Daemon

  Stereos were quickly muted.

  Alpha girl used her best cheerleader voice to project the coordinates: “29.98075, and -95.687274. Everybody got that?” She repeated the coordinates while several others keyed them into GPS receivers.

  An athletically built African American kid and his buddies stared at the console of his Lexus SUV. He keyed in the coordinates, and a graphical map appeared on the GPS’s LCD. “Tennet Field. It’s closed down. My dad used to have his plane there. Let’s roll!”

  A dozen kids paused to text-message the coordinates to still other friends. The smart mob was forming and would be en route in minutes.

  Gragg strode the tarmac in the pale moonlight, heading toward the dark silhouette of Hangar Two.

  The radio crackled in his head. He wore a bone-conduction headset. It was capable of projecting sound directly into his skull, regardless of the noise in his surrounding environment. It was a useful tool for managing a for-profit rave. The radio crackled again. “Unit 19 to Unit 3, do you copy?”

  Gragg touched his receiver. “Unit 3. Talk to me.”

  “The Other White Meat headed south on Farmington. Range two-point-three miles.”

  Unit 3 was a lookout placed on the east perimeter with night vision goggles. Gragg saw headlights turning into the main airport entrance. “Unit 20, Zone One is a blackout area.”

  “10-4, Unit 3.”

  The headlights soon went out.

  Signature control was a never-ending battle for a prairie rave. Lines of car headlights were the enemy.

  Gragg followed the thick generator cables running from the machine shop, past the parking lot, and up to the main hangar doors, where a subsonic bass beat rumbled, threatening to detach his retinas. A long roll of black Duvateen hung down at the entrance, blocking the light and some of the noise within.

  A line of a hundred or so teens hooted and hollered at the entrance, while a dozen heavyset thugs in SECURITY windbreakers flanked the opening. The bouncers collected twenty dollars from everybody at the door and then slipped an RFID-equipped neck badge around each teen’s neck. Once tagged like cows, the patrons then proceeded through the metal detectors and into the main hangar. Each guard was equipped with a Taser and pepper spray to quickly subdue and remove those inclined to disrupt the party. Dozens more patrolled the party inside.

  Gragg ran a tight operation, and for this reason he was always in demand by rave promoters. Tonight’s promoter, a young Albanian drug dealer named Cheko, stalked the tarmac nervously. But then again, he did everything nervously.

  Gragg sniffed the night air, then walked past the bouncers into the head-pounding madness that was the rave. He pushed through the crowd of youths. Although he was several years older than most of them, Gragg was of slimmer build and shorter stature. His lip piercing and arm tats gave him a menacing blue-collar appearance—but if anyone looked closely, the tattoos depicted entwined CAT-5 cable.

  Gragg looked up at the DJ tower, flickering in the strobing laser light. Mix Master Jamal was laying a trance groove. The topless go-go dancers on ten-foot pedestals danced rhythmically. Gragg smirked. The strippers weren’t so much for the teen guys as the teen girls. Suburban girls acted scandalized, but they’d tell friends who’d have to see it for themselves. Where else would girls from good families see nude dancers? In the seedy strip club on the state highway? Hardly.

  Gragg came inside specifically to find one of these girls from a good family. He moved through the crowd to the back of the hangar, where the real money was made—at the “pharmacy,” where Cheko’s people sold ecstasy, meth, DMT, ketamine, and a dozen other recreation-grade pharmaceuticals, in addition to soft drinks and bottled water.

  Gragg could usually spot his quarry easily—the sexy girl with a guy she didn’t look particularly intimate with. A first date, or perhaps just dancing together. He avoided girls with a group of female friends and girls who weren’t having fun.

  He soon found his target; the girl was gorgeous, perhaps seventeen, thin-waisted, but with a good rack shadowing her exposed midsection. Strands of glo-stick circled her belly and neck. It reminded Gragg of Mardi Gras, and that was a good sign. He motioned to a couple of security guards and moved toward her.

  He timed it so he and the guards converged on the dancing couple. Gragg tapped the guy on the shoulder—which sent him twirling around defensively. Gragg held up two neck badges clearly marked ALL AREA ACCESS. Smiling, he looped one around the guy’s neck.

  Few symbols have more power over the Western teenage mind than the All Area Access badge. The guy glanced at the uniformed security guards and evidently felt reassured.

  Gragg, meanwhile, draped the badge over the laughing girl’s neck. Her cleavage glistened with sweat. Gragg leaned over and yelled into the guy’s ear. “Your girl is fabulous, man! She should be dancing on the top floor—not down here!” With that, Gragg slid a couple of pills into the guy’s hand and nodded his head toward the girl. He motioned for them both to follow and led them through the crowd as the burly security guards made a path.

  They soon reached the base of a steel staircase leading up to the DJ tower. It was roped off and flanked by a couple of bouncers. Gragg leaned in close to one of the bouncers. “Tell me when she’s taken the hit!”

  The bouncer knew the drill. He watched poker-faced as the young guy popped what he probably thought was ecstasy into the girl’s mouth. She washed it down with a swig of bottled water, laughed, then writhed with the pounding music. The bouncer nodded to Gragg. Gragg nodded back and the rope was withdrawn to let them pass.

  As the boy passed by Gragg, Gragg leaned into his ear. “Play your cards right, man, and I’m gonna get you laid within the hour.” The guy smiled back and gave Gragg what the kid probably assumed was the universal “playas’” handshake.

  Gragg watched them go. They were now in the holding pen—a controlled area where he could further reduce her inhibitions. The prostitutes there and Cheko’s men would make it all seem completely acceptable to ”go wild.” Gragg had successfully separated her from her support system. The rest should be easy. He was already erect in anticipation, but a little patience was required.

  Gragg walked the perimeter for a good fifteen minutes before heading back to the holding pen. He found the girl dancing on the mid-deck with a crowd of perhaps twenty. Most of the women there were attractive and scantily clad—but these were Cheko’s whores and were of no interest to Gragg. The seventeen-year-old target was laughing as her date danced between women in g-strings. The girl was evidently flying high. On meth the laser lights, the trance music, and the writhing motion were said to be hypnotic. Accompanied by a surge of sexual arousal and perceived invulnerability. Or so Gragg had heard. He didn’t take drugs himself.

  Gragg radioed the security guard in the DJ tower. He couldn’t even hear himself talk, but he knew the guard would hear. The guard looked out and saw Gragg wave his arm slowly, then point at the girl dancing nearby. The guard leaned over to Mix Master Jamal, and the DJ looked out at Gragg. He nodded and then snapped his fingers at the light board operator. Gragg leaned over to her date. “What’s your girl’s name?”

  “Jennifer!”

  “You wanna see her tits?”

  The guy stared for a second in dumb amazement. Then burst out laughing. “Hell yeah!”

  Gragg spoke her name into the radio and moved forward. A spotlight shone down onto Jennifer, and the DJ’s voice came out like the booming voice of God, “Check out Jennifer! Is she hot or what?” A roar of lust arose from a thousand voices.

  Jennifer laughed and looked back to see her date and those around her shouting encouragement.

  The DJ’s voice. “Let’s see you move, baby!” The pounding bass moved back in, and she moved seductively to it. The other dancers moved away, and the laser lights enshrined her on the platform. The crowd surged in anticipation. Her eyes became wild with her potent sexuality. Each rhythmic gyration of her hips made a thousand guys howl. She was anonymous and
powerful.

  But Gragg was her new master. He looked back at Jennifer’s date, smiled, and nodded to the DJ.

  The DJ’s voice boomed down again. “Lose the top!”

  A thousand voices roared and took up the chant. The chant quickly fell in line with the music. “Lose-the-top! Lose-the-top!” Even the girls in the audience were cheering. Jennifer danced, soaking up the adoration. All eyes were on her body, screaming with lust. She was high enough that she didn’t mind, and it seemed such a small thing to please them all.

  She first teased them by flashing her breasts, but that only drove the crowd wild for more. They knew they had her now; it was only a matter of wills. They took up the chant with renewed vigor. “Lose-the-top! Lose-the-top!”

  When she pulled her top off and danced, breasts jiggling free, the roar of joy rattled the walls. They motioned for her to toss her top down, and she dangled it above the outstretched hands of the lustful mob. Someone managed to grab it from her, and it was soon torn to pieces. Jennifer laughed and tugged at the All Area Access badge around her neck. Girls around the room started flashing their breasts, sitting atop the shoulders of guys in the crowd.

  The DJ cranked up the music again, and the party moved on. But Gragg moved in with one of Cheko’s men holding a digital video camera. Jennifer smiled as they filmed her dancing topless in front of a thousand people. Her young, toned body glistened with sweat.

  Within a half hour, Jennifer was sitting on a sofa in the holding pen, sucking Gragg off while her date looked on in shock. But her date didn’t stop them. Gragg moaned while one of Cheko’s men videotaped her. He looked to Jennifer’s date. “You’re after me.”

  When he ejaculated into her mouth, Gragg felt a rush of power and sexual release. This was his drug. Gragg didn’t like whores. He liked to turn women into whores. The feeling of power was every bit as pleasurable as his ejaculation—perhaps more so. The fact that he was making money off this girl by doing a live porn Web cast for Cheko’s Web site was even sweeter. She was being broadcast to the world, and the file would never go away. Gragg made sure he was never filmed above the waist.

  As he moved away, he yelled, “Bukkaki!” And a dozen men surrounded her. She was already sucking on her date’s cock. The meth was working its magic on her as the cameraman zoomed in.

  Gragg zipped up his pants and moved away, feeling the endorphins course through his body.

  Heider suddenly appeared next to him, laughing. “You’re an evil man, Loki.” Heider handed him a bottle of water.

  “At least I got laid tonight.”

  Heider poked a finger into Gragg’s chest. “At least I don’t need a thousand people to orchestrate a blow job.” He looked back at the girl starting on another guy. “Is she gonna remember any of this?”

  “Probably not. And even if she does, she won’t. If you know what I mean.” Gragg looked at his watch. “Listen, meet me back at the car at three A.M. sharp. I’ve got to meet the Filipinos.”

  Heider nodded absently, still watching the girl work.

  Gragg punched his arm.

  “Ow!”

  “I mean it. Meet me at the car at three A.M. sharp—or you’ll have to bum a ride off the Albanian mob. Got it?”

  “All right. I got it. Now if you’ll excuse me…” At that, Heider stepped away to join the circle of men.

  By 3:15 A.M., Gragg and Heider were back on the Katy Freeway heading east. Heider was leaning against the passenger door fucked up out of his mind.

  “That MPEG video over the dance floor. It showed rams butting heads. Butting their heads! Their fucking heads!” He was weeping, but then suddenly erupted into uncontrollable laughter. He was apparently laughing about having just been crying.

  Gragg focused on driving. He headed north and east for a half hour or so, then exited in a seedy industrial district amid rail sidings. They rattled along potholed streets. With each bone-shuddering bump, Gragg winced. The ground effects on his Si were going to get thrashed at this rate. He also felt like a prime car-jacking target in this industrial wasteland.

  Yet, as he looked around the deserted factory streets, it didn’t look like a popular gang hangout. The streets were too broken and crisscrossed with railroad sidings for the street-racing scene.

  Before long, Gragg found the street he was looking for. He turned down the dead end and parked next to a rusted chain-link fence topped with brand-new razor wire. It enclosed flatbed tractor-trailers in various stages of decay.

  At the end of the street stood a brick factory building marked INDUSTRIAL LAUNDRY CORP in faded paint. The windows near the roof glowed with fluorescent light from within, and the double doors near the loading dock were open wide, letting a wedge of light splay out across the weed-encrusted sidewalk. Signs in some Asian script covered the backs of both open doors. A couple of men in white aprons smoked out front, apparently on break.

  Gragg turned off the car and looked at Heider’s dozing form. He quietly pulled a piece of paper from his own jacket pocket and glanced at the code number written on it in pen. He took his car keys from the ignition and carefully slipped them into Heider’s pocket. It wasn’t difficult. In fact, he hoped he could still rouse Heider, who was out cold.

  He nudged him. No response. He shoved Heider. Then finally shook him. “Heider, man! Wake up.”

  Heider awoke slowly, still high out of his mind. “What the fuck, man?”

  “I need you to pick up the new encryption key from my contact. He’s in there.” He pointed.

  Heider squinted and looked back at him like he was insane. “Fuck you, man. You go.”

  “Heider. Take a look around you. I’m not leaving my car sitting out here—and you’ll fall asleep the minute I’m gone. You know what I put into this ride?”

  “Well, then why the fuck did you park a mile away, asshole?”

  “A semi was just in the loading dock.”

  “I don’t know who your fucking contact is.”

  “Just give them this code number.” Gragg handed him the piece of paper. “They won’t even ask who you are. You’re just picking up the code.”

  Heider wavered fuzzily, trying to process what Gragg just said.

  Gragg sighed impatiently. “Christ, Jase, why do I have to do everything? I arranged the business; I keep you supplied with new gear—and I got you laid tonight.”

  Heider conceded this by nodding reluctantly.

  “When are you gonna start pulling your weight, man?”

  Heider squinted at the two dumpy middle-aged Asians smoking and chatting two hundred feet away.

  Gragg pointed. “Oh, they sure look dangerous.”

  “Fuck…all right. Just don’t do this shit to me without telling me first, man. I don’t like surprises.” Heider exchanged a last serious look with Gragg. Gragg just rolled his eyes. Heider sighed and got out.

  Gragg watched Heider stagger down the street toward the lighted factory door less than a football field away. Once Heider was gone, Gragg grabbed his own backpack and quietly got out of the car. He slipped behind two Dumpsters and from the darkness watched Heider approach the men.

  The Asian men watched impassively as Heider labored up to them. Heider said something and handed the piece of paper to the nearest guy. After reading it, the man pointed toward the open doorway. Heider walked through and stood silhouetted for a moment before one of the men walked in after him and shoved him forward. The other man scanned the street, threw his cigarette to the ground, and then walked inside—pulling the doors shut behind him. They closed with a resounding bang, leaving the street dark and quiet.

  Gragg knelt down, shivering now in the cold autumn air. He waited for about a half hour before he heard the doors open again. Footsteps clacked across the pavement, heading his way. Gragg knew that Heider never wore anything that could remotely clack on pavement. So he hunkered down as a younger Filipino in slacks and a sport coat walked past the opening between the Dumpsters. Gragg heard his own car alarm chirp off, and the man got
inside. He started the car up, raced the engine a bit, and then peeled off in a wild, squealing U-turn back down the street.

  Gragg slumped down against the brick wall behind the Dumpsters. He felt the cold of the brick seep into his back.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have hacked the Filipino’s Web server. Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? How had they caught on?

  Damn! They got my car. Thank God it was registered under a false name.

  Gragg sighed and took out his GPS receiver. He found the nearest cross street on the map, then flipped open his phone and selected a saved number. After a few rings, it picked up.

  “Yeah, I need a cab.”

  Chapter 5:// Icarus-Seven

  Jon Ross raced his Audi A8 sedan onto the Alcyone Insurance corporate campus, then quickly slowed down as he noticed several police cruisers and unmarked cars near the lobby doors. He turned down his music—a relentlessly pounding techno track—and motored at a more civilized speed past the squad cars. Interesting. No flashing lights, though.

  Ross headed for the parking garage.

  In a few minutes his voice was echoing across the granite-floored lobby as he approached the security desk. “Hey, Alejandro.”

  Alejandro smiled. “Jon, my boy. How’re you doin’ tonight?”

  Ross swiped his consultant’s badge and signed the after-hours access list. “What’s with the police cars?”

  “Oh, there was a computer break-in. The cops are down in the data center.”

  Ross stopped writing. He looked up. “A break-in?”

  “Yeah. It’s something, what these people can do. It’s all computers nowadays.” Alejandro leaned closer to Ross. “Ted Wynnik was askin’ about you. I won’t tell nobody I saw you if you want to clear out.”

  Ross finished signing in. He smiled. “Thanks, but not necessary. It was probably some twelve-year-old kid.”

  Ross headed down the clean white corridor of B2. Soon he reached the accounting department’s data center and slid his badge through the reader. The door clicked open, and he moved briskly toward his office at the far wall. Then he slowed. The lights were on in his office. He forced himself not to stop and instead resumed a normal walking pace.