40 |

Bedford Park, New York City

 

Fida stared at the screen, his mouth agape, all the users bidding now logged out except one. His heart hammered as his glorious future, certain only moments ago, crumbled around him.

What’s going on?

They had all paid their ten grand without hesitation, then the hundred.

Then it all went bad.

Fast.

His laptop beeped with a message from the final logged in user, his shoulders slumping as the display showed them logging out a moment later. He opened the message and bit his finger to stop himself from crying out in anger and anguish.

 

When you redact something, make sure the marker is a little darker. Better luck next time.

 

He grabbed the printouts of the invoices, then held them up to the light over his booth. And cursed, Laura Palmer’s name clearly legible on one of them, along with the delivery address. He threw the papers against the window then slammed his fists on the table repeatedly as a piteous rage overwhelmed him.

“Sir!”

His clenched fists hovered over the table and his head spun toward the intruding voice, a young waitress standing nearby, putting on a brave face of authority, but clearly terrified at what she might be about to encounter.

He was aghast.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” He quickly gathered everything, jammed it in his backpack, then rushed from the diner, but not before tossing several twenties on the table.

He rushed down the street, putting some distance between himself and the embarrassing situation he had created, praying no one had called the police. He had screwed up. Big. His payday would never come, all because he hadn’t properly blacked out the names. He had printed them out rather than edit them electronically, because he had been scared that the original data might be just hidden, and someone in the know might be able to remove his electronic redacts.

He had been a fool.

He froze in mid-stride, causing those behind him to curse at him as he became a stone in the river of humanity.

I have the deposits!

He grabbed his phone, launching the banking app that would let him see his balance.

And smiled.

Well over a million dollars.

It was more than enough for him to escape this life of poverty. If he was smart about it, he could have a little fun, then set himself up for life.

A food truck!

It had always been his dream, at least since he had become acquainted with life in America. What could be better than being outdoors, cooking delicious food, interacting with happy customers, and making money?

It was what he had always wanted.

Independence.

Pride in his work.

He resumed walking, checking the balance once again.

And became woozy, stumbling sideways and almost collapsing before his outstretched hand found the roof of a parked car. He steadied himself, then stared at the phone again.

Account balance: $0.00.

His laptop beeped in his bag and he rushed to a nearby bench, removing it and flipping open the top, his TOR browser still logged in to the Dark Web auction site. There was a new user logged in, and a message. He selected it and tapped his thumb twice to open it.

 

If you ever want to see your money again, contact us. Now.

 

He shook as he stared at the phone number at the end of the message. Whoever this was had the power to empty an account only he was supposed to have access to. That meant they were powerful. Dangerous. He should just walk away. Toss the laptop, his phone, everything, and disappear. These were dangerous people he was dealing with, and most likely it was someone who wanted their money back.

Or worse.

But if they just wanted their money back, then why take it all? And why bother contacting him?

Something more was going on here.

And his future dreams were at stake.

He dialed the number.