Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? (31 page)

In front of Warren stood a man in a black t-shirt, muscled, scarred and tanned, a handheld automatic weapon trained on him. An American by accent.

Behind the gunman was another goon. Not so tall, but round like a wrestler. He heard him once in the Tahoe as they rolled along the Northern Corridor at high speed. He sounded Russian or Ukrainian or Chechnyan. Warren wasn’t sure which, but it didn’t matter.

This wasn’t unexpected. He had roused the anger of a lot of powerful people in the American security hierarchy. They would naturally want him gone — probably in creative ways. With pictures to pass along to anyone else who might be considering a similar action.
Don’t tread on me.
Wasn’t that the slogan? He had tread. Or tried to. But he didn’t believe he was finished yet.

“How much are they paying you?” he asked, blinking in the sunlight.

The American smiled. He obviously liked to talk about money. But didn’t they all.

“You are out bid, Mr. Buzzworm. We don’t need to talk about money. Only about how you want to die.”

“But we do,” answered Warren. “Everything is relative. I am worth so much more to you alive than you can even begin to guess.”

The American agent smirked. “For sake of argument then. To keep us entertained. Name a price. To keep you alive.”

Warren moved his neck around, feeling the muscles popping, his back stiff from being pushed down behind the seats of the SUV. “You have been hired by very miserly people. The American economy is
kaput
. What do they say in Russian?
Poor people need to be crafty.
The Americans must learn to be very crafty. Because there is nothing left in their cupboard.”

The hired killer behind the prisoner grunted. He liked the talk of money too. He pushed his gun barrel into Warren’s right kidney. He wanted to hear more.

“Two million each,” added Warren. Then he waited. He only needed a minute or two anyway and the vision of millions of dollars usually caused even the hardiest mercenary to zone out momentarily. “If they’re not paying you that much to make me disappear, you are being cheated.” The CIA probably guessed he had a few million stashed away, so easy to outbid. They were wrong. He had moved over one hundred million in the past year. Without a trace. That kind of money had a special power.

What happened next was more the result of the special power of high velocity money than high velocity cartridges. But it added up to the same thing in the end. Five very talented men working for him were quietly moving through the jungle following Warren’s signal from the bank in Panama City.

Warren was no fool. He wasn’t going into the tiger’s den without backup.

They surrounded Warren and his kidnappers and using some very expensive sniper rifles, trained their laser sights on the two men. The American was the first to notice the bright red dot dance across his chest. He couldn’t see the other two dots vibrating across his temple, but the Russian did. And neither heard the shots as their brains exploded.

Warren waited patiently for his men to come and release his hands from the nylon tie straps. They had cost him millions. But this war was all about being the highest bidder. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and removed the battery. He knew the CIA was going to track him, he just didn’t know how committed they were to his death. But now he did.

And someone was going to pay.

The struggle back to the Tahoe through the thick jungle growth left Warren and his men drenched in perspiration. The humidity was suffocating. They climbed into the SUV, anxious to max out the air conditioning and get back to civilization. BW knew the others had only one thing on their minds right now; what the money would buy them back in the US.

All he could concentrate on was revenge.

When Warren turned the ignition key the CIA agents had left in the vehicle, he heard two sounds in quick succession. The first was the clunk of the door locks being activated. Not unexpected. But the engine wasn’t turning over, so something was clearly wrong.

The most experienced soldier in his crew, sitting in the passenger seat, had time to give Warren a quick sideways look. Maybe it was a decade of survival instincts tuned to every sound and action that made him turn. But it was too late.

The second sound was harder to decipher. Warren heard what sounded like the sudden release of fluid from the floor, as if a fire extinguisher had released its charge. Within seconds, the entire interior and its occupants were coated with a thick blood-red fluid. As Warren choked on the noxious mixture, clawing for the door locks, somehow his brain was still able to trigger a memory. Something about the color. And the acrid smell. What was it? Of course, napalm. Probably the latest version. The one that burned forever.

Then the timed white phosphorous fuse ignited under their seats and the inside of the Tahoe became a white-hot blazing inferno.

As Med pulled some local currency out of her bag to cover the tip for the drinks, Xavier stood up and stretched.

“So do you think we’ll ever hear from
Buzzworm
again?” he asked. Med turned to him, curious why he would ask that question after witnessing the end of the transmission. It was true that her team hadn’t called in yet, which worried her slightly. But they hadn’t discussed any follow up until they were stateside again anyway. And they were the best that money could buy.

“Should I be worried?” she asked, wondering if he knew something she didn’t.

Xavier smiled. “No. I know the men you hired. They think of everything.” Then they both strolled out into the plaza under the burning sun and waved for a cab.

THE END

___________________________________

AND NOW A SPECIAL EXCERPT
FROM THEO CAGE’S NEXT NOVEL

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ON THE BLACK

“This book has it all. Action, intrigue, romance, well-developed characters and a fast moving plot. I found myself reading into the night as I didn't want to put the book down.” Amazon reviewer

Every Monday morning Wilson McFee tortures himself by driving his rust-bucket Volkswagen van up what the locals call
Barely-There Road
, the twenty-five ugliest miles of gravel dead end in Washington State.

Wilson accomplishes this feat to reach a tiny cabin in the Ghost Lake hills. His motivation is simple — a crisp fifty dollar bill upon arrival. In return, he delivers the essentials to a man he hardly knows; single-malt scotch, freeze dried soup, occasionally a gun magazine and rarely some real honest-to-God dark Swiss chocolate that he orders from the local dry goods store.

This morning he is late and the man waiting at the crest of the ridge has suddenly lost his appetite.

Wilson has a reputation for never being late. He is punctual, loyal to a fault, and most importantly — he has a healthy paranoia of banks and government. He loves nothing more than to stuff those big bills under his threadbare mattress every Monday night and then lay on them as he whacks off to some lame music video he watches on stolen cable.

And he knows he has to arrive at exactly five AM to get his bonus. Wilson and his weekly customer have talked about that rule often over the past decade. Wilson would crawl up that road on his hands and knees if he had to. But there is no sign of him and it’s almost five.

Looking out over the rugged hills and the cedar forest, a sick feeling in his stomach, the mountain man realizes that the time has finally come. He has been hiding up in the hills for over ten years, no phone, no electricity, no Internet and a single-seat outhouse he built himself and shares with a family of muskrats. Sure, he is bored most of the time. But he has been mostly at peace too. A strange sensation for an assassin who has killed forty-seven human beings in his lifetime and has half the civilized world on his trail.

Ten years was a lot longer than he ever expected (or deserved) when he first moved up to Mount Rainier. He was thinking two to three at best. After all, these people were professionals and very highly motivated.
Single-minded sons of bitches
, his wife used to call them, before they caught up to them in Antigua and hit her with a stray sniper round. After that, he consciously avoided warm places. He figured if he was hired to track a man down, and he didn’t know where to start, he’d gravitate towards warm oceans and cheap booze. Black flies and frostbite wouldn’t be a priority. So the former spy headed north. Damn far north for a boy who grew up in Iowa. He has since grown to appreciate a crystal clear winter night and the sounds of coyotes howling.

But he's also no fool. He never expected to escape these people forever. He just wanted a bit of rest before they finally got to him. So in a way, he's been lucky beyond his dreams.

The mountain man got up from his creaky wooden chair on the deck looking out over the ravine and the foothills to the Rockies. He headed inside his one room cabin and started to automatically assemble his pack. When he first arrived in Ghost Lake hills, he practiced this every day for months; it all comes back now in a rush. The cash goes in first. The three sets of fake ID, the Browning Para Ordnance P14.4 with two extra magazines. A knit hat, gloves, matches, a hunting knife. A bottle of water. A portable cell phone scanner. Nothing left behind will ever identify him. He was a ghost up here for ages and will leave the place the same way, like a wraith. With a crater to remember him by.

He listens again for the sound of Wilson’s van. Nothing. It’s far too quiet now, the sun beginning to rise over the peak of Mount Rainier and streaming through the cracks in the walls. A flock of ravens has suddenly disbursed. A good time to come for him. He would be sleepy, expecting nothing.

:

Wilson had the VW’s accelerator pedal mashed to the floorboards, but it seemed no matter how hard he levered down on the gas, he just wasn’t getting enough traction. He was at the steepest incline on the rutted, rain-washed trail that ended at the old hunter’s cabin, just coming over the last rise before the dip into the valley. And he only had ten minutes to go. He tromped down with all his strength, willing the recalcitrant vehicle up and over the loose shale. He had never missed the deadline before. Even by seconds. He was that kind of guy.

Then he saw a dark blue sedan rise over the crest of the road in a cloud of dust and flying gravel. Wilson shouted out in surprise and veered to the right. He hammered the brakes, a useless effort because once he took his foot off the gas; all momentum ceased, and the VW stalled on the ridge. He looked to his right to see the valley floor below. Too far below. He felt suspended in the air.

Two large men dressed in black dove from the sedan, a Crown Vic with blacked out windows, and Wilson bit down on his lip. How long could he hold on to this rock-strewn incline? Could he get the VW up to speed quick enough to make the hill? Would he have time to jump out before it careened into the rocky ravine?

The two men seemed to pause on the road, taking in the situation. Were they going to rescue him? But why were they smiling?

One removed something from his waist. Damn. It was a gun. The two both looked at each other and then the second man put the gun away. Wilson felt like crying with relief. They obviously realized they had the wrong person. Maybe they were looking for drug runners up here. Or militia nut jobs hiding in the woods.

Then the two moved forward, both placing their hands on the front of the van. They began to push. Wilson yelled out at them. Were they crazy? He pressed down even harder on the brake pedal. The old van rolled back slightly, making its way jerkily to the edge. They were big men, their arms bulging with muscles, and they seemed to move the vehicle with minimal effort.

The van lurched back another few feet, the brakes seeming to give up the contest. Wilson’s leg began to cry out in pain. He took the risk of letting go for a second and then pumped the brake hard again hoping to get some more needed traction. The two men on the road took advantage of this pause to force the van back several more feet. Then Wilson felt the vehicle tipping and heard the groceries in the back clatter out of their boxes.

“What do you want?” he yelled, his spittle hitting the dusty windshield. Then the whole world seemed to shift, and he felt himself falling backwards, his sweaty hands hanging on to the steering wheel in desperation. In a final gesture, he pounded on the horn button as the van tumbled down the side of the mountain. He heard nothing of course. Like most of the accessories on the rusty VW, the horn hadn’t worked for years.

:

A man in a black nylon jacket, hunkered down against the wind, watched the broken-down cabin through his binoculars. He had tracked his target moving inside just moments before. The target was hurrying, like he was missing an appointment or something. The man smiled to himself. Probably running to get his tea off the stove. What else did a man have to look forward to in this God forsaken land? He sure as hell wasn’t missing a key play in the Redskins game on his big screen TV.

The man watching this little drama through expensive optics was Trent Razer. He had a big square head with a blonde, some would say nearly white, buzz cut. And eyes that were almost obsidian. He was calculating now, chewing his lip. How long would it take the man inside the cabin to get his tea and make his way back to the porch? His brother, Brent, his twin, was closer to the cabin now — almost at the back door. Brent was carrying a silenced M14 battle rifle. The other man,
The Third Man
, as they called him, because no one would give them a name for the guy, was flanking the cabin from the North. The side without a window.

Trent breathed out a plume of cold mountain air. Did it matter if there was a window or not? The cabin looked like it might keel over at any moment, the walls chinked with moss or some other local shit. His target inside, the assassin known as Rice, probably had a 360-degree view of the valley through all those gaps and slats. Probably designed it that way. That was why he was able to stay alive and hidden for this long. If he could see out of the north wall, he would probably take the Third Man first. No sweat off his balls. The guy had the sense of humor of a three-star general. Shit, maybe he was. So no one would miss him for a nanosecond. He was just here to play nursemaid anyway.

Trent knew only fragments of the Rice story. The guy was a top-ranking black op agent who had gone seriously off the rails. But this had happened years ago so he didn’t know all the details. He did know a couple of lifers though who had a serious hard-on for the former mercenary and had spent years on his trail. He also didn’t know why it had taken them so long to find the exagent. He looked pretty harmless. Like Elmer Fudd in a faded plaid coat with a floppy winter hat. He didn’t look like he was built for speed anymore either. With the world of technological wonder the DEA had to slice and dice their way into your worst nightmares, they should have tracked him down years ago.

This was still a tricky mission though. Essentially because the
powers-that-be
didn’t want this Rice character dead or injured. They wanted to do the killing themselves, probably throw in a little recreational torture too; squeeze what revenge out of him that they could in their sunset years.
A good time to be had by all.
And Trent had a big bonus coming to do this right. So this will be military caution all the way; three top agents against one aging, out-of-practice mercenary, with a nice payday for a few days’ work.

:

The ex-spy took in a deep breath of Mount Rainier air. He was feeling pretty good for a hunted man, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe just fed up with hiding out and playing the survivalist for all these years. He can actually feel adrenaline flowing. Something he hadn’t felt for a while. He felt alive again.

He can hear them coming too. Which is a surprise for him, in a way. He guessed that living out in the wilds for so long away from city noise and clatter has tuned up his hearing. He hunkered down and peered through a knothole close to the floor. One visitor was creeping up on the north side, a second moving more cautiously towards the back of the cabin. He knew there were more of them out there. There always are. The fact that they’re sneaking up and not just flying in guns blazing, confirms for him that these agents are in capture mode. Someone wants to hear him talk. So they are hoping they can keep him alive for a while. That’s good too.

Rice reaches down to the trap door in the center of the room and lifts it up carefully. He reaches inside the edge and presses a blasting head deep into an exposed section of the C4 and lowers the door again. Done. He’s paranoid, but not crazy. He wouldn’t take the risk of sleeping on fifty pounds of plastic explosive all these years with the remote system hard wired. All you would need is one lost hunter with a CB radio tuned to the wrong frequency and you’d be gone in an instant.

Rice hunched down and moved towards the open door that faced the mountain. He stopped for the briefest second and admired how beautiful this time of day was, the snow cover picking up the oranges and reds of the sunset. He was going to miss it. He closed the door quietly and crawled across the rough plank decking and slid down over the edge. The drop was dramatic but he left a wooden ladder there for a quick escape. If someone sees him take this route, their only choice will be to follow and then they will be completely exposed. He moved carefully down the ravine wall to a path about twenty feet below the deck. Then he stopped and waited.

The first hint of entry he hears is the squeak of old timber. Someone has reached the deck and is slowly approaching the closed door. Then he hears the slightest groan, the rusty hinges doing their job. Then there is a rush of footsteps and the door bangs open. Their surprise hostage-taking event is in full arc. Someone yells his name out. It feels odd to hear it again. Ten years have gone by without that name spoken.
Rice!
He hears it again.
Rice!
Then he pushes the button on the tiny remote and the whole mountain shakes with the ferocity of the explosion as yellow flames roll out overhead across the ravine like a greasy shroud of death.

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

I hope you enjoyed
Buzzworm
. If you have any comments or opinions I would love to hear them. Just write me at
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