“So we just have to search a band that’s a ‘couple hours’ from Charleston.”
“You did it,” Gibson said. “We have a shot.”
“So now what?” she asked.
“Now? Now we wardrive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Wardriving dated back to the early days of wireless networks, when few routers came with encryption already enabled. Most people, too lazy to follow instructions, just plugged the router in, factory settings enabled, and left themselves exposed to the world. Big cities became all-you-can-eat buffets of wide-open Wi-Fi that software such as Netstumbler or InSSIDer could exploit. Often it was simply to “borrow” free Wi-Fi, but open Wi-Fi presented many less adiaphorous avenues if one were so inclined. Many hackers were, driving the length and breadth of a city, mapping all its unprotected access points. Nowadays, commercial routers defaulted to passwords, so wardriving was less prevalent than it once had been.
Lea’s performance on the call had significantly narrowed their search parameters, but Gibson knew they still had a lot of roads to cover and not a lot of time to cover them. To have a chance meant driving twenty-four hours a day. The plan called on them to drive in shifts, stopping only for gas, food, and bathroom breaks. A fold-down cot in the back of the van would serve as a communal bed. They would drive until they found the cell phone or time ran out. Either way, Gibson didn’t see returning to Niobe. This was his shot, and if he missed, he wasn’t fool enough to mix up with the predators now circling the prison.
Emerson Soto Flores folded his newspaper and watched Gibson check out of the hotel. Two of his men sat in the parlor over a chessboard. Jimmy Temple looked tired and anxious. His once-spotless suit had a stain on the lapel, and a small black thread dangled from his sleeve from a missing button. Eartha Kitt vamped her way through “Santa Baby” over the lobby speakers as Gibson and Jimmy shook hands over the counter. Gibson thanked him for his hospitality. Jimmy accepted it with a careless shrug. He hardly seemed the same man.
“Good luck, Jimmy.”
“Drive safe.”
Emerson met Gibson at the counter and escorted him across the lobby. “Don’t be hard on yourself; there is no shame in cowardice. Sometimes knowing your limits is all that keeps a man alive.”
Emerson held open the door for him, and Gibson saw the van idling at the curb. Lea motioned to him from the passenger seat, but Gibson hesitated. Emerson felt it and faced him as his men emerged from the parlor.
“You have something to say?” asked Gibson.
God knows Emerson did, along with a bully’s excitement at the prospect. His men pressed closer. The van honked, and Gibson could hear Lea calling him. He should go, but still he found it hard to be the one to look away first. His father, a shrewd political strategist, had always said, Fight the fight, but never let them pick the venue. It was good advice. Before Emerson could speak, Gibson broke away, descended the front steps, and threw his bag in the van. He turned back to take one last look at the Wolstenholme Hotel. Emerson watched him from the front doors, an amused expression on his face. Gibson climbed in back, gave Emerson a lazy two-finger salute, and slammed closed the sliding door. He’d be happy to leave Emerson, the hotel, and Niobe in the rearview mirror.
“Ready to go?” Swonger asked.
“As I’ve ever been.”
Lea piped in with an exuberant English accent. “Engage!”
That broke the tension. Even Gibson cracked a smile as he pointed the way forward. And that set the tone for the wardrive, all smiles as they left the poisonous atmosphere that had settled over Niobe, West Virginia. They had reason to feel confident: the job at the motor-pool depot, their good fortune to capture Merrick’s cell number on the first day (only Gibson knew the truth), Lea’s artful handling of Merrick’s partner . . . they were on a roll, and what’s more, they had the edge. Sure, tracking down Merrick’s partner might be a long shot, but they shared the belief that things would break their way. Plus, it felt good to leave the competition sitting on their hands back in Niobe.
It wasn’t until they’d spent a few hours on the highway that the magnitude of the task dawned on Gibson. On the map, the wide band circling Charleston that needed to be swept looked comfortingly small, at least compared to the entirety of West Virginia. However, to be effective, the Stingray couldn’t move faster than about thirty-five miles an hour. It also required line of sight, and West Virginia wasn’t the flattest state in the Union. Clearing a grid would mean combing back and forth over every road, from highway to dirt trail, before moving on. Gibson kept his reservations to himself—morale was high, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
As the days wore on and they made their meandering way across West Virginia—the Stingray resolutely and defiantly silent—a strange thing began to happen. Gibson expected tempers to fray and the close quarters to breed contempt and short fuses. Especially between Lea and Swonger, who couldn’t have had less in common. She of the Upper East Side pedigree and prep-school education, and Swonger of Buckingham Correctional Center. Instead, it brought them together.
It began over music during one of Lea’s shifts behind the wheel. The first rule of wardriving—driver controlled the music. She took great pride in her eclectic taste in music, and she deejayed her shifts, one hand on the wheel while she scrolled through her music library for the next track. An odd, discordant, synth-heavy song began. Swonger looked up questioningly at the speakers, and Gibson braced for the inevitable explosion. From his time in the Scion, Gibson knew Swonger took a dim view of anything not rap, but to his surprise, Swonger slid into the passenger seat and asked Lea the name of the song.
“‘Ashes to Ashes,’” Lea said. “David Bowie?”
“Who’s he? It’s cool.”
With the breathless, intimate pleasure that comes from introducing someone to a favorite musician, Lea spent the next several hours playing Bowie for Swonger and answering his questions. Then she moved on to Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, and Talking Heads. Perhaps that’s how “Life During Wartime” became the wardrive’s official theme song. When it was Swonger’s turn to drive, Swonger returned the favor and educated Lea about the underground rap scene: Action Bronson, Danny Brown, Vince Staples, Westside Gunn, Schoolboy Q. Swonger was an encyclopedia on the subject.