Rivulets of light rain meandered down the thick bullet-proof glass of the darkened office. The masked intruder dressed in black from head to toe sat at a large desk, proficiently double-thumbing commands on a handheld device he had hard-wired into the corporate network. The office was completely dark except for the light of the computer monitor, the faint glow of streetlights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, and occasional distant flashes of lighting. The red numbers of an elaborate and expensive digital desk clock glowed 3:58 AM.
With a final touch of a button the device indicated it had begun downloading data and the figure sat quietly, completely still, listening to the irregular staccato beats of raindrops on the windows and feeling the warmth of his breath each time he exhaled against the mask he wore. The large room was cold, the temperature in harmony with the glass and chrome décor which characterized the austere and clinical feel so common to Fullerton Global Resources offices around the world.
He waited.
On the other side of the sprawling FGR campus, inside a large windowless server room which resembled a small NASA control center, IT data analyst Rick Garcia noticed the blinking red light in the corner of one of his monitors. It indicated a sudden drop in CPU utilization for the 3D modeling process he was running. FGR crunched so much data daily it required a staff of IT people working around the clock, 365 days a year, to make sure no time was wasted. Standard operating procedure was the engineer who requested the modeling before leaving work yesterday would arrive in the morning and find his data ready to use.
Rick frowned at the screen. It showed an overall 7% drop in the processing power his applications were using. He peered around the room, at the tiered rows of workstations all facing a large central screen, suspecting one of his colleagues of stealing his processors as a practical joke. Everyone here was extremely competitive, all working towards the coveted, if unofficial distinction, of being able to crunch the most data in the least amount of time. This meant finding creative and unorthodox ways of stealing someone else’s processors for a temporary boost in computing power not unheard of, at least until the victim noticed. They were, after all, computer geeks, and proud of it.
A glance at the big screen in front, which showed individual real-time processing efficiency by operator, indicated no sudden spikes in processing speed by any of his co-workers, which deepened the mystery as to why his programs were slowing down. He entered a few quick commands on his keyboard and pinged his processors. All of them responded normally except eight processors on Server 32, which showed only 52% of their capacity was devoted to him. Forty-eight percent was running a process originating from user “admin.”
Rick glanced over his shoulder, up the rows of workstations to the central, glass-enclosed office to see if the night supervisor, Mr. Cassner, was there. Cassner was standing in front of his desk, as he normally did, which provided him a bird’s eye view of the entire room. When Rick was recruited by FGR eight months ago, it didn’t take him very long to figure out many of the mid-level managers were ex-military. Cassner was definitely one of these. He always stood ramrod straight, engaged in no small talk, and his sentences were always short and clipped, with no wasted words. Most of the staff were intimidated by him, although Cecilia from human resources once mentioned she thought Cassner was cute one night during drinks at an after-work bar. Rick thought she was nuts. How could any adult with a flat-top be cute? He picked up the phone.
“Mr. Cassner, Rick.” He had learned early on this was how Cassner preferred everyone to start a conversation with him when calling. He wanted no wasted time with “Hi,” or “How are you?” or “Hey, did you just get a haircut?”
He continued, “Sir, I’m showing a 7% drop in speed due to 48% utilization on my Server 32 processors by another user, “admin.” Can you help confirm who’s stealing my power?” Cassner replied with a curt, “Stand by.”
Rick watched as Cassner leaned over his terminal, typing commands on his keyboard. Cassner had the access to track down where each process originated, and who the user was. Abruptly, Cassner jabbed a button on his desktop phone, switching to a different line, and started speaking animatedly into his headset, looking like he was yelling. The glass-enclosed room was soundproof, so Rick couldn’t actually hear what Cassner was saying. Oh shit, looks like something’s up, he thought.
The line in the security room buzzed. “Security, Sergeant Jones.”
“This is Cassner, ID 673020. I’ve tracked a process request originating from a terminal in Building 5, corporate level. Please advise if there are any authorized employees currently present on that level.”
“Stand by. No, sir, we show the last employee exiting at 22:41. No recorded entry since then.”
“Sergeant, send a security team to investigate Building 5 corporate level immediately for possible intruder. This is not a drill. Repeat, not a drill!”
“Yes, sir!”
FGR did not entrust its security to untrained, minimum-wage guards provided by some third-party vendor. Security team members were in-house, employed directly by FGR, and all were weapons trained and qualified. Weapons included not just handguns, but assault rifles and all manner of other special equipment more befitting any given city’s SWAT team than a corporate security force. Every member was ex-special forces from some country’s military. Within minutes a six-man unit was pounding up the stairwell in Building 5. The flak-jacketed and helmeted group paused outside the door to the corporate level. The sergeant looked at his men and nodded. They nodded back. Quietly he tapped his access card on the door reader and opened it. The security team walked single-file down the faintly lit office hallway, with the brisk, bent-knee lock-step of a well-trained tactical team, each man with his weapon pointed in the opposite direction from the man before him, covering both left and right sides.
All the offices on this floor had glass walls facing the hallway, so the line of armed men proceeded quickly down the corridor without pause, red laser-sight beams casting reflections crazily in all directions as they pointed weapons into the empty offices looking for intruders. The two in front harshly whispered a muted, “Clear!” as they passed each office on their respective sides. The only office which did not have glass walls and could not be viewed from the hallway was the large suite at the end of the corridor, the office of Caesar Fullerton, Chairman and CEO of FGR.
The six men spread out and trained their assault rifles on the solid, polished pecan-wood double-doors leading into the suite and stopped. Just as the sergeant prepared to order his men to enter, the door shattered and exploded toward them.
Pieces of wood and other shrapnel hit the security team as a black-clad figure followed the flying shards and dove into the group of men. Only a few shots were fired before the well-trained team stopped, because as soon as the intruder was among them, they could not risk firing for fear of hitting each other. With their vision impaired from the muzzle flashes, few of the men could later accurately describe what happened. All were pushed, punched or kicked as the intruder raced past them towards the stairwell at the end of the hall, and the only thing the sergeant could do was scream into his two-way radio, “Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Dressed in black, exiting Building 5! All security personnel intercept! Extreme prejudice, extreme prejudice!”
In the black hours just before dawn the FGR complex erupted into chaos. Sirens wailed and intermittent flashes from gunfire lit the low-hanging clouds of the approaching thunderstorm. From a bird’s eye view, as each individual security team encountered the intruder, the groups of muzzle flashes would have formed a straight line leading downhill toward one side of the large circular wall which enclosed the facility.
***
Detective Frank “Ace” Wazowski pointed up the hill from the passenger seat of his unmarked police cruiser.
“What the hell was that?” he exclaimed. Wazowski and his partner, John Welburn, were headed back to the precinct after taking a home invasion call earlier in the night. Driving in their Crown Victoria past the FGR campus which overlooked the city, they could see what looked like muzzle flashes and heard faint sirens disturbing the night.
Wazowski and Welburn had been working together since Wazowski made detective four years ago. Considered to be a young, upcoming star rising quickly from patrolman, and twice decorated since making detective, Wazowski was seen as an aggressive, level-headed and outstanding officer, to be counted upon in any situation. Nicknamed “Ace” because of an epic, all night poker game from his street cop days, with the final pot being won with an “Ace” in the hole, Wazowski was well-liked by the rank-and-file on the force, who saw him as a cop’s cop. Welburn was a grizzled veteran of 30 years, heavy-set and whose hair had become more accurately described as white than gray. The two men shared a close bond, with Wazowski being more or less an unofficial adoptee of Welburn’s family, attending every Sunday barbecue, and adored by Welburn’s kids.
“That, looks like a goddamn firefight,” remarked Welburn, calm and unflappable as ever. “We should call it in.” Wazowski picked up the radio as Welburn gunned the engine and sped up on the damp road, windshield wipers clearing the light rain as they headed closer towards the FGR campus. Further along, Welburn knew, was an access gate in the twelve-foot-high retaining wall that surrounded the company property, and a possible entry point for them. Most retaining walls were built to prevent rock and earth from sliding downhill, but this one was built several feet higher than ground level, with the obvious purpose of keeping people out as much as keeping the ground in. Looking to his left and up the hill, the muzzle flashes could be seen just above the top edge of the wall.
Suddenly, a ten-foot wide stretch of FGR’s wall approximately fifty yards ahead of them shattered, and both Welburn and Wazowski later agreed privately what happened during the following few seconds just somehow seemed off, like when what you see doesn’t match what you expect to hear. First, there was no sound of an explosion. A hole appearing in a wall that size could only logically be caused by explosives. This was more like a freight train running through the wall, but with no freight train. The entire event seemed eerily quiet, like watching a silent movie. Second, what looked to be a human form crashed through the wall just behind the wave front of debris. The figure hit the ground running and crossed the road in front of them from left to right before disappearing downhill into the dense underbrush. The problem was the human form seemed to be glowing – not an intensely bright glow like from a light bulb, but just a faint outline of a glow that seemed to surround the entire figure. It became more visible as it moved away from the streetlights and just before entering the darkness of the vegetation on the other side of the roadway.
“Gun it! We’ll catch him downhill!” yelled Wazowski, not completely sure if what they were trying to catch was really a him, or a person, for that matter. The road they were on meandered back and forth as it made its way downhill, so if they drove quickly enough, they should be able to cut off whatever was heading down through the thick underbrush before it reached the next section of road. The engine roared as Welburn took the police cruiser through the hair pin turn and raced for the point below where their quarry should appear. But before they got there, they saw the figure dart across the road and into the underbrush again on the other side.
“That’s impossible!” Welburn yelled. “Nobody can get through there that fast!” Welburn stepped on the pedal again and raced through the next turn, coming back around just in time to see the human shape crossing the road in front of them yet again, but closer this time. Somehow this guy was running through bushes, small trees, downhill over rocks and boulders, in the dark, faster than they could drive!
“We got two more turns before we hit Chinatown!” Wazowski yelled above the engine noise while bracing himself with one hand on the dash and the other on the ceiling of the Crown Vic. Old Chinatown was at the base of the hill. It was called old, because a newer Chinatown had been built five years ago farther away from downtown. Old Chinatown was still there, though much seedier and run-down than its younger sister. At this time of night, the stores were almost all closed, except for the infamous Food Street, a section of open-air small restaurants, stalls and carts, selling all kinds of mysterious Asian food, usually unidentifiable to the Western eye, accompanied by equally foreign and sometimes repellant smells. Lit by neon and red lanterns, it was a favorite congregation spot for hungry late night Asian party goers and gang members.
Welburn and Wazowski went through two more turns at maximum speed on the wet road, each time glimpsing what appeared to be the same figure disappearing into the bushes on the downhill side of the road. As they reached the bottom of the hill, driving parallel to Food Street, both kept a sharp eye out for where their quarry could have gone.
“There!” shouted Wazowski. At the entrance to one of the back alleys leading to Food Street, a dumpster stood askew, partially blocking the alley, and still slowly rolling, like something large had knocked into it while going past. Two cars farther in the alleyway had their lights flashing and alarms blaring, as if protesting some indignity recently suffered. Welburn screeched to a halt, the car sliding sideways a few feet and immediately Wazowski was out the door and running down the alley, drawing his weapon at the same time, the action sending the small flashlight he normally carried in his coat pocket skittering away across the pavement and into the shadows. He ignored the wayward flashlight, not wanting to take the time to find it. Welburn, he knew, would be calling in to police dispatch to give them an update on what was happening and ask for backup.
Running as quickly as he could with his weapon held in both hands stiffly pointed down and to the side, Wazowski struggled to keep his footing on the wet and oily pavement, which reflected a glowing smear of neon lights from the street ahead as he reached the end of the alley and looked onto Food Street. There was no mistaking which way to go, since a clear path of knocked-over tables, strewn chairs, and angry patrons standing and yelling stretched to his right. He thought he caught a glimpse of someone in dark-colored clothing disappearing around a corner. He ran.
People yelled at him in Chinese as he raced past them, trying hard to not run over patrons all looking in the direction he was running, which meant they didn’t see him coming. Somewhere, a woman screamed, probably because of the drawn weapon in his hand. “Police! Police!” Wazowski bellowed, hoping it would clear the way for him, and stop anyone from shooting him in the meantime. There was no doubt in his mind there were quite a few young gang members in the crowd packing iron. He turned the corner, onto a street of darkened and closed shops, and saw an Asian woman sitting on the ground, legs sprawled under a short red skirt as a man tried to help her up.
“Which way, which way!” Wazowski yelled at the man, who mutely pointed down another side alley. Wazowski quickly but cautiously rounded the corner and proceeded down its length, hugging the wall. The strong smell of garbage assaulted his nose, and he furrowed his brows against the steadily heavier rain growing with intensity with each passing second, drowning out most other sounds. A sharp bang echoed down the alleyway on the right, and Wazowski began sprinting in that direction, discovering an emergency exit door to the building half open. Peering in, the door seemed to open into a large, warehouse-type space, dimly lit by streetlights coming in through windows high and close to the ceiling, filled with clutter and disorganized boxes of kitchen equipment. Restaurant supply store, he thought, and he could see another open doorway approximately thirty feet inside. Suddenly, a flash of lighting split the night sky, immediately followed by an impossibly loud crack of thunder. The strike must have been almost directly above the building and hit a transformer, because the power in the area cut out immediately and the entire structure plunged into darkness. In that second, as the lights went out, Wazowski saw the silhouette of a large, fit man framed in an inner doorway, with his back towards him. The crazy part was the figure seemed outlined by a low-intensity light, clearly visible in the pitch-black building, like some kid had taken a magic glow-in-the-dark crayon and traced his way around the normal shape of a man.
By the time the image registered and while his brain struggled to interpret and identify what he was seeing, the outline winked out, leaving nothing but complete and total blackness. Wazowski stood outside the door pumped up on adrenalin, every part of his body screaming to jump through the doorway after whatever the hell he was chasing. Twice he false-started through the door but stopped, knowing going in was pure folly, as he had no flashlight, no way to see, and no way to navigate the boxes, crates and other items he had briefly seen inside before the power had gone out. From somewhere deep inside the building, faint enough to be on the complete opposite side of the structure, he heard a sharp bang, which most likely signaled his quarry exiting the building on the opposite side from where he stood. Wazowski loudly cursed his frustration at the night sky, standing in the now heavy rain, wondering what in god’s name he had just seen that night.
***
Rick Garcia sat with his back to his computer monitor staring up, along with most of his co-workers, at Cassner, who had been constantly pacing and shouting on the phone for the last half hour since Rick had first informed him about his wayward processors. “Dude,” whispered one of his colleagues as he leaned in closer to Rick, “What did you do?”