“Look at that, the boxes of ammo on the bench and all the weapons esé. And mira, there’s El Gordo’s stamp. Señor Max is moving guns for El Gordo now.” The bigger man pointed at the 30” computer screen showing the bounty that awaited their taking before them. A smile, stained and encrusted with yesterday’s burrito, peeked out of his black mustache and beard. He had been watching Max for a while, but this new computer genius, who told them they could turn on Señor Max’s web camera remotely, had proven a wise investment by his boss. They now knew what he was hiding in his beach house and that he was working for their enemy.
“Better tell Rodrigo what we found.”
29.
Fear of Flying
Darla raced to get to O’Hare in time. Each time the traffic would slow down, she cursed under her breath so that Danny wouldn’t hear. “Why was there even traffic at this time of night?” She yelled at unknowing drivers ahead of her.
Normally, she would take the 12 to I94 all the way through Chicago to the Kennedy to the airport. An easy two hours, maybe three with traffic. However, it had been one thing after another. First, she left later than she wanted. Then, she had to find gas and couldn’t locate an open station because of the late hour. Then, she was talked into taking Elm Valley Rd so she could drop off something for Mammie’s friend, but there was some sort of a tractor accident on the road. If these issues weren’t enough, the traffic was bumper-to-bumper in Gary, Indiana and it was like eleven fricking-PM, when the highways should be empty. Finally, to top it all off, they were having a very rare aurora display in the sky, which was drawing drivers’ attention away from their driving to the sky, slowing the traffic down even more. Bottom line, as her sister liked to say, she was seriously late. She even texted Stace to let her know they would have to see each other again at the gate. It was still amazing that they ended up on the same flight together with a couple of additional friends as well, at least through Dallas. What were the chances?
Now, how to avoid missing their flight? Besides the pain of missing their flight, having to reschedule, and maybe missing their flight to RP, she didn’t want to let Stace and her family down. Dammit, why didn’t she leave earlier? Stace was so nervous about flying and was overly excited when told they were sharing the same flight. Stace would have a hand to hold on the plane, assuming she could convince the seat holder next to her to switch seats… If she could even make the flight.
“Dammit,” she yelled at the group of cars that had just slowed down to a crawl in front of her. “Sorry, Danny, my bad at saying that.”
Danny smiled at his sister, who never said bad words.
“Your sister is sooooo fricking stupid,” castigating herself.
Max’s iPhone buzzed where it sat, announcing a call, but not audibly because its ringer was silenced. He halted his march back from his largest gun cabinet, already placing 5 Glocks and 2000 rounds of .45 ammo on his bench, beside the rifles and extra magazines. All were ready for transport to the Beach Warehouse. His phone buzzed again. He picked it up seeing no picture to reveal the caller, just the letters “L.H.O.” El Gordo was calling him directly, which never happened, as El Gordo always had his henchmen contact him when he wanted something. “Now what?” mumbling and sliding his finger across the screen to answer, “Bueno, Señor Luis. What can I do for you?” He asked respectfully.
“Bueno, Señor Max. I am calling you as a favor. Rodrigo knows what is in those boxes we helped you with,” El Gordo said very cryptically knowing the Mexican government was probably listening. Max glared at the half-opened crate by the wall, while still listening. “He has control of your webcam and can see inside of your house. So-” Max jerked his head to his left, away from the phone to his largest computer screen and the webcam resting above, pointing directly at him. The light wasn’t on, but he read that once you had control of someone’s webcam, it was easy to turn the light off. “…open the box in front of the camera and be careful.”
“Chingado,” erupted the Mexican profanity from his lips before he could stop it. “Compermiso, Señor Luis. It is too late.”
“Am sorry to hear that, my friend. I must protect my investment then. Do not leave your house. I have two men in front, watching you now. I will call again soon.” With that, El Gordo hung up.
Completely unnerved, Max roughly put his phone down.
His computer yelled some sort of warning tone out to him, unlike any of its normal announcements. He shakily walked over, first grabbing the violating webcam cord and pulling it out of the computer. He focused on the screen and recognized the warning he never wanted to see. “Chingado,” he said once again, vocalizing his dread while tossing the dead webcam away from him. It skidded across the floor, coming to a rest up against the same crate of guns it was so interested in earlier.
Grabbing his mouse, he clicked the large “CLICK HERE” below the red pulsating warning, knowing what would come next. “Attention! The Cicada Protocol has been initiated…” Max dropped into his leather work chair. He had no time to lose now. He knew what the rest said. Hell, he wrote the first protocol message, and he doubted it changed that much.
But the information wasn’t for him. So, he played along and reviewed the message, opening the instructions and map and printing them. After examining both printed pages, he reached under his desk beside where his soon to be dead computer currently resided. He grabbed a satchel and placed it reverently on his desk. He blew on the top, disbursing a thin layer of dust above and behind his desk. Opening the satchel with his left hand, he reached in, grabbed the wrapped package with his right hand, and pulled it out. It looked just as he left it a few years ago. Quickly opening up the flaps of the package, he opened the book it sheltered, admiring it for just a moment, and then slipped the pages into it. He wrapped everything else up and placed it back in the satchel, leaving it there for the moment.
“Time for that Mission Impossible thing,” he announced. He reached down and yanked the cords out of the computer, and dragged the computer case to the middle of the floor, its little rubber feet trying to hold onto its position on the floor, screeching its discontent.
He opened a recently purchased MacBook Air, booted it up, opened Microsoft Word — he still never liked using Apple’s equivalent — when it was fully booted, a message he had never seen popped open. It said, “Your computer has been infected with the Zombie Computer Virus. It will now eat itself and all of your other computers…”
A smirk broke out on his lips. “Sally? Dammit. I wish I could enjoy this.” He remembered her borrowing his laptop the last time she was here at the house to install some new software she was able to get free. “Zombie virus?” He shook his head once more.
The smile ebbed as he refocused on the job at hand. Closing the window on the fake program, he chose his “From the Desk of…” template and started to write, “To my family (William, Lisa & Sally)…”
The computer in the middle of his concrete floor started to emit a hissing sound, mimicking the deflating mood he felt as he continued to write. A small cloud of smoke, no more than a puff or two from a good cigar, exhaled out of the back, signaling his trusty computer’s exit from this world.
Turning away from the show, Max finished his letter, printing it out. He re-read it to make sure it said what he wanted it to say, scratching his nickname they all used rather than his initials on the bottom — his normal method of signing to make it “official”. Then he placed the letter on top of the wrapped package, slipped both into the satchel, and then placed it in its normal resting place under the desk.