Twenty-three year old Arnold Gold is a Seattle-based odds-maker and local computer genius. Described as a âpart-time hacker and full-time virginâ by his friends, he flies to Las Vegas to try and get luckyâin more ways than one. But his high stakes activity on the Net inadvertently thrusts him into a vortex of international terrorism. Dark Net Hacking has resulted in murder, and now it will take every last bit of Arnold's intellect and legendary skill to stay one step ahead of the murderous terrorists, the FBI, the local cops and his lawyer. Goldâs only chance to save himself is to find the location of a bomb hidden somewhere in Las Vegas, and somehow prevent the explosion that will turn Sin City into the scene of the deadliest terror attacks since 9/11.
Twenty-three year old Arnold Gold is a Seattle-based odds-maker and local computer genius. Described as a âpart-time hacker and full-time virginâ by his friends, he flies to Las Vegas to try and get luckyâin more ways than one. But his high stakes activity on the Net inadvertently thrusts him into a vortex of international terrorism. Dark Net Hacking has resulted in murder, and now it will take every last bit of Arnold's intellect and legendary skill to stay one step ahead of the murderous terrorists, the FBI, the local cops and his lawyer. Goldâs only chance to save himself is to find the location of a bomb hidden somewhere in Las Vegas, and somehow prevent the explosion that will turn Sin City into the scene of the deadliest terror attacks since 9/11.
1
âWhat, no tip?â the cook asked while sliding the medium-size pizza across the chipped Formica counter to Arnold.
See, thatâs the problem. Do a person one favor and they expect another. Never ends.
But Arnold didnât mind. In fact, he liked the guy. Besides, whatâs not to like? Always good natured, smiling, always put a few extra anchovies on the pizzas even though he didnât have to.
Arnold glanced over his shoulder to check out who might be nearby. The overheated humid room air was spiced with yeast, grease, and tomato sauce. The only other customers tonight were a couple, eyes glued to the high-def big-screen on the far wall, watching the Mariners, a large pepperoni and pitcher of beer in front of them, half-eaten slices in route to their mouths. Last thing theyâd be looking at was Arnold doing business with the cook.
Arnold slipped a folded paper from his billfold, passed it to the guy, pressing it firmly into his palm with the words, âDanny Boy to win in the third. Thunderbolt to place in the fifth. Saratoga.â
The cook nodded acknowledgment, casually stuffing the note into his breast pocket.
âThanks. You the man!â
Arnold began to pull a twenty from his billfold but the guy waved it off.
âNaw, naw, no way. This oneâs on me, dude. After all,â patting his breast pocket, âthis more than takes care of it.â
Arnold smiled, stuffed his wallet back in his jeans.
âSo, weâre good?â
The cook laughed with a quick nod.
âYeah, we good, that is, of course, unless you want to tell me your system.â
Arnold cringed. Heâd messed up having ever mentioned it. In retrospect, he probably shouldnât have given the guy the first tip and just let it be. But he hadnât been able to keep his big mouth shutâhadnât been able to muzzle his jubilant pride at being able to match Nate Silverâs uncanny predictive accuracyâso now here they were.
âThen it wouldnât be my system anymore, would it,â making it a statement instead of a question.
Wiping his fingers on the greasy apron, the cook nodded.
âPoint made,â and shot a glance at the oven where a large meat-lovers pizza was beginning to bubble. âAnything else? Something to drink? OtherwiseâŚâ
Arnold thought about that a moment, a whisper in the back of his mind warned of forgetting something.
It came to him.
âTell you what. Throw in a couple packs of those hot peppers, will you?â
Arnold was hurrying to get home before the pizza cooled, the smell of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni whetting his appetite. He cut down an alley, crossed a side street, then hung a left into another alley. Greenlake, a Seattle residential neighborhood, had been established before World War II in a bygone era of narrow roads, when alleys were unpaved afterthoughts for accessing impossibly small single-car garages.
Years ago, this alley had morphed into a contiguous series of opposing garage doors and privacy fences so high he could see nothing of the enclosed properties other than peaked roofs and brick chimneys. The light on the utility pole halfway down the alley had burned out weeks ago, leaving the chuck-holed asphalt in India ink shadows. But from having spent his life in the house he knew each crack and puddle well enough to navigate the narrow alley blindfolded.
His garageâset back from the alley by two feetâanchored the northeast corner of his property. A 7-foot-high cedar fence enclosed a back yard long gone to seed since his parentsâ death. A blue recycle and a green garbage bin abutted the fence, providing barely enough room for the garbage truck to navigate its weekly route. He carefully set the box of pizza on the green dumpster to type the six-digit code into the security pad, and the lock emitted a metallic slap. Propping the gate open with one foot, he picked up the pizza and entered the back yard, stopping to make sure the gate had locked securely behind him.
Satisfied, he hurried along the short cement path to the back steps, on up to the porch, through the kitchen door, yelling, âYo, dude, Iâm back.â
Heard Howie yell, âRun! Get out!â
Arnold stopped in the middle of the kitchen.
âWhat?â
This some sort of joke?
BAM. The unmistakable sound of a handgun made him jump. Then Karim was filling the doorway from kitchen to dining room, gun in hand.
Dropping the pizza, Arnold spun 180 degrees and bolted through the back door, arms out, palms hitting the porch rail, his momentum carrying him into a Western roll out into space, into an arching fall ending with both feet hitting the ground. Hard. Jolting, searing pain shot from ankle to knee, almost buckling his right leg.
Then Karim was up on the back porch, yelling, âStop!â
But now Arnold was limping as fast as possible straight for the gate, hand out to open the latch. Halfway through the gate he recognized Karimâs heavy shoes clamoring down the stairs, coming after him unexpectedly quickly for such a big man.
Damn ankle! Sprained. Badly, too.
Arnold only had time to round the recycle bin and wedge into a crouch between it and the garbage bin, back against the fence, knees tucked against his chest before he heard the gate click open and the hinges squeak. He went dead still one second before sensing Karim slip silently into the blackened alley, breathing hard, like a guy out of shape. Arnold hugged his knees, scrunching into an impossibly tight ball, shoulders wedged between bins, his back flat against the chilly cedar fencing. He strained to listen, heard one heavy step hit alley asphalt, then nothing as the big man waited, listening for footsteps or movement, for any sign of him.
A car engine grew more distant, blocks away. A dog barked somewhere on the next block. Graveyard stillness settled over the alley.
Silently Arnold began massaging his ankle, at first pressing gingerly over the spot hurting worse, the pressure producing excruciating pain, tolerable only because he needed to know if it were fractured or notânot that it made much difference if he had to bolt. He covered his mouth with his free hand to muffle his breathing.
Could Karim hear him? Sense him?
He caught a whiff of Karimâs nauseating body odor and decided he had to be off to the left, probably just inside the alley at the gate. He gingerly probed the ankle further, deciding the bone wasnât broken, but shit, the damn thing hurt. He continued the massage, hoping it might alleviate some pain, because first chance he got, heâd make a break for it and run. But unless that opportunity was damn obvious, heâd stay still.
âSee him?â
He recognized Firouzâs voice, quiet and urgent, and figured Karimâs brother must be on the porch leaning over the rail.
âNo.â
âFind him.â
A direct order. Shit!
Arnold tensed, ready to spring. If Karim discovered him, heâd bolt before the bastard could react, hoping for the element of surpriseâŚ
Yeah, then what? Guy has a gun.
Sheer stupidity to try to overpower him. Certainly, couldnât deck him. Didnât have the moves. Or the fist, for that matter. Running would be his only option. He certainly had the advantage of knowing every path and shortcut around here. Yeah, maybeâŚ
A shadow denser than others slipped silently past from left to right, the tangy stench of BO stronger, overpowering the rank, rotting garbage. Karim silently radiating a presence of mass. Arnold sensed him stop, probably no more than five feet away, almost close enough to feel his body heat. He held his breath, praying Karim wouldnât look between the bins, or if he did, couldnât see him in the inky shadow. Did the bastard carry a flashlight?
A light suddenly flashed on, casting high-contrast trapezoids across the alley. A door clicked, followed by the rapid scraping of claws on wood. Arnold pictured the neighborâs big male German shepherd shooting out across their back porch and down the steps into the enclosed grass yard. Then, a deep guttural growl from behind the fence.
Silence.
The dog began rapidly sniffing as his nose scraped the fence corner where the properties met, about where he sensed Karim standing. The shepherd barked again, deep, threatening barks.
The alley remained deathly still. No movement, no sounds. More barks.
Arnold breathed and probed his ankle once more, this time applying more pressure, palpating the bone. No, not broken. Good enough to run on.
Get ready. Any second nowâŚ
âFritz, no bark.â
He recognized the neighborâs voice. The shepherd obediently ceased barking but continued to pant and sniff, his nose glued to the fence corner where Karimâs scent had to be strongest.
âAnybody there?â his neighbor called.
Yell to him?
Yeah, and say what? Call 911?
Fat chance. Not with Karim five feet away with a gun. His heart was beating so hard he was certain Fritz could hear it. Surely the pooch recognized his scent. But Karimâs strong, foreign smell would be threatening, causing more threatening barks.
Silence.
A moment later the neighbor said, âCome!â
Fritzâs tags jangled, followed by the scrape of paws on the wood steps. Seconds later the door latch clicked and the floodlight went dark, once again filling the alley in heavy black shadows. Arnold stopped breathing.
Silence.
The mass moved again, stopped, moved a bit further. Probing, searching, intent.
Water splashed, followed by a muttered curse in a foreign tongue.
Arnold smiled.
Bastard stepped in a puddle.
Wet footsteps squished in his direction as the mass slowly and silently passed, now moving in the opposite direction, to Arnoldâs left.
Suddenly, the alley lit up, shadows streaking from left to right with the crunch of tires on loose dirt. A car was turned in from the far end, headlight straight into Karimâs eyes.
Instinctively, Arnold realized his chance. He bolted, took two steps, cut sharp right, away from Karim, thinking, distance is good, every inch of is one less degree of accuracy.
The odds of survival increasing in his brain with each step he ran, legs pumping harder and faster than ever before in his young life, an adrenaline surge igniting afterburners he never knew were there, fear overriding the searing pain from his ankle.
He was flying through Mahoneyâs yard, onto the side street, cut another right, shot down a short block as one final surge sent him bursting through the pizza shop front door, breathlessly yelling, âCallÂ
Artificial Intelligence genius Arnold Gold seems to get himself in an increasing amount of trouble as his journey unfolds in a thrilling story of dramatic deception. For someone who just wants to make it with the fairer sex he sure does pay the price long after resorting to pay for such an experience which in turn leads to the barrel of a loaded gun and the rabbit hole of threat that envelops his life.
It's part 'True Romance' part 'Loser' as our young hero has this way of tripping into a situation after an encounter with Las Vegas escort 'Breeze' who becomes the gateway to Gold's deep trouble. While their time together is intimately relayed there's always this feeling of some level of threat bubbling just under the surface. We learn that his success in the betting world is aided by the fact he's a computer prodigy who surfs the Darknet which then in turn attracts less desirable types who want to exploit it soon piling on the pressure - eventually it seems everyone is after him, including the law. Perhaps Gold's one and only pinnacle flaw is his uncanny inability to help himself or even refuse help - frustrating and immersive at the same time for readers and his legal counsel.
"fate had trapped him in a vise of opposing forces, slowly squeezing him to death. His only hope - at least as far as he could see was to stay on point and play the game..."
Allen Wyler has put together a strong story that I found to be both addictive and easy to read. On the fringes of crime or revenge thriller with some espionage themes it makes for a gripping read. Just how will Arnold Gold play himself out of this trouble? That's question which will eventually be answered, the odds, deadly at best.