FSE

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I never cared for parties, be they formal or informal. At least I didn't need to wear a tuxedo at this one though. Clothing like that was easy to get dirtied on the streets.

“Great costume, guy! Are you a Navy commando or something?" someone asked on the street. They had no clue that the outfit happened to be real. “Or are you a Marine?"

I remembered replying with, “Sure." And they disappeared into the swath of creatures and monsters about, unaware they'd conversed with a real one.

It was All Hallow's Eve. Trick-or-treaters filled downtown Lakertown at every street corner and at the doors of any residence willing to give out candy. Other mammals were out to have macabre fun. The line leading inside the Majestic Hotel, where Richard Walker III would host a fundraiser/costume party for lastminute doners, seemed to stretch around the block. I could spot the end of it as I entered the office building across from the rustic old hotel, an Art Deco beauty amidst the ugly office skyscrapers. As planned, Cherry and I split up but remained in communication. He kept my burner flip phone while I cradled the other in my pants pocket, the same phone which held the audio file. It somehow weighed heavier than my laptop bag, or the burglar kit I'd composed from shopping runs. It somehow weighed even heavier than the bulletproof vest.

In the lobby, I told myself, Keep calm, don't let anxiety distract you. You're almost there.

The bland modern office building possessed a perfect view of the ballroom from across the street. Breaking inside it turned out to be relatively easy. Just a clip of box cutters here, some lockpicking, and making sure the night security wasn't too distracted by their job to notice me skulking to the third floor. I found an empty, cleaned conference room, setting up my laptop and binoculars after turning off the motion lights and making sure nobody could spot me from the floor's hallway entrance. From the laptop, accessing the hotel's Wi-Fi network was pitifully easy.

From my vantage point, I had no trouble looking at the event. Glass panes as tall as the ceiling lined up the eastern side of the dance floor, already filled with vampires, Frankenstein's monsters, some video game and movie characters, and the like. A menagerie of the city's elite behind grotesque masks and Halloween makeup.

I checked my watch. Ten minutes until seven p.m.

“Perfect," I mumbled, then glanced down to see my burner phone vibrate with an unidentified number. Answering it, I held the device to a perked ear. “Any trouble, Cher?"

“None at all," his voice softly answered on the other end. “I'm already inside the building and entered Apartment Ten. The cameras still looping?"

“It'll resume at midnight, so you've got time," I informed him. “Did you have trouble?"

“Took a few minutes, but I picked the lock faster than I thought," he said.

“Any witnesses?" I asked.

“I managed to avoid neighbors or other tenants," he whispered more softly, “but I'm worried someone will hear me. Whatever you're having me do, I gotta be quick."

“Be calm and don't talk to loudly, and you'll be fine," I reassured the ocelot. Although, if I were to be honest, I was reassuring myself more than him. “Can you describe the apartment to me? Do you see any laptops, desktops, a writing desk in the bedroom?"

“Our friend's a minimalist," he replied to me seconds later. The sounds of shifting and walking could faintly be heard on the other side of the call. “No TV, one couch, a small coffee table…Wow, he's hoarding a bunch of his boss' campaign stuff in the bedroom. What should I do with the briefcase?"

“Keep it on you," I instructed. “Do you see any computers in the bedroom?"

Further silence. “Oh! I see a laptop, Markus. It's uh, silver…looks new…looks recently used."

“Good," I said. “Can you examine it? Do you have your gloves on?"

“Before I even entered the complex, Markus," he scoffed, chuckling. “Where should I set the briefcase then? Under the desk?"

“That's perfect," I said with a pleased nod. The sound of shuffling and an object being placed on the floor was heard by my twitching ear. “What does the laptop look like? Is it making that humming noise I mentioned?"

“It's uh…It looks new, recently used, and it is making that humming noise. It's definitely got a Tor browser running in the background," Cherry spoke in concern. “Mark, how are we sure this is the right laptop? You mentioned he might have two, right?"

“I did." My eyes traveled from the phone to the view of the Halloween fundraiser visible through the ballroom's tall windows. “Based on my interactions with Corbin, he wouldn't keep his Dark Web dealings or his Bitcoin information on the same device he uses to organize Walker's campaign. It's too risky and would've gotten him caught a long time ago."

“What if he downloaded all your shit onto a flash drive?"

“He wouldn't," I replied, then explained, “He's trying to keep his criminal life separate from his political life. Downloading the evidence, even stuff about me, would be too much of a risk. No, if he wants to instantaneously reveal my shit online, it makes sense to keep it on the Dark Web laptop as a compressed file. Possibly have a password too just in case."

Cheer and excitement went into Cherry's voice as he asked, still in a hushed whisper, “And that's where Lovemaker comes in?"

I didn't resist grinning. “Exactly."

Further noises, like somebody rifling through their pockets, traveled into my ear.

“Putting the drive in it now," Cherry murmured, sighing. “Shame this beautiful laptop's going to waste. Shame too we can't just take it with us…and I remember why. You don't need to remind me, Mark."

“Smartass," I muttered to the air.

“You never complained about it, sweetie, hehe."

I rolled my eyes, imagining the ocelot bending over to insert the USB drive into that laptop.

The Lovemaker; such a beautiful word for an incredibly dangerous computer virus. In the Winter of 1998, a brilliant but shortsighted college student discovered that his roommate had been plagiarizing his projects and taking credit. Rather than report him or provide fake answers for future assignments, the college student orchestrated a nuclear-grade revenge. He crafted a computer virus that corrupted the hard drive so terribly that no sane I.T. expert on the planet could decode the information stored on it, from passwords to files, photos, logged-in accounts, and everything else on it.

It could destroy anything on a laptop. Anything.

As well as access the account to the Reaper's Row website, which wouldn't be accessible due to the bricked electronic. Adding further insult to injury, thanks to the Reaper's Row admins, the inaccessible contract account would automatically delete Corbin's bounty if left unverified for longer than two days.

“You ready, Cher?"

“Ready and able, Mark," he answered confidently. “I'll throw away the drive into the nearest outdoor trash bin. The Lovemaker's already doing its job. You weren't kidding. Damn thing's humming so loudly, I'm afraid it'll catch fire…Will it catch fire?"

“Probably not," I replied, “but their careers are about to. Now, get out of the building and wait fifteen minutes. I'll be right there to pick you up. Try not to look conspicuous."

“On it. See you soon. Markus…I love you."

The words came as naturally to my lips as breathing oxygen. “I love you too."

I hung up first, but didn't want to. I wanted to keep hearing his voice for a little while longer, but it was almost seven p.m. My tail curled and uncurled at the ocelot's words singing in my mind. I relaxed them both. Heaving a deep sigh, then perking my ears right up and keeping my face stoic, I dialed a new number on the burner phone. It rang for several seconds.

In the glass window, my eyes reflected on me. They were determined, cold, calculating.

We were going to make it through this.

Someone answered. “Mitchell Corbin here," came the voice of all our troubles. “Hello?"

“You should have taken my offer at St. Francis," I said.

The other end of the line went silent. For a split second, I was worried the dingo fool had hung up, only for my paw to become untense when I continued hearing partygoers and loud music in the background. It grew fainter within moments.

“You're the one who should've taken my offers, old-timer," he growled on the other end.

“In all honesty, negotiations died the moment that you decided to fuck around with real contract killers." I glanced down at my watch. “As an old-timer, might I suggest something to a naïve youngster?"

Mitchell scoffed in disbelief. “Can I mark this on your tombstone?" he asked.

As if right on cue, I heard shouting in the background on his end of the line, as well as spot a disturbance through the window of the ballroom dance floor. Costumed guests appeared shocked, scared, concerned, almost like golf players seeing homeless people encamping on the pristine grass. A few partygoers went so far as to pull out their smartphones to record or call for the police.

“What did you do?! Markus, what the fuck do you think—"

“I assume you remember The Furgotten?" I asked while Mitchell's growling and snarls rose and fell like the tides. “You sent three of their thugs to try and murder Cherry. I figured it would make sense to take a good page from your poor novel. It's amazing how much ten thousand dollars will convince several of them to interrupt a high-end event."

“You're fucking dead, wolf!" he barked through the phone.

“Mitch, it's unwise to say that out in public." As if on cue, red and blue lights flashed repeatedly around the corner of the building. A few police officers could be seen fast approaching the entrance of the ballroom. “And before you ask, no, I did not send those Furgotten punks to commit my own murders. That's the difference between us."

Gritting teeth echoed into my ear. “What. The fuck. Are they here for then?"

“To distract," I replied, then pressed a few buttons on the laptop. “Mind if I offer some advice, kiddo? From one morally gray individual to another?"

I gave him the advice without waiting for an answer. Though I did hear him muttering curses as well as frantically typing on his phone. Perhaps trying to access his laptop remotely.

“In my line of work, you don't idle along the railway line separating my world from yours." I explained. “You either stay on your side of the tracks or the other. Keep idling on the tracks, and eventually, the train itself will run you over. And Mitchell? I'm sorry to say…you've been idling too long, and here comes the train."

Next, I heard Mitchell Corbin speaking clearly. However, it was too loud and echoed for it to be the one holding his smartphone to his ear. At the same time, I spotted the guests suddenly turning towards the ballroom speakers, no longer playing music.

“And I'll be damned if our potential is ruined because of some dropout hooker and a jailbait rent boy. Becky Mullin and Charlie Rochford are just obstacles for us. I'll admit, I only sent the McKenna and Solomon brats to silence Charlie. The hit had nothing to do with you. It was my mistake. It was also my mistake to think you were just another mob killer in a tracksuit, who wouldn't be missed…"

Confusion. Shock. Horror. Checkmate.

Satisfied, I gathered my laptop and placed it in the bag. “Happy Halloween, Mitchell," I said. “I'll see you in Hell someday. Tell Walker the same."

“You motherfucker—"

I hung up, snapped the flip phone in two, then tossed each piece into separate trash bins as I exited the building.