Chapter 3 – The Ghost in the Machine

Oliver

The city is a cage, and I’m the rat currently banging its head against the bars.

My breath mists in the cold air, a fleeting ghost that vanishes as quickly as my chances of survival. I’m huddled in the doorway of a boarded-up electronics store in Queens, watching the street from under the brim of my Mets cap.

I need a weapon. Not a gun or a knife, though the folding blade in my pocket is a small comfort, I need my actual weapon. I need code. I need a keyboard.

My mind is running a frantic diagnostic on my options, and they’re all coming up red. I can’t go to a friend, I’ll just paint a target on their back. I can’t go to a hotel with Wi-Fi, they’ll ask for a credit card.

I need the dark.

There’s a name rattling around in the back of my skull. It’s a fragment of a memory from a late-night dive into the encrypted forums where the monsters of the underworld compare notes.

Kirill Nikolaev.

The name wasn’t in Senator Scott’s files, which means I won’t be a conflict of interest.

A user on a Tor-hidden forum, using the handle Viper_77, had bragged about an assassin with a team who could vanish problems that even the cartels couldn't scrub. Someone who didn't just remove the stain, but turned the whole cloth to ash.

They called him a scalpel in a world of hammers. They also said he’s absolutely deadly.

If the U.S. government is hunting me, I don't need a bodyguard. I need a monster of my own.

I need to find Viper_77. And to do that, I need to get online without pinging any traps set to catch me.

I walk for six blocks, keeping my head down, until I see the flickering neon sign of a place called "NetZone." It’s a relic, a 24-hour gaming café that smells of stale Red Bull and unwashed bodies.

Perfect.

The lighting is dim, blue-tinted, and harsh. Rows of monitors line the walls, occupied by teenagers playing shooters, and guys who look like they’re waiting for a wire transfer from a Nigerian prince.

The guy at the counter doesn't even look up from his phone.

"One hour," I say, slapping a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the laminate.

He slides a slip of paper with a login code across the counter. "Station 14. No p**n."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Who the hell wants to watch p**n in public?

Station 14 is in the back corner, next to a fire exit that looks like it hasn't been opened since the nineties.

I sit down and crack my knuckles. For the first time in twenty-four hours, the shaking in my hands stop.

I don't use their browser. I boot the machine into a temporary Linux environment from the USB drive I keep on my keychain. The only piece of tech I didn't toss. It’s my lifeline.

I tunnel through three proxies in three different countries before I even open a browser. Then, I dive.

The forum is still there. It’s an ugly, text-based thing, buried deep beneath layers of encryption. I log in using a dormant account I created years ago.

I search the archives for Kirill Nikolaev.

Nothing.

Mercenary. Russian. Phantom.

More than a hundred hits. I filter by user Viper_77.

There it is. A thread from six months ago. Someone asking for a high-end assassin. Viper_77 replied: If you have the coin, find the Russian. Kirill Nikolaev. He doesn't leave scraps. Best in the business. In and out like a phantom.

There were two more comments, but both have been deleted. I’m sure one of those mentioned a team.

"Okay, Viper," I mutter, my fingers dancing over the sticky keys. "Let’s see who you really are. I need some contact details."

I can’t hack the forum’s server, the encryption is too tight for the time I have. But I can hack Viper.

I pull up his post history. He’s careless. He uses the same handle on a crypto-betting site. I cross-reference the timestamp of his login there with a leaked database of IP addresses from a breach last year.

Got you.

The IP resolves to a residential address in Staten Island. A suburban house. I run a quick background check on the owner. Barry Gels. 44. Divorced. Works in logistics for a shipping company that’s been flagged twice for smuggling contraband.

"Hello, Barry," I whisper.

I find his cell phone number then clear my tracks, wiping the terminal’s memory, and yank my USB drive. I leave the café with my heart thumping a steady, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

Step one complete.

Now I need a phone.

I find a bodega three blocks down and buy a cheap burner phone and a pre-paid card with cash. I stand outside, sheltering from the biting wind in the alcove of a closed laundromat, and dial the number.

"Yeah?" The voice is gruff and distracted. I can hear a TV in the background.

"Barry Gels," I say. My voice is low, stripped of any emotion.

"Who is this?"

"It doesn't matter who I am. It matters what I know. I know about the crypto wallet you’re using to hide what you’re skimming from your bosses. And I know you have a big mouth on forums you shouldn't be on."

"Listen," Barry stammers, his voice pitching higher. "I don't know what-"

"You mentioned Kirill Nikolaev," I cut him off.

I hear a sharp intake of breath. The fear is palpable, traveling down the signal like an electric current.

"I didn't," Barry whispers. "I never... are you with him? Look, I didn't mean anything by it, I just happened to overhear a conversation where he was mentioned."

"I’m not with him. But I need to reach him. And you’re going to tell me how."

"Are you crazy?" Barry hisses. "You don't just call him. If I give out his info he’ll kill me. He’ll actually peel my skin off. You don't understand who he is."

"And if you don't give it to me, I dump your entire hard drive to the cartel you’re stealing from," I say, my tone flat. "You have five seconds, Barry. Do you want to die today, or do you want to take a gamble that I’ll keep my mouth shut?"

"I can't," he whimpers.

"One."

"Please."

"Two."

"Fuck! Okay! Okay!" Poor Barry is breathing hard. "I don’t know if he has a phone, but there’s a place in Brooklyn where my boss told his buddy he met with him."

"Address," I demand.

"It’s a warehouse on Commerce street. I can’t remember the exact number, but I think it’s in the two-thousands. Look, you have to promise me. You have to swear you won't say I told you. He’s a demon, man. He’s not human. I heard about the gang he wiped out for my boss and it was ugly."

"I swear on my mother’s life," I say, meaning it. "Your name never crosses my lips."

The line goes dead and I drop the burner phone into a trash can and pull my collar up as high as it can go.

Commerce Street. Brooklyn. I guess I’ll start at 2000 and work my way up.

I step out of the alcove and turn right, heading toward the subway station. The street is busier now, the evening rush beginning to clog the arteries of the city.

I get that feeling again. The itch between my shoulder blades. I stop, pretending to look at a shop window, and use the reflection to scan the street behind me.

Thirty feet back. A man in a grey peacoat. He’s looking at his phone, but his body is angled toward me.

How the fuck have they tracked me again? No more than a sliver of my face is ever visible. There’s no facial recognition that’s that good.

I start to walk, faster this time. I turn the corner sharply and break into a run.

"Hey!" A voice shouts behind me.

I don't look back. I sprint down the block, duffel banging against my legs, dodging pedestrians who shout curses at me. I need to get off the street.

I duck into an alleyway that cuts between two buildings. It’s dark, filled with shadows and damp cardboard. I’m halfway down when a figure steps out from behind a dumpster, blocking the exit.

It’s not the guy in the peacoat. It’s another one. Jesus fucking Christ, can I not catch a break?

"Mr. Blaese," the man says. He’s built like a vending machine, square and solid. "End of the line."

I skid to a stop, looking back. Peacoat is blocking the entrance.

I’m boxed in.

"You guys really are persistent," I say, backing toward the wall. My hand goes to my pocket, gripping the folding knife. It feels pathetic in the face of my current predicament and I leave it where it is.

"Make this easy," Vending Machine says, stepping forward. "Come quietly, and you keep your teeth."

"I’m quite attached to my teeth," I admit. "But I’m allergic to black sites."

He lunges.

He’s fast for a big man. I try to dodge, but I’m tired and my reaction time is sluggish. His hand clamps onto my shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle like steel hooks.

I panic. I don't have a plan. I just react.

I swing my fist, aiming for his throat, but he catches my wrist effortlessly. He grins, a cold, professional expression, and then drives his other fist into my face.

The world explodes in white light.

The pain is immediate and blinding. I taste copper instantly. My head snaps back, and I stumble, my knees buckling. I hit the wet pavement hard, the breath driven out of me.

"Grab him," Peacoat says from behind.

I scramble backward on my elbows, kicking out. My boot connects with Vending Machine’s shin, but he barely flinches. He reaches down to haul me up.

Fuck it. I yank the knife from my pocket and flick the blade open. I don't know how to fight, but I’m desperate, and desperation is its own kind of danger. I slash wildly at the hand reaching for me.

The blade catches his forearm. It’s not a deep cut, just a long scratch through his jacket, but it’s enough to make him hiss and recoil.

"Little shit," he growls.

“It’s poisoned,” I hiss at him. “That’s why you’re feeling so dizzy.”

Of course it’s not, but why not try a bit of psychological warfare?

He glances down at the cut, giving me a fraction of a second.

My left eye is already swelling shut. I can feel the warm trickle of blood from my split lip. I don't wait for them to coordinate. I turn and bolt straight at Peacoat.

He expects me to fight and braces himself to grapple.

I don't fight. I kick the trash can next to me directly at his legs. It’s a clumsy move, but the metal bin clatters into his knees, making him stumble.

I shoulder past him, scraping my arm against the brick wall, and burst out onto the street.

"Get him!"

I’m running like the devil himself is nipping at my heels. I hit the sidewalk of the main avenue. Traffic is gridlocked, a sea of red taillights and honking horns.

I see a yellow cab three cars back, its vacant light on. I don't wave. I yank the back door open and dive inside.

"Drive!" I scream at the driver, a startled older man with a turban. "Just drive! Go!"

"Hey, buddy, you okay? You’re bleeding-"

"I said drive!" I slam the door and lock it, fishing a hundred dollar bill from the duffel and tossing it at him.

He hits the gas, swerving into the next lane. I look out the rear window. Vending Machine and Peacoat are sprinting toward a black sedan parked at the curb.

They’re going to follow. In this traffic, they’ll be on our bumper in seconds.

"Turn here!" I yell, pointing at a side street.

"I can't turn there, it’s one way!"

"Do it!"

He ignores me, staying on the avenue. Of course he does. He’s a cab driver, not a stuntman in a movie.

I look back. The black sedan is two cars behind us now. They have me. If we stop at the next light, they’ll pull up next to us and drag me out.

The traffic slows to a crawl as we approach an intersection. The cab stops.

I unlock the door on the left side of the cab, the side facing the opposing traffic.

"Hey! You can't get out there!"

I ignore him. I push the door open and slide out into the narrow gap between the cab and a delivery truck in the next lane.

I crouch low, using the vehicles as a shield. The black sedan is stuck three cars back. They’re watching the right side of the cab, waiting for me to bolt for the sidewalk.

I don't go for the sidewalk.

I weave through the stopped cars, moving perpendicular to the traffic. I slide over the hood of a low sports car, ignoring the driver’s indignant honk. I duck under the side mirror of a bus.

I reach the other side of the avenue and run half a block north, against the flow of traffic, keeping my head down.

I spot another cab, this one heading uptown, away from my pursuers. I flag it down, practically throwing myself onto the hood.

The driver stops, looking terrified.

I wrench the door open and fall into the backseat, gasping for air. My face is throbbing in time with my heart. I touch my lip and look at my fingers. Bright red.

I’ve never been hit before. Can’t say I hope to repeat the experience.

"Where to?" the driver asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror like I’m a rabid dog.

"Brooklyn," I wheeze, wiping the blood from my chin with my sleeve. "Somewhere around 2000 Commerce Street. And step on it." I push two crisp hundred dollar bills through the partition and he grins at me.

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

As the cab pulls away, merging into the flow of traffic, I look back one last time. The black sedan is still stuck in the gridlock two blocks away.

I sink into the cracked vinyl seat. I’m battered, I’m bleeding, and I’m heading to a warehouse in an industrial wasteland to meet a man who might kill me just for showing up.

But for the first time in two days, I’m not just reacting. I’m making the first move.

This Kirill better be as good as Barry says, or we’re both dead.