I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 Read online

  Owen looked on, captivated; he had seen Spencer only as a distant flash on a metal roof and two still photos on Facebook. Seeing Spencer pumping gas, buying a burrito, getting himself a coffee and stirring in powdered creamer, viewing him functioning like a free man, had Owen straining like a skinny red-headed Hulk ready to attack the life-sized projection.

  “Bastard!” Owen kicked at a plastic chair, sending it flying.

  “Dude!” Kip called out to him. “That is from yesterday. You know he can’t hear you, right?”

  Owen pointed at the image while in it Spencer took a bite from the burrito, blew the heat out of his mouth, and then licked at cheese dripping over his lip. He wanted to reach his hands through the monitor and strangle the life out of the sonofabitch. Callie was fed up with North Corona, the house, and the boys’ schools before the attacks ever started. But they would have worked it out. He knew they would have worked it out. Losing Tremaine was what broke their backs. The shooter whose image projected across the whole wall broke their backs. You did that. You motherfucking bastard!

  “Arrg!” Owen growled. “I can’t stand it! Seeing him looking all normal, like a regular guy.” His closest friend was dead, his marriage was fucked up, and he had fucked up on the job, too. Now the new captain was about to replace him.

  So long as Jonathan Spencer walked the face of the planet, he was never going to be able to make things right.

  *****

  From inside Starbucks on Tonnelle Avenue, Miller absently sipped at a double tall mocha while constantly eyeing the mobile app on one of his cell phones, waiting for the confirmation. When it pinged, he tapped and snatched thin air inside his fist. A two, a five, and five more zeroes.

  “Yes!” he called out loud. After recounting the zeroes, he walked outside and dropped the phone and the drink together into the trash. No phone contacts, no papers, no wire trails, no trace whatsoever. An army of forensic accountants couldn’t track the funds.

  “No more penny-ante skimming,” Miller smirked. “This is how real business is done.”

  Continuing up Tonnelle, his next stop was Chase Bank. “How much would it take to buy into a hedge fund?” he considered.

  Miller’s posture and gait, his entire persona shifted; he stepped up and took charge. He was a different person when he returned to Owen, Stephen, and Dilip. First thing, he slapped a banded stack of fresh one hundred dollar bills on the table.

  “Any one of you can take that for yourself today, ten grand cash money. Be great at what you do. Simple,” he said.

  He waived his arms wide, his forefingers pointing in every direction. “Listen up. The client, through me, is going to be very generous, gentlemen. Think big. Think about tropical islands. With success, you might well be there. We are engaged in a private-public partnership.

  “Gentlemen, start your computers. Enter the sanctum sanctorum. The Gods have given us the Ark of the Covenant, the keys to every technology you’ve only ever talked about in whispers. But the tools and the data come at a price. There is always a quid pro quo. You get the tools, you get highly remunerated, and we handle this on the deep DL. We are about to do remarkable things, gentlemen, and you can never breathe a word about them.”

  Miller’s eyes locked on Owen’s face. The challenge floated like bloated ghosts hanging heavy in the dead air. Dilip eyed Stephen, but said nothing. Fifteen seconds passed. It felt like days. Owen blinked first. When the moment passed, he was still there.

  “Good,” Miller announced crisply. “We all can be certain that our client knows everything.” He scanned the walls and ceiling tiles, certain they were under observation at that moment. “I mean everything. You do not want to be on the wrong side of this, not now, not ever. You will never speak about this, you will never write about this, and you will never bear witness to any of this. There will never be a circumstance when you are better off talking about this, not ever, not ten years from now. I don’t care what you get caught up in doing, you’ll be better off in prison than ever trying to trade on what we are now going to do here.”

  Dilip glanced again toward Stephen, who was riveted, totally engaged in being the composer within a real-world conception of the perfect gaming thesis. Miller’s description brought Spencer to life; up until that moment, Stephen and the techs had never connected the images to flesh and bone.

  Owen followed intently while Miller detailed Spencer’s arrogance, describing the sociopathic void that the military had programmed, the perfect Triple Threat.

  “We are tracking an escaped prisoner. Jonathan Spencer. A year ago Spencer was an elite soldier. He went bad. Spencer was captured, unconscious, with two shattered legs. The same day his casts came off, he took out two guards and the doctor and walked out of high-security segregated detention.”

  Owen questioned in disbelief. “Spencer was caught?”

  “Caught and broke out,” Miller reiterated.

  “How did he break both legs?” Owen demanded confirmation as the pieces fell together. A long fall onto concrete.

  Nussbaum turned, looking sideways as Owen talked to himself.

  “Dimitri Vosilych!” Owen explained, answering his own question. “It was all bullshit! Everything! Motherfucker!”

  “Are you done, Lieutenant?” Miller asked sarcastically. “Gentlemen, I kill people.”

  Nussbaum’s jaw dropped. Stephen, Dilip, Dale and Kip exchanged glances. “That is one hell of a line,” Stephen whispered tensely. Layer upon layer, the reality was sinking in.

  Miller’s stark statement pulled Owen’s focus back to the immediate while a tidal wave massed offshore inside his head, roiling and tumbling.

  “More precisely,” Miller continued, “my regular work, my oeuvre if you will, is tracking and elimination.” He scanned their faces as he spoke. “I know Master Sergeant Jonathan Spencer. I know him well. In fact, he worked directly for me. I also saved his life. Not to my credit, I see. So let’s fix that, shall we?” He matched his eyes into each of theirs, holding his stare until one by one he held their riveted attention.

  “With his hands and with all hand-held weaponry,” Miller continued, “Spencer is a nearly perfect killing machine.

  “Call it like it is: hell, he was my star. But after six straight months soloing for me, he was just as cold as Day One. He has no friends, no relationships, and he trusts no one.

  “Let’s be clear. We aren’t going to drag it out; bonus money will more than offset your consulting fees. We have one goal here. Our roles terminate with Jonathan Spencer dead.

  “We are going to keep this simple. We are not here to capture; not that he will let himself be caught again. We are all here, unequivocally, to kill the burrito-munching sonofabitch up on that screen. You find him, I send a hot team, and they kill him.

  “Let me paint a more vivid picture, just in case escaping from confinement straight out of full-length leg casts hasn’t painted a clear picture. The drug cartel firefight yesterday in West Virginia? Spencer. A tactical team closed in on him. Spencer destroyed a helicopter, killed the pilot, and executed six experienced, heavily armed Special Forces-trained ex-soldiers. That is who you are up against. Don’t forget it. On the bright side, it was your tracking cameras that enabled that assault. You succeeded. Failing is on the dead commandos. Price of failure. Bishop put together those commandos. I’ll be vetting professional replacements; my hot teams will be serious killers. There are no rules of engagement. If it means killing everyone in a room, they’ll do it or I’ll get another team. That may be tough for you to digest, but that’s what you’re into, boys.”

  Miller’s glare dared them to look at one another for support. Each one of the techs gulped. Owen Cullen’s only tell wasn’t fear; Cullen looked ready to charge forward.

  “Spencer is that good,” Miller resumed. “But he is no thinker. He didn’t come up with this. S
omebody is telling him what to do. You find that somebody and we find Spencer.”

  Miller sat down and swiveled his chair in front of Stephen. “Your team, these young men, have the keys to the Formula One racers of technology. Impress me and you get the chance to be made men. This is your IPO, gentlemen. Get it done! Nussbaum, I’m expecting to see the tightest net in history around this motherfucker.”

  He turned to Owen next. “Detective, you found him once. Do it again. Show us what to look for.”

  In quick staccato, Miller laid out directives that would have overwhelmed a floor covered with techs working around the clock. “Find the hatred. Sift the entire goddamned internet and boil it down for repeated messaging that shows fervent hate for the rich.”

  Dilip looked over to Dale and Kip, who both looked to Stephen Nussbaum, once again at a complete loss. “There will be millions of entries, tens of millions,” Nussbaum protested. “That would take thousands of programming hours to create our own filters and then we’ll be constantly impeded by every search engine.” He pointed around the room. “We’re four guys.”

  “You’re four guys with the backdoor key to the NSA’s whole piggy bank,” Miller corrected. “Look through the lens you’ve been given! Dig into it and find out what this system can do. The facial recognition piece is only the beginning. Get behind the wheel and run this through the paces. Push the pedal, gentlemen!”

  “Every shooting, he used a long rifle,” Owen offered. “What about screening for objects, long objects, in cases, inside duffle bags? How about that?” He eyed the stack of hundreds. What would Callie like better, going somewhere special for a real vacation, or jewelry? Ten thousand dollars could buy a legitimate engagement ring. He could replace the speck he had bought when he asked her to marry him.

  Dilip shook his head. “We can’t write new programming,” he cried. “They will know we are corrupting a federal system. That is espionage.”

  “You’re not getting it!” Miller shouted. “They let you in! Nobody wants to prosecute, so nothing is illegal!”

  “Ok ok ok,” Owen interrupted. “If we are right that he is returning to resume attacks, then I may be able to shift the odds in our favor.” He thought about explaining about how Callie found the websites. He also thought about the website that went in and published their Citi-Field trap days ahead of time. But explaining all that was too much.

  “Stay with me here. If I can give you three or four or five probable targets, can you concentrate filters on just those spots, looking for long objects, and people in scarves, lots of things? This guy is precise. We know that. He plans meticulously down to every detail.

  “If we know high-value targets and we screen for many more variables ahead of time just on these targets, can we raise our percentages? Could we screen and watch for males around six feet tall with big feet wearing scarves and hats and hoodies, anything that covered their faces?”

  Owen’s red scalp trembled; he suddenly realized that it wasn’t losing Tremaine that broke him. He had broken down because nobody was on his side. He knew he was right! Jonathan Spencer, always Spencer. So why did he need other people to believe him? Why was that so important?

  “By limiting the data volume,” Dilip interjected excitedly. “With limited data volume, we can direct pure feeds here and apply our own filtration criteria. It can work.”

  Owen snapped back into the moment. “Fix me up with one of those extra laptops,” he told Dale. “Let’s find out who and where and when he might attack.” If Spencer was planning IKRP2, he had to first find the rich before he could kill them.

  “Point each for you two,” Miller scored. “Three for our detective. Time is fleeting. Get on it.” He left them in the bullpen, leaving the bundled cash behind.

  Owen couldn’t help looking at the stack of bills.

  I’m in the lead, he told himself. I’m winning this ten grand. I’m getting you a real diamond ring, Callie. This time, I’m doing things right.

  *****

  Spencer counted out four hundred-dollar bills into Ollie’s thick paw and was onto a fifth when Ollie closed his fist around the bills. “That’ll do. Let’s get under my trailer and find that bolt cutter. I know I’ve got it somewhere down in the belly boxes.”

  Ten minutes later they were standing at the metal container with Ollie holding a flashlight on the padlocks. Spencer opened the pincers and set them first onto the larger yellow padlock when the manager pulled them back. “Hold on. Cut yours and give me minute. I’ll find the key for mine.”

  Ollie took out his thick key ring and worked his way until he found the right one to open the padlock. He took the bolt cutter back from Spencer and waddled toward the Winnebago.

  The scorched image of Mouse’s lipless mouth came back to him through the darkness. It had scored into his psyche. Spencer needed to get past that, to push it down. In the cool air he worked his controlled breathing techniques. He puffed through tiny breaths for minutes and then exhaled until his lungs were collapsing. He drew air back in so deeply they felt like they would burst.

  When he finished, Mouse and Manchester United and all the ghosts were locked away and his bowels were left turning into cement.

  He tugged the container handle out a quarter turn, opening up the hooks holding the doors shut tight. Then he pressed his back to the container and shouldered the steel door open just enough to turn sideways to get inside. His electric lamp was still there, right beside the door, just where he left it. He flipped its switch and the LED bulb shined onto two large chests carefully covered by a canvas painter’s tarp. The careful folds were undisturbed. He also found the heavy nylon strap, hooking one end to the outer door then hooking the inside end to a steel eye along the container wall. He locked down the tension lever to shut himself inside securely.

  Yanking back the tarp and throwing open the bigger of the two chests, he saw the long broad lines of his most trusted companion beneath the blue blanket in which he had it swathed. He lifted the thirty-one pounds, hugged them to his chest, and appreciated the satisfying heft. He ran his right palm underneath the smooth rail. He reached up inside the magazine and wiped his fingertip against the oily spring. Transferring the weight, he moved his left palm up the barrel, extending his arm to reach over the muzzle brake before stroking back down to the top of the rail then reversing his hand and gently fingering along the bipod’s legs down to its spiked feet.

  Spencer pushed his back against the wall and slid down the cool metal until he was seated on the floor with his legs extended in front of him. He held the Barrett upright between his legs.

  “A hundred-ten more, Captain Sam,” he whispered softly. Then he smiled for a second, for Mouse. Probably should use a Dragunov, he kidded himself. I am Dimitri Vosilych.

  Inside the first chest he unpacked ten fully-loaded ten-round magazines, the Leupold scope, his Armasight PVS-7 Night Vision Goggles, Kevlar vest and body armor, a Sig Sauer P226 semi-automatic pistol along with six ten-round mags, .40 caliber bullets and three full fifty-round boxes.

  A variant of the HK inside the 4Runner was inside the second chest, the semi-automatic version of the military rifle plus an M24 custom-equipped with quick-breaking lock pins. He could dissemble the weapon in twelve seconds, rebuild it in twenty. There was his laptop, too.

  Spencer stood on the tips of his toes, reaching his fingers deep into the crevice where the container’s wall and ceiling were joined together. His fingertips touched cloth, which he pinched tightly until he was able to withdraw enough to grip the pillowcase inside his fist. Pulling one hand over the other, he reached the whole sack up and out from inside the double wall.

  Inside the pillowcase were five carefully folded and rubber-banded wads of cash, one thousand dollars apiece. He touched the U.S. Army Sniper School Merit ID beside them. He had earned it at twenty-one. Ranger ID a year later. U.S. Army Specia
l Forces Patch. Skull and Crossed Arrows—Motivated-Dedicated-Lethal.

  Growing weed? What the hell were you thinking?

  Own it. This is who you are.

  *****

  Thirty-two New York websites listed the upcoming social calendar. Owen drilled down to four; two of these were now members-only sites requiring registration and login. Stephen stepped in to assist; with several keystrokes Nussbaum created a false identity and email trail. Owen was in.

  “It’s that easy?” Owen commented.

  Nussbaum shrugged. “Standard anonymizer.”

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Owen muttered. “What chance do the rest of us have?”

  Scrolling within the sites, he began creating a list of the most likely targets, a seemingly impossible task given the number of venues. He started by trying to go out for a full month, then backed it down to two weeks and finally just ten days. The charities alone packed in two hundred events.

  Dilip said, “We cannot monitor for concealment across twenty to forty events per day.” The social calendar was back in full swing. At Kip’s suggestion, they ran a double filtration based upon the financial rankings of those names tied to past events and current.

  “It’s simple enough,” he claimed. “Most of it is public information.”

  He had the overlay built and populated inside a half-hour. “AIPAC, the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, is drawing the wealthiest and powerful players,” he showed. “At least three billionaires, potentially double that, plus seventy-five with net worths north of one hundred million.”

  “Israel-lobbying?” Owen asked. “Doubt it. The only time he communicated at all, ‘I Kill Rich People,’ was to distance himself from the Jew-haters. He also prefers longer-range shots in open settings. AIPAC is deep inside the Convention Center.”