The Last Network - Chapter 56
Ricochet
Rampart, Rodney King, the Zoot Suit Riots. Pick any decade in Los Angeles and you’ll find a flashpoint between the LAPD and the citizenry. It was a tale as old as time, and today was no different. Paolo looked out over the city from the rooftop of the Downtown Standard. He took a sip of coffee and watched as Figueroa filled with protestors from Wilshire all the way back to the Staples Center.
Figueroa, the backbone of downtown, had seen crowds like this before. It was the traditional route of the Lakers victory parade. Today, there was no confetti or trophies. This was a test of bodies and wills. He walked over to the other side of the building and looked up Flower. The streets were blocked off, lined with a wall of blue. SWAT teams in riot gear and military grade equipment stood at the ready. The people planned to march past the power centers of the city, its office towers, cultural monuments, and private clubs. At the end they’d occupy Grand Park in front of City Hall.
Reports expected 100,000 protestors. More than 5,000 cops had gathered downtown. Half had been deployed to the scene, the rest had come out on their own. They were under the strict orders not to shoot and not to use force. One more mishap, and control of the department would slip away. After that it would be yet another federal consent decree. As much as they’d hate to lose control of downtown for the day, it was better than being under the feds for another decade.
Paolo checked the time. The march would begin in twenty minutes. He finished his coffee and went down to his room.
Monica had the TV tuned to the news. Helicopters swirled above broadcasting overhead shots of downtown. The bed was pushed against the wall. In its place, a folding table joined the room desk in an L. Paolo gave her a kiss and turned the monitors on. Two Mac Books came out of his bag. He opened each, connecting them to the bank of monitors. Next to that he placed a 5G modem with a burner SIM in it. He tunneled into God Mode with the first laptop, then the second. They sat shoulder to shoulder, headsets on, and began searching for their Hands.
Paolo felt confident. This job was technically simpler than the Nigerian one. The mission programs were designed to lead the Hands with minimal interaction from the Eyes, but there needed to be more than one operator on hand to converse, threaten, and cajole their Hands to completion. Monica was the perfect accomplice.
The people were massing against a flatbed truck on the corner of Fig and Wilshire. Organizers wrapped their speeches. The truck backed up and the marchers pushed down Wilshire. From there, they’d cut up Flower, past the public library, before turning onto 1st and City Hall. Paolo and Monica watched the TV, waiting for the crowd to stretch itself out.
“Activating Hand one,” Paolo said.
“Activating Hand two,” Monica replied.
They watched two red dots light up on the south side of downtown. The Hands were making their way down the numbered streets on an intercept course for the protestors.
“Activating Hand three,” Paolo said.
“Activating Hand four,” Monica replied.
Dots filled the map and began to branch out across the length of the protest route. There were seven Hands broadcasting across the monitors. Paolo kept a close eye on them as they moved towards their destinations. The sequencing of missions was critical, while they were each acting alone and unaware of the others, they all needed to be in position at the same time.
“Monica, hurry number six along. He’s lagging.”
She pushed a countdown clock onto his glasses. The man began to accelerate, breaking into a quick jog to make up time.
All seven dots on the screen stopped moving. They were in position.
“I’m pushing the next phase. Be ready to manage your Hands. This is where it gets real.”
Paolo looked up at the monitors. Some Hands were in parking garages, others in alleyways. One brave soul was in the middle of the concrete plaza at the Bank of America center. Each one was being directed toward an object in their field of vision. He looked over at Monica. Her client was supposed to have dropped duffel bags off last night.
“This is a gun,” Hand four said.
“It’s filled with blanks. Put your gloves on. Now, you see the money next to it? That’s $5,000. You do as I tell you and after this, you’ll pick up another bag with $25,000 in it. You don’t, and you’ll see a cop coming your way. He’ll shoot you on sight. What’s it going to be?” Monica said.
“Blanks?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m going to start a counter. When it hits zero, you shoot that gun into the air until it runs out of bullets. After that wipe it, drop it, and follow the directions on your glasses. When you find the money, destroy the glasses and disappear. Are we all good, or do I need to call the cops?”
“We are good.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Paolo spoke into his headset.
“They are smoke grenades. Pull the pins and throw them onto the street. That’s all you need to do. After you toss the last one, I’ll send you the location of your reward.”
“I just pull the pin?”
“Yes, you fucking idiot. Like you do in the games you play all day. Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No.”
He pushed a thirty second countdown to all Hands.
“Number two is fleeing. Do you want me to engage?” Monica said.
“No, let him go. It’s more important that the rest set their weapons off.”
They watched the monitors. Guns were cocked, pins pulled. Hand seven had a speaker with a switch attached to it. Several hands were positioned in parking garages overlooking the march, others were hidden in alleyways behind dumpsters. The countdown dropped to single digits.
“What’s this asshole doing?” Paolo asked.
“Your weapon is nothing but blanks. Do not expose yourself, do not aim at the crowd. If you are seen, I will not send you to the money. Do you understand, asshole? Stay the fuck down. That’s an order.” Monica barked at him.
Downtown LA filled with the sounds of chaos. The rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapon fire ricocheted off the sides of tightly packed glass skyscrapers; shotgun shells boomed and smoke filled Flower and 3rd. A loud explosion shook the hotel. Number seven’s screen went offline. Paolo pushed phase three to all the Hands, then cut the data connection.
“What the fuck happened to seven? I thought this was all staged?”
“I don’t know. Rewind and see.”
“We aren’t recording Monica. Why would we ever capture this on tape?”
“Then don’t look back and never think about seven again.”
They turned to the TV news. Overhead video showed that the LAPD had fallen back into a cordon around Grand Park and City Hall. They formed up in ranks four officers deep and stood motionless as the mile-long stream of protestors fled downtown in panic. The message was clear. If you don’t like the way we work, then don’t look to us for help.
It would be a long time before another group came out to protest.
Paolo packed up. Tomorrow this will be called terrorism, but the reality was that seven trench coat mafia-types had their buttons pushed. For one, it was pushed the wrong way. The rest would take their money and hopefully never speak again. If they did, what would their story be? That the LAPD hijacked their internet and made them fire fake bullets. That wouldn’t go very far.
Maybe Alex Jones would listen. Paolo didn’t think anyone else would.