Transference (290 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (View user info) at 2005-07-17 01:00:56 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
The night blossomed. A flower of red and orange unfurled with glorious intensity in my rear-view mirror. No doubt surprised by the violent explosion in its belly, the bland structure of concrete and steel capitulated. Hungry orange tongues licked at the night sky as walls crumbled and fell.
Fuck I love explosions.
Now, don't get me wrong - I enjoy black-clad, cloak and dagger, ninja-style stealth and sneakiness as much as the next person, but there is something utterly magical about a small suitcase full of plastic explosive. Magical in the "Watch, as I make this building disappear... Kaboom!" kind of way. Know what I mean?
The flames are lost from view as I turn a corner and stomp on the accelerator. The hellish glow in the distance reminds me of the good old days. Industrial espionage used to be a fantastic career; storming buildings, a gun in each hand. Get in, get the package, torch the place, get back out, make the transfer and get paid. Fun times.
Now the business is being taken over by overblown geeks with fancy laptops humming the Mission Impossible theme. The digital age has sucked most of the enjoyment out of the job. Oh sure, they're still stealing the files - hacking into wireless networks and the like. Nowadays they don't even enter the building, let alone leave behind a satisfying pile of smouldering detritus. Pussies.
I glance over at the package sitting securely in the passenger seat footwell; obtained the old fashioned way - with a bit of sneaking, a trusty combat knife and a fat briefcase full of C4. Tonight's prize doesn't look like much - a squat grey cube roughly a foot each side - but considering the commission on the job, it must be worth a ridiculously large amount of money to the right people. According to my employer it has the potential to revolutionise the entire telecommunications industry. Some newfangled method of transferring data which will no doubt push up my phone bill and provide the phone companies with another list of problems to keep us all on hold about.
Thinking dark thoughts about AT&T, I hunker down a little in my seat and turn up the stereo as the streetlights flash past my car. There is nothing like quite driving on the highway at 2 am. Miles of smooth, flat road laid out beneath you, and no other cars to get in your way - you can just put your foot down and relax.
It's also quite handy to be surrounded by three empty lanes when your rear left tyre blows out at twenty above the speed limit and you fishtail wildly across the road like a running dog trying to slow down on a polished hardwood floor. Swearing under my breath I limp into the breakdown lane. Flats annoy me at the best of times, but my employer has a penchant for absolute punctuality and I know exactly whose pay will be docked for every minute I'm late. Still cursing, I pull the jack and spare tyre from the trunk and set about replacing the blow-out.
I ease off the mangled mess of rubber that once was a serviceable wheel and drop it beside me as a glint catches my eye. There is something small, metallic and shiny stuck to the underbelly of my car. I grab the torch and take a closer look; the object is an inch-thick round silver disc about the size of my thumbnail. It's too small to be an explosive, but just the right size to be some kind of tracking device.
...Fuck.
An unpleasant list runs through my mind:
1. Someone knows who I am and what car I drive
2. They know what I am carrying
3. It's likely that they know what it's worth
4. They want it
5. They know exactly where I am
6. Where I am is sitting next to the highway with a three-wheeled car
7. I'm wasting my time contemplating the shit I am in, rather than replacing the tyre
I pull the device off the undercarriage and stuff it in my pocket before hurriedly putting on the spare. Minutes later I'm speeding down the highway, half watching the road, half examining the device; it's smooth, silver and totally devoid of any markings. Sublime. I don't have the faintest idea who put it there. Couldn't be anyone from my era, we don't use gadgets like this - but then again, we're a dying breed, so that hardly narrows things down. I snort. Whoever they are, they won't be tracking me for long. I pick up an empty Gatorade bottle from underneath my seat and drop the device in - it's going for a fun little ride.
A few miles up the road I find myself on a bridge, below me a stream of inky water is winding its way to the ocean. Blatantly ignoring the "Keep our rivers clean" sign and risking the $55 littering fine, I wind down the window and hurl the bottle off the bridge.
Track that, bitches.
Me: 1 - Laptop Wielding Geeks: 0.
With the tracking device on a relaxing river cruise, I pop the glove box open and reach for my phone to call my employer. If someone else is after his rightfully stolen property, he'll want to know about it - even if it is 3.47 in the morning. The phone rings for a long time before it is answered by a tired and irritable voice.
"If whatever you are about to tell me isn't nicer than the dream I was just having, I'm going to be really pissed off." I hope he was having some kind of nightmare.
"Someone planted a tracking device on my car."
"....What?"
"There was a tracking device stuck to my car."
"Is it still there?"
"I tossed it off a bridge." I hear a sigh on the other end of the phone.
"Okay, okay, so everything else went as planned? Please tell me you have the package, please."
"The package is sitting here next to me."
"Good. Are you being followed?"
"Not that I can see. But I bet that whoever planted the tracker knows exactly what I'm driving, right down to the licence plate. You want me disappear and postpone the transfer?"
"Hell fuck no. The transfer goes ahead. You aren't the only one who loses money when you're running late. Move to Plan B."
I hate being out of the loop.
"Uh, Plan B? I wasn't aware of a Plan B."
"Nobody else was. The whole point of Plan B is that when Plan A has clearly been compromised - as it has now - there is something safe to fall back on. Now listen, about forty minutes drive north of the river there is a truck stop and a Shell station. At the back of the Shell station is a black van with the keys taped behind the front wheel on the driver's side. Take the van and follow the instructions in the envelope on the front seat. You got that?"
"No problem."
"Good. Now I don't want to hear so much as a peep from you until you are handing the package over in three hours' time."
With that, I hear a familiar click as he puts the phone down.
I find the Shell station easily enough, right beside 'Big Rick's Big Rig Truck Stop'. Then again, it's hard to miss a massive gathering of eighteen-wheelers. In a darkened parking lot at the back of the buildings I locate the van, the keys and the instructions.
Plan B appears to be working. Turns out my employer was more organised than I would've ever given him credit for.
Minutes later, I wave a fond goodbye to my car, peel back onto the highway and continue my journey. The transfer is still a two-hour drive away and the van is clearly in need of a service. I hope it survives the trip. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to hitch-hike on a job like this, but I can do without the hassle.
Fortuitously, the van puts in an acceptable, if overly noisy, performance and by daybreak the job is looking like a walk in the park. This is of course until I am about 15 minutes away from my goal, when I notice a convoy of four black SUVs weaving through the traffic behind me - and weaving fast. I've seen convoys like this before, and they rarely have the best intentions in of others mind. Mild paranoia is getting the best of me, so I put my foot down and attempt to lose them. Sadly, the van didn't really offer much competition to the convoy, and before long I am boxed in. Beside me a heavily tinted window slides smoothly down and a pale young man motions for me to follow suit.
It wasn't until he pointed a machine gun at me that I really took much notice.
I wind the window obligingly and I grin like an idiot. "Lovely morning, isn't it?" I call to him, wondering desperately how they managed to find me.
Rather than wax meteorological with me, he replies with a curt "Pull over."
"Pullover? No thanks." I respond. "I prefer jackets." I point at the leather jacket I am wearing.
Completely failing to get the joke he shakes the gun and yells "Pull the fuck over! Now!"
Resigned, I pull over, with SUVs coming to rest around me. The young man, dressed like he stepped off the set of The Matrix, walks over to me.
"There are four sets of crosshairs watching you. Give me the package and you can leave here alive." Four sets? I don't doubt that I could kill him, but the ensuing hail of bullets would be much harder to contend with.
"One condition:" I reply. "You tell me how you managed to find me. I mean, I threw the tracking device in the river and changed cars. How the hell did you know where I was, or what I was driving?"
"Hand it over. Now."
I reach over to the passenger seat footwell and pick up the package. I pause, dejected, and pass it through the window to him. He smiles and begins to walk away. After a few paces, he turns. "We had a bug and tracking device installed in your phone." He pulls a small hand-held computer out of a pocket. "We've been watching you on this all along."
Motherfucker.
Me: 1 - Geeks: 1
What's more, now I'll need to buy a new goddamn phone.
Fuming at being so easily hunted down by some dweebs with a game-boy, I proceed to the transfer point, a decrepit old warehouse, and drive inside. The entire building is empty, except for a single car parked in the middle of the grubby concrete floor. The driver's door opens and my employer climbs out.
"How'd it go?" He calls.
"They took it." I reply.
I smile.
"They took the decoy you gave me."
He opens the back of the van and rummages around before removing the real package. While walking back to his car, he hands me an envelope, which I promptly tear open. Nestled amongst the fat wads of cash is a small remote control.
"What's this for?" I hold up the remote.
"The decoy."
I grin and depress the little red button.
In a local marina, a small boat erupted like Vesuvius, just as it was leaving the jetty. The explosion obliterated the small pleasure craft, raining flaming debris onto the four black SUVs parked nearby. I saw the pictures on the news that night. It looked great.
Me: 2 - Geeks: Dead.
Fuck I love explosions.
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Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2005-10-30 05:38:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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