking for Jeremy Wagner's office. You know where it is?"

  "Down there."

  I waited until foot traffic was clear, then slid into the office. The lights were down and I was fine with that. I crawled to his desk, and using it as cover, slipped the flash drive into Jeremy's terminal. A giant section of wall was glass, so I had to duck every time someone walked by. I was so terrified that my hands struggled to type, and I messed up the activation sequence on the virus a couple times.

  Ten minutes later, I had found AniMate. When the transfer was complete, I pulled out the flash drive.

  I had forgotten to scrub the virus from the system. It triggered an alarm.

  V

  So here I am. Stuck in the office across from Jeremy's, the security guards roaming the floor, and who knows, maybe the whole building is halfway to lockdown. I ask myself, "What I would do to protect one billion dollars?" And I wish I hadn't asked because I don't like the answer.

  It is now or never.

  I look through the glass. The security guards have thinned at Jeremy's office, and if the two of them turn their backs, I'm going. When they do so, I open the door silently, heading down the hallway. I make it ten or fifteen feet before one shouts, "Stop!" I make it another ten or fifteen feet before they chase. Bulldozing a young woman, her body thrown into a cubicle, I run toward the elevator lobby. Halfway there, two more security guards occupy the opposite end of the hall, the footsteps of the first two not far behind.

  A sign says, "Emergency Exit."

  I'm at the door and I'm opening it. It gives the security guards the half-second they need. Hands are grabbing onto my work shirt, pulling it from my waist. I rotate my arms, fighting through these butterball high school dropouts.

  In the stairwell, I get loose—and with a free arm, I hit one in the face. A different guard leans over with a taser. I dodge, and it plants into another security guard, who goes stiff before going limp. Incapacitated, the guard falls down the stairs, his fractured skull splattering blood on the wall. Upon final impact, his jaw dislocates, and it hangs from his face, making his cries of agony sound muffled.

  I wrestle free, pushing away the taser guard, then kicking his testicles. He collapses to the ground. I commandeer the taser and blast another guard. The last guard decides this job ain't worth dying. He raises his hands, telling me, "Go."

  Two flights down, I hear the security guard radio my location. I get ten floors down before a giant plows into the stairwell, wrapping up my waist like this were football, bringing me down to the ground and gobbling up my body. I do this thing I saw in a movie once. I nail him in the ear with my fist. He shouts in agony, and I crawl away. He grabs onto my pants and he pulls them down as I kick with my feet. I decide to sacrifice the pants, kicking off my shoes, and when one foot is free, I pummel his face with it.

  I take off down the stairs again, though I'm immediately climbing back up.

  I'm beating this guy's face because he won't release my pants, I struggle and pull, they rip in two. Fortunately, it's the half with the pocket containing AniMate.

  Five floors down, I hear an army of guys climbing ten floors beneath me. I cut into one of the floors and I walk the building like being pant-less were normal. In a bathroom, I throw a man against a wall, I say, "Give me your pants or you're fucking dead." I have no weapon, but the man undoes his zipper. The pants are too tight, but I manage them by sucking in my gut. I steal his shoes, telling him, "Get in that fucking stall and count to ten!" The man does it and I escape onto the floor again, his too small shoes causing my steps to skip.

  I know I won't survive the stairs, but they may not know I'm on this floor. If the elevator can get me down to the main floor, I can figure it from there. In the elevator bay, a group is loading up. I follow them in, keeping my head low and away in case of video surveillance.

  The ride lasts forever.

  My rationality returns. I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I've never physically assaulted a person in my life. This isn't me. I don't even know what happened. The fighting started and I was so… I needed to escape so badly, I just acted. I debate surrendering to the police, but with the way that security guard looked after falling down the stairs, I could go to jail for life on that alone.

  Nope, I'm committed.

  When the elevator hits the ground floor, I exit with the crowd, hiding beside a tall guy. I see security guards at the exit. I'm wearing different pants and shoes. Perhaps they won't recognize me. I can't risk it. I sidestep to the freight elevator. Getting off at the loading dock, I see a line up of delivery trucks.

  Without a thought, I'm in the first truck, then the second truck, and thankfully, the third has the keys in the ignition.

  Calmly, I drive away.

  VI

  Edgar Mendez sits across from me. One of his lackeys is verifying the AniMate program behind him. Meanwhile, I'm covered in sweat. It's hot as hell down here and I've got serious problems when I close this deal. I got out of the US before anyone could stop me, but my face is all over the Internet. My identity compromised, I don't know how I'll ever get back, if I'll ever be able to go back.

  The lackey whispers to Edgar. Edgar smiles, his dark skin and thick moustache contrasting his beige pants and white guayabera shit. He bites down on his lit cigar. "My boy, you did it!"

  "I did."

  "And from what I saw on the news, you caused quite the stir."

  I look uncomfortable. I say, "I guess."

  "Now about the…"

  I interrupt. "Can I have the money?"

  Edgar sits up on the couch. "Mi amigo, if I give you the money, what're you going to do with it?"

  I had heard bad stories of what happens when Edgar Mendez refers to a person as "mi amigo." I suddenly become hyper-aware of the military guard, seven or eight young men in camos with semi-automatic sidearms. None of them show a hint of emotion and all look as if they follow orders dogmatically.

  I become nervous. "What do you mean?"

  Edgar counts on his finger. "You can't go back to America, you can't go anywhere AgroLife does business, you can't stay here… What're you going to do with the money?"

  "I'll buy a ticket on a boat or something."

  Edgar shakes his finger. "But sooner or later, y
ou'll get caught."

  I get a really bad feeling.

  Edgar puffs on the cigar, examining it as he blows the smoke out. "And when you get caught, they'll find your money, and they'll know I gave it to you."

  I hold my hands up. "No, I'm not that kind of guy."

  Edgar shakes his head. One of the military guards produces that sidearm, cocking it back for fun, I guess. I jump from the sofa, heading for the door. I'm blocked. I turn for the window. I'm blocked. I throw out my arms like I want a fight. The soldiers subdue me in seconds, pinning me down and pulling back my head so the first solider can stuff the gun in my mouth.

  I plead. "Don't do this! I'll do anything!"

  I can't tell if Edgar understood me. I can barely speak.

  "Anything, you say?"

  "Yes! Anything!"

  Edgar makes a signal and the gun is removed from my mouth. I'm dragged to a dark cellar with poor lighting where I'm beaten until I'm bloody, bruised and wobbling.

  I collapse on the ground under a spotlight. A video camera is before me.

  Edgar says, "When the red light turns on, you're going to confess to stealing AniMate. That you acted alone. And that you brought it here hoping I would buy it from you. After that, I'm turning you over to the CIA."

  I don't understand. "But AgroLife will know you have the software! They will…"

  Edgar interrupts. "Since you caused quite the stir, I had the opportunity to negotiate with AgroLife. It turns out they have graciously offered myself and my associates a lifetime discount on all their products." Edgar chuckles a bit. "So you see, it's all resolved—only the CIA needs to save face, and AgroLife wouldn't mind having their shot at you. And when you spend the rest of your life in prison, they'll get both."

  The red light turns on. Several guns are still pointed at me. And I'm inventing a story. As I go along, it morphs into a confessional. I'm weak and pathetic, recounting years of crime, hitting myself once or twice on the forehead.

  At the end, I say, "I wasn't going to do this anymore. I had my life savings already off-shore. I was already scoping property out. This was supposed to be my last job and, well…I guess it is. It really is my last job."

  Two Sides of the Same Coin

  By Christopher E. Long

  The hotel air-conditioner clicked on at five in the morning and has been running straight for the last three hours. Unfortunately for Chad, the same can be said for his head. He awoke to his mind spinning. There is little hope of muffling the voices in his head this weekend. He is defenseless and naked against the nagging self-doubt that echoes in his brain.

  He grinds his teeth as he slides out from under the soggy blankets, trying his best not to disturb Jen. He gathers an armful of towels and lays them over the substantial wet spot on his side of the bed. He gets back into bed under the soggy top sheet. God, he hates night sweats.

  The blazing desert light is barely held at bay behind the insulated window curtains. The glare radiates between the gaps, producing a halo of light around the window. If he were at home, he'd use duct tape to secure the curtains against the walls, sealing out all daylight, allowing himself to nestle within the cool darkness.

  At some point he dozes off, because Jen whispers in his ear that she's going to lay out by the pool. He nods his head. She asks if he needs anything. Something to eat or drink. He grimaces and shakes his head. He hasn't had solid food for three days, and the thought of eating makes him queasy.

  She gently rolls his head toward her and inspects something on his face, which elicits a frown, the only crease on her lovely face. But what do you expect from a twenty-four-year-old who's taken care of herself, sunbathing being the only activity she indulges in that could possibly diminish her youthful radiance. This is not the case for Chad. All his indulgences have exacted a toll both externally and internally, as evidenced by the blemishes on his face and his frail and weakened body. "Bad?" he asks.

  She retrieves a tube of ointment off the bedside table. She smiles as she squirts a dollop on the tip of her finger. "The lady at the pharmacy said this would clear you up." She gently applies it to the handful of sores on his face.

  "Thanks," he says.

  "Are you going to be all right while I lay out?"

  "Yeah."

  "Are you sure?"

  He barely musters the strength to nod his head.

  "If you need me, I'll be right outside." She kisses him on his forehead. She grabs a towel resting on the back of the chair and heads toward the door.

  He notices her bikini. "Did you design that swimsuit?" he asks.

  She drapes the towel over her shoulder and searches for the room key. "I developed it, but I didn't design it."

  "When is that going to happen?" he asks. "Is that still in the works?"

  She searches through her purse and finds the room key. "Karen and I were going to discuss it this weekend at the tradeshow."

  "There's a tradeshow this weekend?"

  "In Vegas."

  "And she is going to let you start designing?"

  Jen shrugs. "We were going to talk about it."

  "But that's not happening because you're here babysitting me."

  "I want to be here," she says. "This is what's important."

  He pulls the blanket up around his neck.

  "Are you cold?" she asks.

  "A little."

  Jen adjusts the temperature on the thermostat. The air-conditioner turns off.

  "You should've gone to Vegas," he says. "I never would've asked you to come along if I knew about it."

  "Hush," she says.

  He looks her up and down, frowning. "You need to eat. You've lost more weight."

  "I've been a little stressed lately. I forget to eat." She doesn't need to tell him that he's the root cause of her stress. He knows it, and it pains him. As if sensing this, she blows him a kiss as she opens the door. The blaring light outside is like a solar flare that explodes in the room. He squints his eyes against the brilliance. The heat crashes down on him like a wave. The air-conditioner immediately clicks back on. "I'll be right outside if you need me." She shuts the door behind her.

  Chad doesn't move a muscle, even though his body tells him to. His arms and legs are restless. Sweat beads across his body. In a matter of seconds, he's burning up. He rips back the blankets, and for the briefest of moments, he feels relief. His body cools. But the reprieve is fleeting as an icy grip takes hold of him. He shivers. He covers himself again and realizes that this discomfort will be like this for a while, at least until he's done detoxing. He's done this before. Too many times to count. The first three days aren't that big of a deal. His body is still saturated with the prescription drugs, cocaine, and alcohol. It's like a camel that stockpiles water to last for days in the desert. His body burns the excess drugs from his system during his self-imposed three-day drought. The chemical residue sustains him just enough to keep the pains of withdrawal at bay.

  But today is Day Four, which is a bitch.

  His body is throwing a temper tantrum. It's demanding the supply of drugs and alcohol that has been a mainstay of its diet for the last four years. It doesn't understand why all the chemicals that make it function normally are being withheld. From its perspective, this fast is unacceptable. Chad's body is going to make him as uncomfortable as it can until it gets what it needs, like a child holding their breath until their demands are met.

  Chad's teeth chatter. He pulls the blankets tighter around his body, but it doesn't help. He knows he has to wait it out. His body is like a major-league pitcher that switches up his throws, keeping the hitter guessing as to what's coming next, a knuckleball, curve, or a split-finger fastball. His body will keep him off-balance. But Chad won't be rattled so easily. He'll adjust and adapt to whatever is thrown at him.

  He pulls aside the blankets and plants both feet on the floor. His head swoons. He waits until it passes and then gets up. Slowly and deliberately, he makes his way to the bathroom. With his head slumped forward, he
steadies himself against the sink, hands firmly planted on either side. He stares at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't like what he sees. The face staring back at him looks like shit. There are dark circles around the eyes, his nose is moist and red, and beads of sweat sprout up like mushrooms across his brow. Chad is oddly detached, as if the face in the mirror is not his own. He wonders how this person has sunk to such a sorry state, imagining the series of events that lead him to this particular predicament. He tries to zero in on one clue that would unravel the mystery.

  Chad is hard-pressed to pinpoint one, but his job certainly hasn't helped matters. He tried to minimize the stress from his high-pressure occupation, at least that's what he told himself. Maybe it was just an excuse to get fucked up with no guilt. Whatever the reason, here stands the man, a weakened man, a sick man, a man suffering from pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization.

  His body convulses, heaving from down deep, which produces a stream of vomit into the sink. Bile dribbles down his chin as tears roll down his cheeks. He wipes the mess from his face with the back of his hand.

  Back in bed, he grabs his cell phone resting on the bedside table. There are a handful of messages. Two of them are from his mother, but he hasn't listened to them yet. She lives in a retirement community in Scottsdale and likes keeping her only child informed with the details in her rather boring life. He makes a mental note to listen to the messages and call her back. He hasn't spoken to her in four days. Phone conversations with his mother are so much easier with a head full of dope and a belly full of booze.

  He reaches under the bed and gropes around until his hand lands on his other cell phone. The work phone. Retrieving the device, he sees that he doesn't have any messages or missed calls, not that this surprises him. He can count on one hand how many people have this number, and these people are callees, not the callers. Chad doesn't have their numbers saved in his directory. It would be bad for Chad, both professionally and personally, if somebody got a hold of this phone and was able to associate the numbers with the people. If that happened, he'd likely be just another face on a missing person's report.