8. Caleph
8
CALEPH
M y heart pounds dramatically in my chest, threatening to escape its confines. The words start to blur, forming a sinister tapestry in my mind; someone will have to pay for this. I shake my head, clearing my mind of the overwhelming urge to smack something hard, the need to gut someone overpowering. It was probably Daniels – he was the brains of the outfit, and he was the most connected. He’d put this plan in motion, and he’d done it well.
I stare down at the paper in my hand. I knew they’d been planning something, just not this. I thought for sure a hitman, which I would’ve been able to handle. But this? This was beyond anything I had engineered even in my own head.
The room feels stifling, the air heavy with the weight of ink on paper. I traverse the length of the yacht until I’m on the deck, inhaling long frantic breaths of air as I try to collect my thoughts. I pour myself a drink from the minibar, trying to find solace in the amber depths of the liquid. I’ve worked hard to build and foster a legitimate business empire, and now they wanted to take that away from me. Strip me of my freedom with an article detailing my connections to the underworld, my participation in illicit activities. There was not a shred of evidence to the rumors surfacing, had never been, yet this article somehow still managed to make its way to the front pages of the media. There wasn’t even a picture of me, for crying out loud. Just an AI generated image that could point to me not even being human. Maybe I was a ghost, after all?
I stand at the bow of the boat looking out at the ocean. The Diabolique is the first Superyacht I ever bought and it’s my favorite. The luxury appointments are second to none, a floating houseboat that means I never have to live on land if I don’t want to. And right now, I don’t want to.
I feel a mixture of anger, fear and betrayal as I reconsider the plan I outlined to Attila and second guess allowing the five corrupt men in my rearview mirror to live. It would be so easy to just carve out their hearts and watch them bleed out for what they’ve done. All five of them.
The article rips away the veil of ignorance surrounding my business dealings. It’s a load of recycled crap, concentrating on my “mafia connection” several times throughout the document, but the writer does such a good job of repeating her garbage, thus cementing the theory that I know this is going to be harmful. This is going to bring me unwanted attention; it’s going to focus the spotlight on my empire, and that is something I can’t idly stand by and watch happen. Not when I’ve worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get this far.
And there is no way that I will bow to those dogs, selling to them only to have them turn around and on-sell to criminal groups that are targeting the weak and vulnerable. If that had ever been my end goal, I would have taken that road myself.
My phone rings as I’m reading the article for the third time. It doesn’t seem so bad the more I read it. I may have mentally exaggerated the effect it will have on people. My muscles start to relax, the tension seeping out of every pore as I start to breathe easily again. Until I answer my phone.
It’s Seven, my main man whose sole purpose is to collect information for me. He does it well. He’s a man that came up in the ranks, named Seven because it’s the number of kill shots he had before he called it a day and found God. Now he dedicates his days to sitting behind a computer screen monitoring world events, specifically anything to do with me or that could affect me or my business adversely.
I’ve always believed that information is power, and that mantra doesn’t prove more accurate than now as he relays his latest acquisition. I don’t pay the man enough, I realize, as he hits me with the second blow of the day.
“If you’re in US waters, you might want to get out quick,” he says. “The US government is indicting you on multiple charges and I dare say you’ve just made it onto the FBI’s most wanted list.”
He says it like it’s an achievement, and I have to scoff, my mirthless laugh carrying down the line as I shake my head in disbelief and consider what else could possibly go wrong.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I bellow into the phone, and I feel sorry for the poor man’s eardrums, but I’m so angry I can’t see in front of me anymore. The FBI’s involvement will only mean more eyes on me. More eyes which I don’t need.
“That article, coupled with…”
“I read the article,” I tell him.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Wait for my call.”
I’ve never been more grateful for my own private telecommunications network which is unscalable. By anyone. The investment I made in the Mexican boy who sold me his bright invention sure paid off. I was just happy to set him and his extended family up for life, and he was worth every single cent.
The phone rings again as I’m considering tossing it into the ocean. We’re about to set sail, and my head has miraculously not exploded yet, but it could very well do so in the near future.
“Attila,” I bite into the phone, and I know he feels my anger.
“You good?”
“As good as I can be with a target on my back.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Take those motherfuckers for everything they’re worth.”
* * *
The smart thing would’ve been to set sail into the sunset. But I’ve never been one to settle for doing smart things. Instead, I sit at my desk and I simmer quietly, planning my attack. The indictment is so far out of left field, I don’t even know how they convinced the authorities to issue it without any proof. But I’m seasoned enough to know that two can play at this game.
I call a friend I have in law enforcement, and he confirms the indictment, rolling the list of charges off his tongue like he’s already committed them to memory. I don’t even know when I would have supposedly had time to commit such an extensive list of crimes.
“Selling arms to terrorist organizations, racketeering, money laundering, fraud…”
He continues to rattle off a slew of allegations and I have to roll my eyes at how creative the Feds got. That list could have applied to any one of several mafia hitmen over the years.
I hang up and go back to pacing the length of the yacht. The original plan had been to leave this afternoon. I’ve now cancelled the helicopter twice. There’s one more thing I need to do…