forward, well clear of the door. He powered off the avionics, cut the engine, and dropped the key ring on the dash. He slid the headphones off and packed them in his flight bag. After traveling at over 200 kph, the lack of motion felt strange.
Yuri drove the black sedan out of the hangar. Anton leaned over the wing to open the pilot door of the cockpit. He took the flight bags from Vladimir.
“You have good flight?”
“The weather was spectacular.”
Vladimir hadn’t flown since the day he reported for his stint at San Quentin. Because of well-placed connections, his time behind bars was hardly typical. Better food, cushier work, unlimited visitors—privileged in every respect. Prison heightened his appreciation for freedom. Brief as his stay was by sentencing standards, each minute chafed like a noose.
All because of Barney Reid. That son-of-a-bitch deserved to die. He’d be dead soon enough, and no one would care. Vladimir had already made the arrangements.
He stepped out of the cockpit onto the wing and climbed down to the ground. “I flew to Harris Ranch for the hundred-dollar hamburger.” He drew a pack of Dunhills from his shirt pocket and tapped out a stick. Anton fished for a lighter in his jeans pocket and was ready with a flame.
“More like three hundred with av-gas prices.” Anton laughed at his own joke.
Yuri hustled back to the hangar and returned with an airplane tow motoring behind him. He shoved the tow plate under the nose wheel and locked it into place. The other two men each took a wing as they guided the Mooney backwards into the hangar.
Vladimir pulled the chocks off a wall hook and positioned them around the nose wheel. He dragged on his cigarette. Smoke curled from his lips.
“We found the company that developed the financial code.” Anton unholstered his phone and hit a few buttons. “CBF Net. They are boutique software firm in Philadelphia. They specialize in programming for sectors with regulations. Government, heavy industry, financial services.”
“Has the SEC prosecutor—what’s her name?”
“Samantha Merrick.” They both turned toward Yuri when he spoke.
“Yeah.” Vladimir took another drag. “Has she talked to these guys?”
“Her team camped there for one month.” Anton flicked the phone screen with his finger. “Word is that the code did exactly what it was supposed to do. Make the trades. It linked to the New York Stock Exchange, NASDAQ, NIKKEI, SOFFEX, NYMEX, FINEX. You name it. But once they transferred the code to Patty O’Mara, they lost control.”
A vein pulsed in Vladimir’s neck. “I checked my accounts with O’Mara daily. I logged in to something. What the hell was it?” He pointed his cigarette at Anton. “Find out who managed his computers. Where were they? Who had any kind of access?” He threw down the butt and ground it out with his heel.
Anton entered some notes on his phone.
Vladimir opened a storage container mounted to the wall. “What have you learned from Mr. Kurt Meyers?”
“The attorney, Vonda Creevy, went to see Meyers yesterday. She brought boxes of things sent to her by Patty O’Mara.”
Vladimir positioned a remove-before-flight sock over the pitot tube.
“After she left his office yesterday, he searched on the internet for company named The Rockstag Group. So we did the same.” Anton caught a bottle of window cleaner Vladimir tossed to him and almost dropped his phone. He stepped onto the wing and sprayed the windshield. “The Rockstag Group is local, and one of their IT staff was killed two days ago, Brian Carter.”
“Killed how?” Vladimir threw a rag on Anton’s side of the plane and got up on the wing to wipe the windows.
“Stabbed. But the interesting part is The Rockstag Group was hacked over a year ago. A kid broke in and took copies of their records.”
His curiosity was finally aroused. “A kid hacker.”
“Travis Fender. He was only fourteen at the time. Brian Carter was the man who
Yuri drove the black sedan out of the hangar. Anton leaned over the wing to open the pilot door of the cockpit. He took the flight bags from Vladimir.
“You have good flight?”
“The weather was spectacular.”
Vladimir hadn’t flown since the day he reported for his stint at San Quentin. Because of well-placed connections, his time behind bars was hardly typical. Better food, cushier work, unlimited visitors—privileged in every respect. Prison heightened his appreciation for freedom. Brief as his stay was by sentencing standards, each minute chafed like a noose.
All because of Barney Reid. That son-of-a-bitch deserved to die. He’d be dead soon enough, and no one would care. Vladimir had already made the arrangements.
He stepped out of the cockpit onto the wing and climbed down to the ground. “I flew to Harris Ranch for the hundred-dollar hamburger.” He drew a pack of Dunhills from his shirt pocket and tapped out a stick. Anton fished for a lighter in his jeans pocket and was ready with a flame.
“More like three hundred with av-gas prices.” Anton laughed at his own joke.
Yuri hustled back to the hangar and returned with an airplane tow motoring behind him. He shoved the tow plate under the nose wheel and locked it into place. The other two men each took a wing as they guided the Mooney backwards into the hangar.
Vladimir pulled the chocks off a wall hook and positioned them around the nose wheel. He dragged on his cigarette. Smoke curled from his lips.
“We found the company that developed the financial code.” Anton unholstered his phone and hit a few buttons. “CBF Net. They are boutique software firm in Philadelphia. They specialize in programming for sectors with regulations. Government, heavy industry, financial services.”
“Has the SEC prosecutor—what’s her name?”
“Samantha Merrick.” They both turned toward Yuri when he spoke.
“Yeah.” Vladimir took another drag. “Has she talked to these guys?”
“Her team camped there for one month.” Anton flicked the phone screen with his finger. “Word is that the code did exactly what it was supposed to do. Make the trades. It linked to the New York Stock Exchange, NASDAQ, NIKKEI, SOFFEX, NYMEX, FINEX. You name it. But once they transferred the code to Patty O’Mara, they lost control.”
A vein pulsed in Vladimir’s neck. “I checked my accounts with O’Mara daily. I logged in to something. What the hell was it?” He pointed his cigarette at Anton. “Find out who managed his computers. Where were they? Who had any kind of access?” He threw down the butt and ground it out with his heel.
Anton entered some notes on his phone.
Vladimir opened a storage container mounted to the wall. “What have you learned from Mr. Kurt Meyers?”
“The attorney, Vonda Creevy, went to see Meyers yesterday. She brought boxes of things sent to her by Patty O’Mara.”
Vladimir positioned a remove-before-flight sock over the pitot tube.
“After she left his office yesterday, he searched on the internet for company named The Rockstag Group. So we did the same.” Anton caught a bottle of window cleaner Vladimir tossed to him and almost dropped his phone. He stepped onto the wing and sprayed the windshield. “The Rockstag Group is local, and one of their IT staff was killed two days ago, Brian Carter.”
“Killed how?” Vladimir threw a rag on Anton’s side of the plane and got up on the wing to wipe the windows.
“Stabbed. But the interesting part is The Rockstag Group was hacked over a year ago. A kid broke in and took copies of their records.”
His curiosity was finally aroused. “A kid hacker.”
“Travis Fender. He was only fourteen at the time. Brian Carter was the man who
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