On a scale of one to ten, I’m about a hundred in not helping this guy with anything.
It’s hard to say why the email bothers me so much beyond this not being how the FBI actually works. Or how I thought it worked. I’m pretty sure it’s not up to FBI agents if I serve time or not. Surely that’s something only the legal system can determine.
I fire a quick note to Saint, the former FBI undercover agent turned biker, to check before I switch into another app and try to track the IP address. The software I use is illegal, open source, and written by a friend, 404Bae. She got her username for constantly ghosting people mid chat and has a tattoo of a heartbroken Wi-Fi symbol.
The tracking is weird. The email bounced around overseas before coming back to an FBI node. It’s not impossible that someone has managed to hack the FBI, or maybe it’s someone who has managed to take control of Dorian Chase’s account.
I read back through the email again.
One last time.
Vital information…Los Jarales cartel.
Ignore role in hacking in return for funds and information.
Shutting down of their network.
Seven days to respond…Most Wanted.
Added you to various watchlists.
Well, fuck that shit.
I message another friend, Krillbyte.
Me:You got five to do me a favor?
I wait two minutes before the dots start to bounce in reply.
Krillbyte:What do you need, NullTrace?
I chose NullTrace as my handle because it was blunt and uncompromising, and I pretty much bet my reputation on it. That I could do whatever people wanted, leaving no trace behind.
Me:If someone you knew ended up on the alphabet MW?
Krillbyte:Leave it with me.
Me:Love you forever
Krillbyte:No, you won’t ;-)
One of the things I love about what Calista did was how she brought a fiercely protective small group of us together. People who had complementing skills and a craving for privacy. HexaPixie, LagRabbit, Krillbyte, Keyghost, Scalpel0x, and me.
I glance back at the email again to read it one more time. Beneath the core message is a whole bunch of logistics of where to reach Chase.
Since spending time with Catfish and his family and seeing the Colorado Outlaws through his lens, the band around my chest has loosened. But I can feel it start to cinch tighter again.
Outside, the early morning is still pitch-dark, sharp and feathered with cold. In the daylight, I can see the cottonwoods that line the north fence and the dirt road. A glance at the clockon the oven tells me it’s close to seven a.m. And across the paddock, I see the lights go on in the barn.
Must be Atom getting things started for the day. I haven’t had the chance to thank him properly for helping Catfish convince Grudge to let us move here. In the very first meeting I had when I met the Colorado bikers, I said I’d be happy at the bakery, but mainly because I thought I’d be allowed to at least walk Main Street, perhaps visit the diner.
I wonder if we could invite Atom and Ember over for dinner one night.
Like a double date.
“Wren?” I hear Catfish’s yell, and it makes me jump. There’s urgency in it. Not quite panic, but something demanding.
The thud of footsteps vibrates through the kitchen wall as he charges toward me, and on instinct, I slip off the stool, sending it flying, and crouch down behind the kitchen island.
