The crack of the gunshots brought Ian to his senses. His rage vanished. Self-preservation took hold. He kneeled and freed Briggs’s pistol from his holster and placed it in his hand. It was a matter of self-defense. Anyone could see it.
He waited for his assistants to come running to his aid, but it was nearly eight and everyone had gone home. No one had heard the shots. He walked to his desk and called Edward Mason. He would tell him that Briggs had been threatening to go to the authorities. Mason would send someone. They were all in this together. There was no other choice.
The call rolled to voicemail. “Ed, this is Ian. Call me. It’s an emergency.”
Ian put his pistol in his top drawer, then returned to the body. Briggs was single. He had no family in the city. No one would miss him for days. Maybe it wouldn’t come to self-defense. There was ample time to dispose of the body. Maybe he could even tie it to Mary Grant somehow.
His personal line rang. Eight o’clock meant it was the daily call from his children in Los Angeles. The timing couldn’t be better. He would say he had been talking with his family when Briggs was killed. Ian turned the camera away from Briggs and positioned himself in front of the lens.
“Hello there,” he said with false merriment.
The screen came to life. He saw his boys, Tristan and Trevor, in the kitchen of the home in Bel-Air.
“Dad, Dad,” Tristan, the younger boy, was shouting. “We’ve got a surprise.”
Ian did his best to smile. “Really? What’s that?”
“We know you said no more animals, but this one was special.”
“Another one? What is it this time? Not another dog?”
“Just wait, Dad,” said Trevor. “You’re going to freak. It’s so cool.”
“Take a guess,” said Tristan.
“I don’t know…a cat.”
“Of course not.”
“A snake?”
“It’s easy, Dad. I mean, you sent us that video for a reason.”
“Did I? Which one was that?”
Just then Tristan picked up the animal and held it in his arms. It was large and furry, with great big claws and sad black eyes. “Say hi to Joey. He’s a three-toed South American tree sloth.”
“A sloth?” said Ian, blinking, sure he was imagining this.
“Don’t be mad,” Tristan went on. “Isn’t that why you sent us the video of the sloth trying to climb out of the crib? You knew we couldn’t resist.”
It was the video he’d sent to the Grant girls, to which he’d attached the malware. But how in the world had his sons received it?
“You’re sure I sent it to you?”
“Yeah, Dad,” said Trevor. “We know better than to open messages that come from strangers.”
“I made Mom go to the exotic pet store in Beverly Hills. Don’t you think he’s cute?”
Ian dashed to his computer. If they’d downloaded the video of the sloth, they’d imported the malware. The family’s machines were networked. The malware would grant a user free rein inside all of them-desktops, laptops, tablets. It would be simplicity itself to locate his passwords and access his files, both personal and professional. There was no telling what someone might find.
Ian logged on to his e-mail and saw that it was true: he had sent them the video. Or rather, the person who had hacked into his computer had sent it from Ian’s account.
He drew a breath, wondering how this had happened. How all of it had happened.
A shriek came from somewhere in the kitchen behind the boys. “Ian!”
It was his wife, Wendy. She came through the butler’s pantry, clutching her laptop, the screen open. “What have you done? It’s everywhere.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Is it real? Tell me, Ian, is it?” Wendy aimed the laptop at the camera, but he could see the images only faintly.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Did you shoot him? Did you?”
“Shoot who?”
“Briggs! Did you?” Wendy was bawling hysterically, screaming at the boys to get out of the kitchen.
Ian brought up Rivalfox, a website devoted to the highest-trending topics and personalities on the Web. To his horror, his name was ranked first. He double-clicked on his name and was given a link to a video on YouTube titled “Ian Prince Murders Peter Briggs in cold blood.”
He hit Play, and there he was, standing in his office, speaking with Peter Briggs only five minutes earlier.
“He wasn’t a spy,” Briggs was saying. “He was a drunk.”
Ian froze as the rest of the encounter played out, filmed in high definition by the camera in his desktop.
“Your dear old dad’s buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field, or whatever they call it over there.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Briggs jabbed his finger into Ian’s chest. “I’m going to tell the world, Ian. I’m going to tell everyone the truth about Peter fucking Prince. Everyone’s going to know what a drunken lowlife your father was.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Bank on it.”
Ian shot him. Peter Briggs staggered back a step. Ian dropped the satchel, the Walther gripped in his right hand. He fired again. Briggs fell. He was dead before he hit the floor.
“Banked,” said Ian.
He looked away from the screen. Only one person could have done this: Jessie Grant. He’d sent her the sloth video, too. She possessed the skills. She’d nearly defeated him at Capture the Flag. But she was dead in a Vegas hotel room. Briggs had confirmed it.
Or was she?
Ian refreshed the page. The views were increasing exponentially.
2,000…10,000…100,000.
The video was going viral.
The entire world was watching.
“Ian, is this real?” Wendy Prince continued to shout. “Ian!”
He ended the call.
From afar he heard a siren, and then another. He hurried to the window. A dozen unmarked cars were barreling over the Meadow toward his office.
His phone rang. Edward Mason.
“Ed, hello, thank God you called. There are-”
“Mr. Prince, my name is Dylan Walsh. I’m chief of the Cyber Investigations Division at the FBI. Edward Mason is presently in custody. Our agents have surrounded your office. We ask that you surrender yourself immediately. Please walk out the front door with your hands up.”
Ian hung up the phone. Mason was in custody. The FBI had Stark’s files. They knew everything. His office was surrounded.
The number of views continued to spiral upward.
500,000…600,000.
He’d be at a million soon, and that was only the beginning. He was looking at what was certain to become the most-watched video of all time.
Ian opened the drawer and stared at his father’s pistol.
January
98
The outrigger canoe bobbed on the early-morning swell.
“Is this the place?” asked Grace.
“It better be,” said Jessie. “I’m done paddling.”
Mary gazed out over the sea toward the green slopes of Maui. A gentle breeze blew off the island, bringing the scent of gardenias and frangipani. Across the channel the rising sun gilded Lanai’s coast with a rich golden warmth. She stowed her paddle. “I think your father will like it here.”