Ason Peikoff
about 6,300 words
KASHING OUT
by Ason Peikoff
“Manual validation of the Snowflake data mart is complete. I added some data quality rules as automatically applied table functions that should catch any future issues at load time.” Hector, who had been painting homes for his summer job only two days ago, pointed at the stored automation in the company Snowflake database. He’d been taught well.
Above the oscillating whir of the half dozen ceiling and floor fans needed to control the heat of Texas’ summer was a TV news anchorman decrying the Trump Administration’s latest legal victory…
“…last week’s Supreme Court ruling completely disregards the Constitution and basic human decency in stripping the previously inviolable birthright citizenship for the children of undocumented workers...”.
“Excellent work,” said Mr. John Gunn, a friendly neighbor and small business boss, spot-checking the work on screen, “just make sure it raises alerts on any failing functions or tests. Where’s your abuela?”
“Repositioning the Starlink panel outside, boss.”
The tall, older man did a double-take at the teenager. “By herself? Go help her, Hector.”
“Sure, boss.” The sixteen-year-old ‘Summer intern’ rose from his chair, causing his napping orange tabby to hop down to the floor, nonchalantly joining John’s pet, a miniature dachshund of nearly equal size. Hector briskly walked out through the trailer’s back door.
Outside, the elderly woman, Maria, stood atop a chair from the breakfast table and poked at the Starlink panel on top of the roof with a broom. After a brief exchange, her grandson poked his head back into the trailer, saying, “She says try it now!”
“Maximum bandwidth,” John read from the Starlink app on his phone, “nice work. This LLM that we’re building will host conversations with Alzheimer’s and dementia patients worldwide, so we’re going to need every bit per second we can get until this is all moved to a cloud, like Amazon Web Services.” He sat at his office desk, which he had moved into the living room in an effort to turn his home into a small business. Behind him, a post featured a pop art style bust of the writer Ayn Rand, with a quotation below her reading “If a businessman makes a mistake, he suffers the consequences. If a bureaucrat makes a mistake, you suffer the consequences.”
The pair of off-prime workers re-entered the trailer, eager to see what task their mad scientist of a next-door neighbor had cooked up for them with his small AI business. “It’s so nice that we will help them,” Maria cooed approvingly as she made her way to their makeshift hub of operations on John’s dining table.
Glancing at Hector, then back to Maria, John began to smile warmly when the moment of peace was shattered by the ominous whack of the front door as it burst open under blunt force.
“GET DOWN! THIS IS THE FBI. HANDS IN THE AIR!”
John raised his hands, otherwise unmoved in his desk chair, watching the scene unfold, frozen, like a deer staring into headlights. To his surprise, no one seemed to be looking at him.
The overweight, late middle-aged agent who bellowed the initial warning stood at the door, holding documents in a transparent plastic protector. “Hector Rodriguez?”
“Yes,” the boy replied with his hands up. Two black-clad field agents put hands on his shoulders and slammed him to the floor so hard the high school student seemed to rebound slightly.
“I’m placing you under arrest for visa fraud and aggravated illegal re-entry into the United States.” The orange cat, terrified at the commotion, ran passed the agent out of the front door.
The boy’s face turned blood red as an agent knelt down on Hector’s back, pinning him to the floor with hundreds of pounds of pressure concentrated on his spine as he was being handcuffed. “Re-entry? But I’ve never left the country!”
“Shut up, punk!” one agent jeered at him while the other leaned in to put more weight on the struggling boy’s spine.
“Ahhhh!”, Hector cried out in pain.
Maria tried to run to her grandson, but a female agent restrained her. “¡Ay Dios mío! Hector! Let my grandson go. He’s a good boy! Let him go! He’s an American citizen! We haven’t done anything wrong! Let him go!”
The supervisory agent held his documents, shot an angry glare at Maria, “Was I talking to you? Were you asked to speak?” He placed his right hand on the pepper spray on his utility belt.
“No, sir,” the old woman slowly answered, in a softer and much more fearful tone. “but my grandson…”
“Your grandson is the son of Mateo Lopez, isn’t he?”
“Yes, why?”
“Mateo overstayed his visa when his girlfriend got pregnant. Do you hear that kid? Your father was an illegal. That means that you’re an illegal too.”
#
“I’m about to open her up; are you ready?” said Kash. The former prosecutor and darling of Trump’s MAGA republicans wore a floral yellow Tommy Bahama shirt and sported a pair of square-lens black Ray-Bans whose style replicated the ‘Blues Brothers’.
“Okay! Don’t let me fly out!” Alexis replied. The young singer, Alexis, a country music star in her early twenties, eagerly awaited the forthcoming adrenaline.
“Here goes!”
The red and white striped speedboat lurched forward, with the explosive crack of the engine loud in their ears. The couple laughed as their Checkmate sped through the Potomac with the metallic shriek of its engine turning the heads of couples and groups on pontoons and onshore onlookers. After a half minute, the singer’s gleeful laughter subsided, and Patel let off the accelerator, letting the small boat coast to a snail’s pace.
“How was that?”
“Fun!” was the reply, then a moment later her voice softened and she asked, “Hey, can we stop for a second? I’ve got something for you.”
“For me? What’s the occasion?”
“You know the occasion, Mr. FBI Director,” she cooed. Chuckling, Patel leaned in for a quick kiss, then relaxed in his seat. Retrieving a small box wrapped in emerald-colored paper from her purse, she handed him the gift, saying, “For you.”
“Let’s see–oh, sweet! New Ray-Bans!”
“These smart-glasses, and they look like James Bond’s, not Jake and Elwood Blues’. I find it more suiting.”
“I love them.”
“Are you really going to fire and prosecute everyone you named in your book?” She knew from the copy of Government Gangsters that he gave her this meant a small network of FBI and other DoJ employees.
“Within the first few months. We’re decentralizing FBI training; no longer will a small group of political extremists in Washington control everything.”
“Within a few months? What then?”
“Then,” he replied thoughtfully, “then it’s time to party.”
With a little laughter, Alexis warned him, “Okay, just remember when you’re up there in the White House and FBI building to take care of the private citizens who support you. We’re counting on you.”
#
Walking into the massive, overly elegant downtown hotel lobby, Gunn identified himself to a waiting concierge. “Ah, Mr. Gunn,” came the ready greeting, “you’re here for lunch with the Director?”.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Splendid, sir, you’re right on time, and if you’ll follow our attendant, she’ll show you right to your private dining room.”
Gunn had become a fan of the Director after reading Government Gangsters, but a chance to meet the Director, “or K$H” as he was known when gaining Gunn’s attention, only came after successfully reporting overt and hidden racism within the FBI, for which he was rewarded by being on a short list of fans invited to meet and dine with Kash.
“Thanks,” he said, tugging at his clothing to ensure everything was tucked, tied, and straightened before walking into the room. As they approached the end of a hallway, Gunn noticed an easel propped up across from two large double doors, holding a dry-erase board that read “FBI Special Event” in red ink.
“When you go in, you’ll be announced, then you’re welcome to take a plate and help yourself to the buffet. There are about seven other invitees, and four are in there now. You’ll take turns talking one-on-one with the director.”
“Okay.”
Opening the door, the attendant signaled the room and bellowed, “Please welcome Mr. John Gunn, invited for his distinguished work against racism within the FBI.” Two thirty-something women and an older man sitting at the table turned their heads and gave a polite clap as Gunn entered the room. Behind the table, a room divider and several ferns were used to create a private area where the voice of the unseen FBI Director could be heard, but not easily made out.
“Welcome,” the older man greeted him after Gunn filled his plate and had a seat. “They should be just about done now, then we’ll each get fifteen minutes alone with Kash.”
When Gunn’s turn finally came, the other invitees had their conversations and got their pictures taken with the Director. As the last other attendee cleared the room, the FBI Director emerged from behind the room divider, wearing an all-black suit with a crisp white shirt and sporting his favorite black Meta Ray-Bans.
“Hi there,” Patel said, flashing a little smile, “since we’re the last ones, we can just talk out here if that’s fine with you.”
“Of course,” Gunn answered, gulping as his blood pressure climbed from celebrity interaction.
The two chatted away, first with small talk about Gunn and his interest in the book, then giving him recognition for reporting systematic closed-door racism of FBI Special Agents he had met through his ex-girlfriend’s father, a retired FBI financial planner. Exactly five minutes into the conversation, the Director’s Ray-Ban inaudibly vibrated, signaling the next phase of the conversation.
“Listen, I think what you did is great, and I want to reward you for it. I have a few suggestions from the AI here on what might help you, but I wanted to give you the chance to ask for anything you want.”
“Wow, that’s really generous, thank you.”
“Not at all. What can the Administration do for you?”
John took a breath. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “there is one thing…”
“Good,” Patel said, tilting his head, the shiny black glasses reflecting the hotel’s recessed overhead lights, “what is it?”
“It’s personal.”
“That’s okay. That’s what this is for,” the Director assured him while catching a quick glance at his watch.
“I’ve always felt harassed when encountering the FBI. The first time was when they arrested my father for smuggling cocaine - I was an innocent and unaware twelve-year-old, and they used threats against me to scare my father, repeatedly telling me I was going to jail and viciously insulting the handcuffed man in front of me, while his face turned blood red.”
“Mmph. That sounds terrible,” Kash said through a napkin, wiping off residual chocolate from a bite of cake.
“The criminal justice students later harassed me about it in college, and I told them what I thought of them in no uncertain terms. After that, ‘someone’ accessed my medical records, employment records, and even the complaint I filed itself. They froze my bank account, and my landlord received an anonymous call stating that I was dangerous.”
Patel burped. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah.”
“So what do you actually need?”
Gunn’s eyes darted in thought. “Well, I need someone to correct the data and make some phone calls on my behalf, I guess.”
“Correcting data on all those different systems?”
“I think so.”
Patel paused momentarily in thought, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. “It’s kind of a pain because every different system is a different set of paperwork. How about some event tickets? Have you heard of my girlfriend, Alexis Wilkins?”
Under the table, Gunn pressed a button on his homemade “de-auth” smartwatch, causing Patel’s smart glasses to disconnect from their network and attempt to reconnect to a clone of it that the watch was loudly broadcasting.
#
At home, Gunn reviewed what data he’d captured from Patel’s device before walking out. For the most part, it seemed that he’d captured the identifiers needed to recognize Patel’s device when it’s in range, and version numbers of Meta’s OS and the radio software drivers. With the information displayed on his largest monitor, Gunn paced back and forth while considering his next steps.
Outside, a faint whine was heard, throwing Gunn’s little dachshund into a barking fit. “Hold on, Midas,” he said, “I’ll check, but it’s probably just the wind.”
Glancing out the front door, Gunn saw Hector’s orange kitty, now looking dirty, hungry, and haggard. Poor baby, he thought. You don’t know how to survive on your own. Gunn picked up the tabby and walked her next door to the Rodriguez home.
After knocking and waiting several minutes without response, Gunn tried calling Maria through the door. “Maria, are you home? It’s John Gunn from next door.”
“Oh, Mr. Gunn! Come in,” she bellowed back immediately.
Opening the unlocked front door, Gunn stepped in to see Maria sitting up from her couch, where she was surrounded by half-eaten ice creams and bags of chips, several empty wine bottles, and a waste bin full of Kleenex tissues. Clearly, the old woman had been wallowing in depression.
“I brought someone to see you, “ he said, presenting her with the orange cat.
The old woman smiled. “Nacho,” she exclaimed, “there you are! I thought we’d lost you forever.” Looking at Gunn, her expression turned somber as she said, “Mr. Gunn, there aren’t very many people in the world left like you who do things like this. You’re a good man, but a trailer park like this and this disruption to your business is the thanks you get… and my grandson, my poor sweet grandson… prison is what they give him… and for what? Being born? Where will he go when they take him back to Honduras? He’s never even been there, you know. The boy has no family, but me.”
“He’s got me. This business is a family, and I will protect my employees.”
She smiled again. “You’re kind. I don’t think these bureaucrats will succumb to kindness, though. I wonder if I’ll ever see Hector again. No one will even let us talk to the FBI about him.”
Resolute, Gunn locked eyes with her and said, “Maria, the question isn’t ‘who’s going to let me?’, it’s ‘who’s going to stop me?’.
#
Whoosh! Offkart chuckled as he navigated his oversized quad-copter through the outdoor obstacle course. Local business development groups created the attraction as part of a multi-arm strategy to revitalize a former mall killed by the Internet’s tax-free sales policy.
The black and green-striped racer moved agilely through hoops and covered areas requiring pilots to navigate blind, but Offkart let his pace lag his peers so that he could talk to Gunn.
“That’s awesome. I don’t know how you do that,” John said, following Offkart’s drone with his eyes.
“It’s fun. They break all the time though, and you have to keep replacing parts.”
“I feel the same way about some of our bureaucrats…” Gunn’s eyes briefly met Offkart’s.
“Yes, you were saying something about that. So this is about the new FBI Director? I thought you liked him?”
“Yeah, I liked his book, anyway. I was always worried about his sincerity and that he might only fire the FBI gang he mentioned in his book, then turn into a corrupt degenerate, and unfortunately that fact has been made abundantly clear to me. He nearly killed my teenage intern from next door while arresting him because the deadbeat dad he never met turns out to be a former undocumented worker who died of COVID-19 in a makeshift detainment camp.”
“My goodness, I’m so sorry. This is the exact type of suffering some of us overcame in our homelands and in our international workforce. To see it here in what we were told was the land of the free…”
“I know. That’s why I need your help. I’ve got all the info I need to exploit that drunkard Patel’s Meta Ray-Bans and get a root shell, but I’m not sure what to do with it. I need to save my poor intern, Hector. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve worked with, and you’re an expert in game theory.”
“I see…,” Offkart initiated his drone’s automatic landing sequence and turned to face Gunn. He looked away in deep thought, then said, “This is all very dangerous, and for all I know, both of us could be risking treason charges just for having this conversation.”
Gunn flushed. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this—”
“—no, wait,” Offkart raised a hand, calming Gunn’s apology, “it’s okay. This policy that Patel is pushing is deeply bigoted and dangerous. Anyone could be next, and if we don’t care about the suffering of our neighbors like Hector, then we’re no better than these racist, heavy-handed thugs. I’ll help you, if I can.”
“Thank you,” Gunn said, letting out a long sigh of relief, “thank you, Offkart.”
“No thanks necessary. I am a guest in this country, but I love and respect it so much because of its beautiful freedoms and self-determination… then someone like this fascist Patel comes along. He’s overcompensating. He doesn’t want to see himself as a foreigner or less American than someone like Trump, so he takes advantage of southern border immigration to virtue signal his brutality, loyalty, and xenophobia. He has to be stopped.”
“But what can we do?”
After pausing a moment in reflection, Offkart’s expression became focused and resolute. “It starts with gathering information and evidence. We’ll stream the glasses’ audio, video, and data to our server for permanent storage and analysis. Assuming we find something that can be used as leverage, our next move is to very politely and cooperatively confront the Director with an ultimatum, wherein he gives back Hector, or we expose him.”
#
Hacking the glasses had been relatively easy because Patel had apparently connected to the hotel’s public Wi-Fi network during their initial visit. Gunn copied the identifiers of that internet access point, including the BSSID, SSID, and MAC. Outside a government building, Gunn dropped a tiny 9V battery-powered Raspberry Pi Zero that spoofed the hotel’s network. As the Director passed by to enter the building for work, his smart-glasses automatically reconnected to the spoofed network, allowing Gunn the access needed to launch further exploits. Now in Offkart’s Hollywood villa, he and John were watching the video stream from the Director’s glasses, while trying to capture additional data from nearby devices.
“The President has issued an executive order demanding the removal of all children of illegal aliens, who themselves are illegals. They are ineligible for Birthright citizenship,” Kash spoke to his aides, who were gathered around his desk. “It is essential that the FBI play a leading role in this effort. Do not let DHS and the National Guard get all the credit again. We need this. Those spics—sorry, those undocumented aliens—are drug dealers, pimps, hoes, and murderers- criminals polluting our streets, and it’s the FBI’s job to get rid of them.”
“What can we do that we haven’t already tried?” The question came from Frankie, a rigid former Marine attorney.
“The idea is to find them, arrest them, apply negative reinforcement from an electrical source, and then repatriate them. Catch-Shock-Release.”
“Catch-Shock-Release. Yes, sir,” chirped back a young blonde attorney from the field operations team. “We have the new machines from Boston Scientific. The Noiceptive Affective Stimulator, or NAS, delivers a harmless electrical pulse that doesn’t burn skin, damage nerves, or cause other permanent physical damage. Instead, it disrupts the brain’s interpretation of threat and bodily distress, producing an overwhelming sensation of terror, helplessness, vertigo, and impending death.”
“Good. I want the patent application for the shock device on my desk by lunch.”
Back in Hollywood, Gunn and Offkart both stiffen at the brutal new policy.
Director Patel’s aides walked out of his office and closed the door. Pouring a shot of whiskey and kicking off his shoes, the Director then activated his highest level of shielded data access, searching PRISM and internal databases almost completely without his own agency aware of his access. Fortunately for Gunn and Offkart, this did nothing to prevent them from watching and recording.
The first few minutes appeared to be quick “housekeeping” surveillance in the form of a quick check of Patel’s girlfriend’s, Alexis ’, email, messengers, phone, and FaceTime. Finding nothing of interest, the Director brought up video streams from apparently unaware college-aged females, one of whom appeared to be another struggling B-list musician. Another of the streams appeared to come from a university’s women’s locker room.
After arranging those windows with a monitor, the Director instructed his AI on the main display to bring up the patents and production blueprints for the NAS. That device had a lot of potential use cases, and its market value exceeded most new sophisticated military arms.
Both the on-duty digital sex crime and the NAS blueprints were paydirt for Offkart and Gunn, but it wasn’t enough. “Time to have some fun,” Offkart told Gunn with a wink. “I’m activating wireless packet sniffing so that we can profile the FBI’s internal IT resources.”
“Got it,” Gunn added, “and I’m able to construct a 3D model of Patel and his office using the laser for measurement and the video stream for details.”
Offkart looked away in thought then asked, “Is there anything else we should try to take?”
“Just one more thing,” said Gunn, “we can use his glasses as an input device to his laptop and talk to their internal LLM… want to find out who killed JFK?”
#
Gunn and Offkart shared a tense look. It was time to act. The files had been copied to a flash drive and backed up on their server.
“Thanks for your help, Offkart. I don’t know how to repay you. I’ll fly back to DC and corner him.” Gunn was sincere in his thanks, although copious gifts of alcohol and hemp had already been offered and consumed in partial payment.
“Are you sure? I feel bad sending you back alone. Maybe you should let me handle this?”
“It’s okay. This is my battle.”
“No,” Offkart’s expression changed, from sensitive to determined, “it’s not yours alone. I came to this country to find freedom and self-determination. I did because this was better than anywhere I’ve lived, but I have to sit around and watch the worst of my own people threaten that freedom by mindlessly trying to reform the US into one of our corrupt, command-and-control societies. I’m used to that, and I fight it with words, but this guy is a new kind of threat. He takes advantage of our reputation for hard work, but he uses it like we saw… for his degenerate entertainment, but not for the cause of freedom or the affected peoples of any nation.”
“Wow, I didn’t know how strongly you felt,” Gunn said carefully, “but still, there’s a lot of risk and this whole thing was my idea, after all and Patel’s no only has his official guards, he can also directly hijack systems with his FBI access, like we saw with the young women’s locker room, and you know he’ll try to use them against us. It’s too dangerous.”
“Let me do this. You’re the hacker anyway – I’m going to need you to watch remotely and get my back. Patel needs to see someone like him who loves his country more than he does, so he knows there’s no way out but to cooperate.”
#
Waving off his escorts as he entered the federal building’s garage, the Director happily slid into the driver’s seat of his black-on-black BMW X5 Protection VR6. It was a fun car to drive, and it was tough enough to withstand an IED or even an air-to-surface assault.
Enjoying the ride, Kash carefully navigated the busy downtown streets of Washington, DC, when an unfamiliar voice boomed into his eardrums through his smart-glasses.
“Don’t panic, Director. I’m here to help you maintain your privacy by destroying incriminating videos from this compromised device for you,” Offkart began in a firm, somber voice.
“What? Who is this?” Patel’s blood pressure, having barely leveled off, spiked again as he furrowed his brows in frustration.
“I’m an Indian American like you, and I just want to talk to you about how some of your policies and actions threaten our freedom, as well as that of our domestic-born friends.”
“Fuck you,” the Director ‘s tense voice reflected his controlled anger, “your only friend after this is going to be your cellmate. Who is this? Who do you work for?”
“We’ll get to that momentarily, but first—”
“Wait. Listen, no matter who you are, this is the FBI, and illegally accessing my device is enough reason to charge you with a half dozen federal laws, not to mention treason. You better identify yourself right now.”
“Yes, Director, I will identify myself. I’m every immigrant who places this country’s culture above our own.”
With a facepalm, Kash scoffed, saying, “I don’t have time for this. What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about your racist, un-American policies of deporting natural-born US citizens just because they were born to immigrants, like you.”
Now parked on the shoulder of the road and frantically trying to devise a plan, the Director scoffed at Offkart’s last comment, saying, “My parents were illegal aliens. The southern border aliens are low human capital invaders, here to take our Social Security checks.”
“I don’t know,” Offkart replied wryly, “I seem to remember that we blackmailed their politicians and launched one conspiracy after another to force the influx of globalist workers. The next President could simply point that out and subject you to your own detainment and deportation policy.”
“If you’re asking me to change national policy for a random hacker trying to extort me, then—”
“No,” Offkart interrupted, “that’s what I’d like, but I know it’s not practical right now. Let’s start small. There’s an American teenager in your custody who doesn’t even speak Spanish conversationally. He’s pure American, and his grandmother wants him returned immediately.”
The corners of Kash’s mouth curled into a little smile. “Now that,” he said, “is something I can do. Give me the name and meet me with your videos. You’ll give me all copies of the videos after you get confirmation that your friend has been released.”
With that, the two men came to an agreement and quickly discussed the details. Patel would meet Offkart at a self-operated car wash just outside the city in Maryland. They were to meet in only an hour, as the Director assured Offkart that no more time would be needed to have Hector released and put on a bus back to Texas.
Patel parked his car in one of the empty car wash bays, as instructed, and watched as the other Indian man, walked towards him.
“Thanks for meeting me, Director,” Offkart said, producing a small silver flash drive from his pocket. “I believe this is what you want. Just understand one thing first. Although this is the only copy of the videos, if anything happens to me, my partner will alert the intelligence community to what’s transpired, and they will undoubtedly find confirmatory evidence of your locker room spying and illegal patent accesses.
“Understood,” said the Director, “are you ready to hear from your friend Hector?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“No problem. Just say hello to my little friend first,” Kash spat at him while quickly unholstering a concealed Glock, aiming at Offkart’s heart, and firing a silenced shot into it, all in one smooth, unhesitating motion. The middle-aged man’s face was a combination of confusion and pain, then lifelessness as he fell face-down to the asphalt.
#
“NOOOOOOOOO! Offkart!” Gunn screamed at his display as he watched in utter horror as his friend was murdered. This video stream was from a concealed mini-camera that Offkart wore for this purpose.
Gunn felt like he had been hit by a bus. His mind was a chaotic mess of emotion, self-doubt, and questions about what to do next. He looked again at the last video frame—his friend’s lifeless body, littering the pavement like trash.
This is my fault, he thought. I got Offkart killed and for what?! Patel isn’t going to let Hector go.
Gunn stared at the video frame, his eyes drifting down to the timestamp overlay at the bottom left. He remembered Offkart’s expression right before the shot—that strange, resolute calmness. Offkart hadn’t been scared. He had been certain.
Then, Gunn did a double-take as he noticed something. A small, blinking icon in the corner of the frame... a data-transfer progress bar that was still running. “Wait,” Gunn breathed, leaning in. “He wasn’t just streaming video… he was streaming data back to our server too…”.
#
Only two weeks after the murder of Offkar, the Republican National Convention was set to meet in Dallas, ahead of ominous upcoming midterm elections. Patel would undoubtedly be there, trying to stay relevant and catch Trump’s attention. Gunn decided to utilize this opportunity.
Although this was his hometown, Gunn secured a cheap motel room within minutes of the RNC’s venue.
Gunn tossed his suitcase onto the cheap motel’s king-sized bed, retrieving his iPhone and sidearm. He plugged in a wireless charger for the phone, putting it on the room’s little coffee table, then put the phone on top of it, and his Uzi beside it.
So this is what it’s come down to, he thought. The phone and the gun were the only significant tools at his disposal, and although he hadn’t decided how he wanted to use them yet, the one thing he knew was that this couldn’t end without vengeance for Offkart. He still hoped for freedom for Hector as well, but that seemed unlikely now.
I don’t want to use this Uzi, but I know how, he thought. I can just wait until I see him, then bust the Uzi at him and let him taste justice for the first time. After that, it would have to be suicide rather than suffering the torment of prisons until execution, but it would do nothing to help Hector or Maria. How can I make this phone more effective than the Uzi?
The iPhone rang, displaying Maria’s name and a photo of her and Hector with Gunn, all three sporting his homemade company t-shirts.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Gunn? It’s Maria.”
“Hi, Maria. What’s up?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Gunn, but your girlfriend came by your home while you were not there to feed Midas, and she stopped by with toys and treats for Nacho too.”
“Oh, your little cat.”
“Yes, Mr. Gunn, but she told me what happened to your friend. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. That’s OK. He shouldn’t have died, but he won’t have died for nothing. I’m still going to get Hector back, and maybe one day we’ll find a way to free the others too.”
“Mr. Gunn, thank you for everything you’ve done. Thank you for trying to bring my Hector back to me, but no matter how bad things are for him, he has his life. I can’t let you risk yours, not after you already lost your friend.”
“No, it’s okay. I would be fine with taking the risk, but I’m not sure how to trap Patel anymore. He’s obviously not afraid of the kind of leverage we have, and I’m just one person. I was thinking of just making a political statement instead,” Gunn said cryptically, eyes darting to the Uzi.
Maria sensed the despair in his words and knew he needed help. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to do this alone. Patel is stealing all of our children. I think I have an idea.”
“You do?”
“Can you find a way to get that FBI Director’s attention again and make him come to you?”
Gunn thought, then smiled. “Yes, I think so.”
“Do it,” Maria said. “Do it then. When you confront him, I’ll make sure you don’t have to do it alone.”
#
Just outside of the main entrance to the hotel convention center used by the RNC, Gunn stood atop a ladder, securing the right side of a 6’ x 4’ laminated poster that read “Official K$H Merch!” and, below that in a smaller font, “90% off!”.
Before Gunn had descended the ladder and taken his seat at the waiting picnic table below where he had home-produced a lot of edgy, unlicensed products with Kash Patel’s old moniker “K$H”, customers were already beginning to line up. This should get his attention, Gunn thought. Passersby who didn’t join the line at least glanced to read some of the memes printed on t-shirts, mugs, and the other merchandise.
Gunn had been purposely controversial with the products, several of which featured Patel giving the middle finger or making a sexually-themed joke. It didn’t take long for some of those who saw it to tweet, post, and gossip about those novelties, and within ten minutes Patel himself was reading about it on Facebook.
“This is here?” Patel asked an aide. “This is right outside the building?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so,” the junior special agent replied. “Would you like me to go shut it down?”
Enjoying the opportunity to act on a flash of anger, Kash eagerly dismissed the offer of assistance. “That won’t be necessary,” came the response. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Walking quickly out of the RNC’s hotel towards the nearby merchandise table, Patel squinted at the table’s operator, momentarily feeling a flash of recognition. Unable to make the connection, he quickly returned to confronting the merchant.
“This is my brand. You’re bootlegging my brand,” said the Director, staring intensely and angrily at the vendor. “You can’t sell this,” he added.
Shoppers scurried away at the Director’s words, leaving he and Patel face-to-face. “Do I know you?” Patel squinted at Gunn, unsure where he’d seen the man before.
“You met and murdered a friend of mine recently, and you’ve abducted my intern, Hector Rodriguez.”
Patel’s countenance darkened. “You’re a fool to approach me.”
“You’re a fool to infringe on America’s freedoms!” Gunn shot back.
From the end of the block, Maria stood atop a bench and blew a loud, sharp whistle as hard as she could. “¡Por amor a Estados Unidos, envía a este imbécil de regreso a la India! ¡Consíguelo!”
From around the corner a swarm of LatinX men, women, and children—most laborers still wearing aprons, smocks, or jumpsuits, some in three-piece formal suits—dashing directly towards the jolted Director Patel. Seeing this, he sprinted away towards the opposite corner of the block, only to see an equally large, but quiet and intensely staring group of Indian adults looking him right in the eye.
Within moments, Patel was held in place, kneeling on the sidewalk, with at least six different pairs of hands holding him in place. Gunn stood in front of him, looking down at Patel’s face.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Put him in one of his own prisons!” came a suggestion from some unseen person within the crowd of Indians.
Another suggestion came from the back of the LatinX group. “Our people are dying in his makeshift jails! We should just kill him!” The comment was met with both approving and disapproving grunts and murmurs from the crowd.
“Maybe, maybe,” said Gunn with a coy expression, “or we could be merciful. Are you going to release Hector?” asked Gunn.
“He’s yours. I’ll call in a release order for him right now.”
“Alright. Then I think I have a better idea for you.”
#
Three weeks later
Gunn leaned back in his office chair and stretched his arms.
“Hola, Mr. Gunn,” I brought you your favorite snack she said with a smile, holding a plate of hummus and pita bread. Ever since Hector came home, Maria was constantly trying to surprise Gunn with little rewards and treats like that.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, Maria. Thank you so much; you can just put it here on my desk.”
Maria set down the plate and asked, “How about the internet? I moved the Starlink panel earlier; is it fast enough, Mr. Gunn?”
“It’s plenty fast, Maria, thank you. Let’s go check on Hector. I’m going to have him manage a freelancer for the first time today.”
Hector was sitting at the kitchenette’s bar on a stool, typing furiously into a laptop. “Mr. Gunn, I’ve almost got this SQL pipeline ready for you. I think you’re going to like it.”
Gunn pulled out his own ThinkPad and turned it so Hector could see it. “That’s good work, Hector, but now I want to train you to be a leader instead of a follower. I thought we’d have you manage a freelancer and teach him to do your data engineering.”
Hector’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Sure. I’ve already looked over the candidates. I want you to try this guy out,” Gunn said, navigating into a freelancer gig he set up on Freelancer.com. Hector’s jaw dropped when he saw the freelancer’s profile and photo.
Same face. Same man.
Freelancer Profile
Name: Kashyapp P.
Location: Deradun, India
Rate: $9 USD / hour
Specialization: Data entry
END