I realize, at the moment that I step on the elevator, that I forgot shoes. My bare feet squish against the carpet, my mouth curling into a grimace as the stick of carpet lingers when I step forward. I freeze, midstep, in the middle of a pad that no doubt contains vomit and urine in its fibers. Bumping the “1” button with my elbow, I breathe through my mouth, trying to think of anything but the wet consistency of rotted carpet against my soles. I grab a moment of indecision and close my eyes. Pray. Pray that I won’t kill Marilyn from 6B or a family of four unpacking food-stamp groceries in our parking lot. I don’t need a gun to buy ice cream. I jab at the “6” button with the intention of returning the gun. I will not kill anyone. Please help me God. I don’t know if it’s a worthy prayer. If God even listens to psychopaths.
The car settles on the ground floor, and I hear the shudder of door open behind me. I should stay on. Ride this beast back up to the sixth floor and return the gun. Without turning I pull my bare foot from the wet suck of carpet and step back, grateful for the hard concrete it hits, my second foot following quickly, any extra precautions disappearing with the close of the doors before me. It’s okay. I can handle this. I won’t use the gun. I will not kill anyone. I have a burst of confidence in my mantra, in myself, a moment of euphoria at the possibility of a successful field trip. It is nighttime. I am outside my apartment and armed, yet I will not hurt anyone. I put my hands in my pocket to stop their shake, the call of dark beckoning, my awareness narrowing as I focus on the task before me. I step to the left and push on the handle, the exterior door popping open, the world of cars and road open before me, the convenience store across the street glowing bright. In a normal neighborhood, the one I grew up in, the street would be quiet, the respectable families asleep or tucked away behind brick walls. But here, in a zip code that boasts the highest crime and lowest reportable income in the city, the streets buzz. I am surrounded, bodies sprinkled around the street, leaning against buildings, cars. I watch a prostitute skitter across the street toward the convenience store, wearing a pair of heels that cheaply mimics some of my own. Her end will come soon enough. It might be a blessing to have it through my hands, quick and final as opposed to a rough ending or slow death through disease. Plus, she is female, an easy target.
I pause in my step onto the street, realize the path of my mind, the grip of my hand around the gun and spin to the left, walking in a direction that has no destination, the only thought in my head one of flight. Flight from my own thoughts, from the horrific individual that lies inside my bones. I wasn’t supposed to kill anyone tonight. I didn’t want to kill anyone tonight.
My run from myself is redirected by the hand that closes around my elbow, a firm grip, the body tied to the hand too close for me to see, the hold pinning my elbow to his side as I am shoved forward.
I don’t scream, I don’t fight. It takes me a delayed moment to bring my mind out of my own self-loathing and realize what the hell is going on. I realize what is occurring around the time that the faceless stranger forces me left, into the dark space between two buildings, his grip tightening on my arm to a point of pain.
CHAPTER 57
EVERY JOB HAS its risks. A hacker’s life just contains more. It is part of the allure. High risks, high reward. Risks make Mike’s heart beat, his blood pump. It is what makes a mediocre life worth living. Plus, it gives him access to *. Women love the hacker angle. It makes a normal guy seem dangerous, connected. Makes them think he can, with a few strokes of deft fingers, accomplish anything he wants to. Unspeakable power harnessed by the sheer strength of self-control alone.
Mike closes the screen, watching Deanna’s recorded show disappear with one reluctant mouse click. Ripping off a chunk of paper towels, he cleans off his cock, and rolls the chair back, tossing the damp towels into the trash can below the desk. He frowns, the towels missing their mark, batted away from entrance by the overfull can, bottles, takeout containers, and a healthy collection of used paper towels towering precariously over the rim of the basket. A quick debate over emptying the can is ended by a knock on his home’s front door, the song echoing through the empty house. Loud and decisive, the knock authoritative enough to make his hand freeze and brain regroup. Rolling the chair forward, he clicks on the security system, and opens the cam that displays the front porch, the dim porch light displaying a man, his features unclear, his stance straight enough to scream COP via the high-def feed. Cops, in his world, equal Feds—the fear of hackers everywhere.
Mike’s hands go into a frenzy as the man’s fists pound again at the door. Firewalls get closed, feeds get killed, and he disconnects from the online file server. This pig can take every piece of his computer and it’ll be months before they realize half the stuff they don’t have. He locks down the computer and moves to the door, getting to the handle just as a third set of knocks begins.
The door swings casually beneath his hand, his features relaxed, a friendly grin hiding the acceleration of his heart. His mouth curves more naturally into amusement as the man’s eyes drop, surprised, to his face. There is a moment of hesitation in the stranger’s face and then he smiles. Smiles. An unexpected response, one that puts a seed of fear in his stomach that feels unnatural. Despite his life, his situation, fear is an unfamiliar emotion. Mike reaches for the door, filled with the sudden and unexplainable urge to slam it in the man’s face and flip the dead bolt.
“Can I help you?” His eyes pick up on the stranger’s details. His shoes, black and shiny, with little tassels on the front. Dark gray slacks. A black sweater that looks too expensive for a Fed. A briefcase in hand, which fits every stereotype he would have envisioned. Keeping his face bland, Mike’s examination continues. A wiry build and hard face, one that a smile does nothing to soften. Smaller and shorter than the security cam indicated, the man’s strong posture making him appear bigger. Midforties. With eyes that are pure bad news. A cop he wouldn’t trust to watch a dog.
“May I come in?”
“You got a warrant?” It is the wrong thing to say, a comment that screams I’ve got something to hide. But the man only smiles wider, and Mike feels the prickle of unease return.