Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 169272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
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?”