| General Fiction posted July 25, 2022 |
  |
Escaped, but still on the run.
Tucker - Free at Last (Part-6)
by Ric Myworld
In the last chapter, Tucker had broken free and saved Tammy Jo and T.D. from certain acid-bath deaths in the barn. Escaping to Florida, into an awaiting trap by Farnsworth’s bad guy brigade.
Farnsworth and his goons had arrived at the barn only minutes after Tucker’s getaway. Then, he instructed his search force to track all planes scheduled to leave surrounding airports within a two-hour radius. In six-short minutes he was notified of a pending flight from Evansville, Indiana to Clewiston, Florida.
The Jalisco Cartel’s East and West Coast henchmen from Fort Myers, Cape Coral, Naples, West Palm Beach, and Boca Raton had inundated the Clewiston airstrip in just over an hour of the escapees' Indiana liftoff, ready and waiting for their arrival.
Upon landing, Tucker opened the plane’s emergency exit and flipped the slide-bustle latch releasing the plane's evacuation slide. With the pilot and crew exiting the stairs, Tucker, Tammy, and T.D. jumped on the slide and slid as Tucker had instructed, hitting the ground running.
They darted behind what was left of the air control tower, using it as cover, then headed due South sprinting away from the action.
Johnny Fields fired his pistol indiscriminately, more for noise and distraction than at visible targets. Always prepared, Johnny handed out weapons from the storage bunker to the five crew members who hunkered down ready to fight.
T.D. raced along the downhill grade, most likely headed toward water, and a possible trap—Tammy close behind—by design, Tucker brought up the rear.
Nearing a fence line, Tucker cut left, Tammy and T.D. fell in line behind. The steel-wired barrier soon turned slightly right up a gradual upgrade leading beside a dilapidated cabin and his friend's rusty, souped-up 1950s-model Chevy truck with its 350 engine and 391 rearend. A modified speedball.
Tucker knocked on the side door. Harold, his old fishing buddy, soon greeted them with a hearty welcome. Aged, yellowed wallpaper covered with taxidermy-mounted plaques of beady lake and forest eyes that seemingly watched, following their every move. The musty shack was an arsenal of fishing gear, guns, and ammunition.
“I don’t have time to explain, Harold, but—” Tucker sneezed from the dust, then continued, “Can Tammy and T.D. use your truck?”
“Sure, Tuck, key is in it.”
“T.D., you and Tammy need to get moving. Drive East 52-miles to PBI airport in West Palm Beach. Ask for Dan Wilson. He knows you’re coming and will fly you to safety. Harold and I will hold off the assassins and buy you time.”
“Nope, not this time, Tucker,” T.D. said. “You’re going with Tammy and I’m staying with Harold.”
“Get rolling and stop killing time,” Tucker growled, red-faced and spitting mad. “It’s not debatable.”
“I’m not arguing, Tucker. I’m calling the shots this time. You and Tammy take off. I've been miserable since losing Claudia and only have me. You two need each other. Besides, I’m the biggest, meanest, and toughest S-O-B—.” He grinned; his outrageous lie meant to be humorous. Tucker grunted and shook his head, and everyone laughed. “Plus, I’m the sharpshooter.” T.D. said, which was undisputable.
“Okay, you win . . . there isn’t time to argue. I’ll be back for you and Harold soon as I get Tammy squared away.”
“Don’t worry about us, Tuck,” Harold put a pinch of Skoal between his cheek and gum. “Me and your buddy here, we’ll give those tontos (Spanish for fools) good as they send.”
The old truck fired up on its first crank. Then Tucker and Tammy whipped out onto the hot blacktopped road, tires squealing, and hightailed it toward PBI airport. Racing time on the two-lane road and passing cars in 100-mph bursts, the trip still took forty-odd minutes with traffic.
Tucker had ditched his and Tammy’s phones back in Evansville to avoid tracking, for all the good it had done. So, he stopped to buy three burner phones en route.
Dan Wilson answered on the second ring, thirty minutes out, and had supplies loaded and the plane idling as the truck wheeled in and came to a screeching halt.
On another call, Tucker had explained the whole situation to longtime acquaintance, Niall O’Connor, at the FBI. Then, Niall transferred him to Eddie Grady one of the government’s best hackers, whom Niall had already filled in with most of the updated details. Tucker ended his conversation and clicked off his phone as they taxied down the runway.
No sooner than airborne and leveled off, Tammy asked, “Well, Tucker, where are we going from here?”
“We’re headed to Bimini Island”
“Is it far?” Dejected, Tammy sat puppy-faced sad in the corner.
“It’s only about fifty miles East of Miami.”
Tammy looked up at Tucker, and asked, “What will we do after that?”
“Tammy . . . right now, we just need to stay alive.” Tucker walked over, took Tammy’s hands in his, lifted her to standing, then wrapped her in his powerful arms’ firm hug and kissed her on the forehead. “If we live through this, you can call the shots from then on.” In a smiling gaze they squeezed each other tightly, tears of happiness trickled down Tammy’s cheeks.
___________________________________
Defeating Farnsworth’s criminal horde combined with the cartel’s army of bloodthirsty savages would take more than brawn and bullets, and many would likely die.
For months Tucker and government hackers had laid out plans on how to pit Farnsworth and the cartel against each other. Niall and Eddie had set up network connections with rogue hackers and the government’s highest intelligence agencies.
The plan was to siphon money from all the Jalisco cartel’s bank accounts and leave traceable paths for the cartel to find, linking the thefts back to Farnsworth and his organization.
The FBI, along with Niall’s professional counter-hackers had full control inside Swift - The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication - the Rolls Royce of payment networks.
The interconnectivity of worldwide banks makes cyberattacks 300 times more likely to impair the solvency of financial institutions and had allowed the hacker assemblage to locate and obtain direct access to the cartel’s many accounts.
Estimated billions having been stolen from 100s of banks worldwide. Back in February 2019, hackers stole $81 million in a single heist from Bangladesh’s Central Bank. Cyberattacks increased by 238% between February and April of 2020 alone.
Eddie Grady’s crew ran phishing attacks to obtain bank executives' emails and embed sublayers. Then, initiated intelligence phases using ZBerp malware system with Trojan and Botnet capabilities, like Anunak and Bleodolab.
DNS poisoning, site cloning, and keylogging had penetrated cartel accounts and bypassed two-factor authentication to replicate the needed codes and articles.
The MITM (man-in-the-middle-attacks) had intercepted targeted communications by around-the-clock cartel and bank monitoring. They copied every banking transaction for months: HTTP forms, SSL Certificates, FTP and POP account credentials, screen shots, passwords, and processes.
Bait planted, hook set, and in complete remote control of the banks’ computers, they processed their own nefarious transactions to drain the cartel’s international accounts. Farnsworth—framed as the thief—the supposed mastermind behind it all.
If everything worked out as planned—inside 48 to 72 hours—the Jalisco cartel and Farnsworth’s organization would dismantle each other from within.
_____________________
Back at Harold’s house, a couple dozen mad Mexicans surrounded and fired FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missiles into all four corners of the cabin. The exploding fireballs quickly spread in all directions. Hope of saving Harold diminished with every crackling pop of the house’s blistering flames.
Camouflaged in ghillie suits of sprouting foliage and perched in trees from behind, Johnny Fields and four of his crew of five soon gave up and slipped away.
Despite news and television reports claiming Farnsworth as the FBI liaison in charge of busting the cartel, the criminal union hadn’t seemed to change. The Cartel’s men still appeared the dirty-deed doers under Farnsworth's direction.
_____________________
The helicopter landed, delivering Tucker and Tammy atop the Atlantic Royal Tower East, the tallest hotel on Bimini Island. Madam Suki’s The Experience massage parlor filled the whole top floor.
Probably in her late fifties, Suki passed respectively for near thirty. She greeted Tucker and Tammy with a welcoming smile. She flipped her waist-length, raven hair over the shoulder of her red kimono, sparkling under the revolving-colored lights. Her kimono a symbol of longevity and good fortune: red, signified youth and glamour during the Edo period of Japan. The benibana dye fades quickly, the color symbolic of mad, passionate love, all-consuming but fleeting.
Suki and Tucker’s smiles, hugs, and flurried cheek kisses revealed more than just familiarity or a glowing friendship.
“Prettier than ever, my dear, Suki,” Tucker said. Their undisguisable intimacy distorted Tammy’s fake smile.
“Oh, Tucker, you always could make a woman feel special with your bull—”
“Now, now, let's not spoil your polished image with your potty mouth.” Tucker and Suki laughed as she fell against him, and they hugged like long-lost lovers. Fuming, Tammy kept her strained emotions in check.
Six machine gunners burst through the swinging glass doors spraying a hail of bullets. The bevy of couched beauties, arched and posed, tumbled like bowling pins from the encircled seating arrangements.
Tammy collapsed on the oriental carpet, Tucker scooping her into his arms on the run. Madame Suki’s security fought like samurai holding off the intruders long enough for her guests to escape.
One floor down, Tucker and Tammy broke into a luxury suite. Tammy’s right side was covered in blood. Tucker stuffed a wash rag in her mouth to muffle her scream. Then, crammed a tampon into the bullet hole to retard the bleeding. Tammy drifted off and slept throughout the night. Tucker cautiously slipped out the back exit canvassing the alleyway shops for jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers.
Early the following morning, Tammy and Tucker wove through the crowded sidewalk in floppy hats and dark sunglasses. Four-blocks North they caught a cab to an exclusive Bailey Town residence’s private helicopter pad and were swooped away to Miami’s Weston Hospital. Tammy’s wound was disinfected, cauterized, and stitched up while receiving a constant drip of IV antibiotics. Five hours later they landed atop the St. Regis Resort in Bal Harbour, Florida.
______________________
In the meantime, T.D. munched down on a coney with kraut and mustard, while Harold’s coleslaw and cheese dog dripped mayonnaise in a stream down his shirt at the Weiner World Café in Orlando. Alive and well for the moment, they had escaped Harold’s bombed house.
Unbeknownst to Tucker, the Jalisco (CJNG) cartel had tracked Farnsworth to the Fontainebleau Miami Beach, just five miles South of Bal Harbour. Angel Sanchez, second in charge to cartel leader Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes (El Mencho), had issued a kill order for Farnsworth.
Tucker’s hotel phone rang unexpectedly. Figuring it had to be the front desk, he answered.
“Tucker, this is Farnsworth.” Speaking in his harsh, distinct voice. “Don’t hang up. I don’t have time to explain, but you need to get out of the St. Regis, pronto. And Tucker, I swear, I’m not the bad guy. It’s Niall’s army trying to kill you . . . not mine, or Jalisco’s.”
In the last chapter, Tucker had broken free and saved Tammy Jo and T.D. from certain acid-bath deaths in the barn. Escaping to Florida, into an awaiting trap by Farnsworth’s bad guy brigade.
Farnsworth and his goons had arrived at the barn only minutes after Tucker’s getaway. Then, he instructed his search force to track all planes scheduled to leave surrounding airports within a two-hour radius. In six-short minutes he was notified of a pending flight from Evansville, Indiana to Clewiston, Florida.
The Jalisco Cartel’s East and West Coast henchmen from Fort Myers, Cape Coral, Naples, West Palm Beach, and Boca Raton had inundated the Clewiston airstrip in just over an hour of the escapees' Indiana liftoff, ready and waiting for their arrival.
Upon landing, Tucker opened the plane’s emergency exit and flipped the slide-bustle latch releasing the plane's evacuation slide. With the pilot and crew exiting the stairs, Tucker, Tammy, and T.D. jumped on the slide and slid as Tucker had instructed, hitting the ground running.
They darted behind what was left of the air control tower, using it as cover, then headed due South sprinting away from the action.
Johnny Fields fired his pistol indiscriminately, more for noise and distraction than at visible targets. Always prepared, Johnny handed out weapons from the storage bunker to the five crew members who hunkered down ready to fight.
T.D. raced along the downhill grade, most likely headed toward water, and a possible trap—Tammy close behind—by design, Tucker brought up the rear.
Nearing a fence line, Tucker cut left, Tammy and T.D. fell in line behind. The steel-wired barrier soon turned slightly right up a gradual upgrade leading beside a dilapidated cabin and his friend's rusty, souped-up 1950s-model Chevy truck with its 350 engine and 391 rearend. A modified speedball.
Tucker knocked on the side door. Harold, his old fishing buddy, soon greeted them with a hearty welcome. Aged, yellowed wallpaper covered with taxidermy-mounted plaques of beady lake and forest eyes that seemingly watched, following their every move. The musty shack was an arsenal of fishing gear, guns, and ammunition.
“I don’t have time to explain, Harold, but—” Tucker sneezed from the dust, then continued, “Can Tammy and T.D. use your truck?”
“Sure, Tuck, key is in it.”
“T.D., you and Tammy need to get moving. Drive East 52-miles to PBI airport in West Palm Beach. Ask for Dan Wilson. He knows you’re coming and will fly you to safety. Harold and I will hold off the assassins and buy you time.”
“Nope, not this time, Tucker,” T.D. said. “You’re going with Tammy and I’m staying with Harold.”
“Get rolling and stop killing time,” Tucker growled, red-faced and spitting mad. “It’s not debatable.”
“I’m not arguing, Tucker. I’m calling the shots this time. You and Tammy take off. I've been miserable since losing Claudia and only have me. You two need each other. Besides, I’m the biggest, meanest, and toughest S-O-B—.” He grinned; his outrageous lie meant to be humorous. Tucker grunted and shook his head, and everyone laughed. “Plus, I’m the sharpshooter.” T.D. said, which was undisputable.
“Okay, you win . . . there isn’t time to argue. I’ll be back for you and Harold soon as I get Tammy squared away.”
“Don’t worry about us, Tuck,” Harold put a pinch of Skoal between his cheek and gum. “Me and your buddy here, we’ll give those tontos (Spanish for fools) good as they send.”
The old truck fired up on its first crank. Then Tucker and Tammy whipped out onto the hot blacktopped road, tires squealing, and hightailed it toward PBI airport. Racing time on the two-lane road and passing cars in 100-mph bursts, the trip still took forty-odd minutes with traffic.
Tucker had ditched his and Tammy’s phones back in Evansville to avoid tracking, for all the good it had done. So, he stopped to buy three burner phones en route.
Dan Wilson answered on the second ring, thirty minutes out, and had supplies loaded and the plane idling as the truck wheeled in and came to a screeching halt.
On another call, Tucker had explained the whole situation to longtime acquaintance, Niall O’Connor, at the FBI. Then, Niall transferred him to Eddie Grady one of the government’s best hackers, whom Niall had already filled in with most of the updated details. Tucker ended his conversation and clicked off his phone as they taxied down the runway.
No sooner than airborne and leveled off, Tammy asked, “Well, Tucker, where are we going from here?”
“We’re headed to Bimini Island”
“Is it far?” Dejected, Tammy sat puppy-faced sad in the corner.
“It’s only about fifty miles East of Miami.”
Tammy looked up at Tucker, and asked, “What will we do after that?”
“Tammy . . . right now, we just need to stay alive.” Tucker walked over, took Tammy’s hands in his, lifted her to standing, then wrapped her in his powerful arms’ firm hug and kissed her on the forehead. “If we live through this, you can call the shots from then on.” In a smiling gaze they squeezed each other tightly, tears of happiness trickled down Tammy’s cheeks.
___________________________________
Defeating Farnsworth’s criminal horde combined with the cartel’s army of bloodthirsty savages would take more than brawn and bullets, and many would likely die.
For months Tucker and government hackers had laid out plans on how to pit Farnsworth and the cartel against each other. Niall and Eddie had set up network connections with rogue hackers and the government’s highest intelligence agencies.
The plan was to siphon money from all the Jalisco cartel’s bank accounts and leave traceable paths for the cartel to find, linking the thefts back to Farnsworth and his organization.
The FBI, along with Niall’s professional counter-hackers had full control inside Swift - The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication - the Rolls Royce of payment networks.
The interconnectivity of worldwide banks makes cyberattacks 300 times more likely to impair the solvency of financial institutions and had allowed the hacker assemblage to locate and obtain direct access to the cartel’s many accounts.
Estimated billions having been stolen from 100s of banks worldwide. Back in February 2019, hackers stole $81 million in a single heist from Bangladesh’s Central Bank. Cyberattacks increased by 238% between February and April of 2020 alone.
Eddie Grady’s crew ran phishing attacks to obtain bank executives' emails and embed sublayers. Then, initiated intelligence phases using ZBerp malware system with Trojan and Botnet capabilities, like Anunak and Bleodolab.
DNS poisoning, site cloning, and keylogging had penetrated cartel accounts and bypassed two-factor authentication to replicate the needed codes and articles.
The MITM (man-in-the-middle-attacks) had intercepted targeted communications by around-the-clock cartel and bank monitoring. They copied every banking transaction for months: HTTP forms, SSL Certificates, FTP and POP account credentials, screen shots, passwords, and processes.
Bait planted, hook set, and in complete remote control of the banks’ computers, they processed their own nefarious transactions to drain the cartel’s international accounts. Farnsworth—framed as the thief—the supposed mastermind behind it all.
If everything worked out as planned—inside 48 to 72 hours—the Jalisco cartel and Farnsworth’s organization would dismantle each other from within.
_____________________
Back at Harold’s house, a couple dozen mad Mexicans surrounded and fired FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missiles into all four corners of the cabin. The exploding fireballs quickly spread in all directions. Hope of saving Harold diminished with every crackling pop of the house’s blistering flames.
Camouflaged in ghillie suits of sprouting foliage and perched in trees from behind, Johnny Fields and four of his crew of five soon gave up and slipped away.
Despite news and television reports claiming Farnsworth as the FBI liaison in charge of busting the cartel, the criminal union hadn’t seemed to change. The Cartel’s men still appeared the dirty-deed doers under Farnsworth's direction.
_____________________
The helicopter landed, delivering Tucker and Tammy atop the Atlantic Royal Tower East, the tallest hotel on Bimini Island. Madam Suki’s The Experience massage parlor filled the whole top floor.
Probably in her late fifties, Suki passed respectively for near thirty. She greeted Tucker and Tammy with a welcoming smile. She flipped her waist-length, raven hair over the shoulder of her red kimono, sparkling under the revolving-colored lights. Her kimono a symbol of longevity and good fortune: red, signified youth and glamour during the Edo period of Japan. The benibana dye fades quickly, the color symbolic of mad, passionate love, all-consuming but fleeting.
Suki and Tucker’s smiles, hugs, and flurried cheek kisses revealed more than just familiarity or a glowing friendship.
“Prettier than ever, my dear, Suki,” Tucker said. Their undisguisable intimacy distorted Tammy’s fake smile.
“Oh, Tucker, you always could make a woman feel special with your bull—”
“Now, now, let's not spoil your polished image with your potty mouth.” Tucker and Suki laughed as she fell against him, and they hugged like long-lost lovers. Fuming, Tammy kept her strained emotions in check.
Six machine gunners burst through the swinging glass doors spraying a hail of bullets. The bevy of couched beauties, arched and posed, tumbled like bowling pins from the encircled seating arrangements.
Tammy collapsed on the oriental carpet, Tucker scooping her into his arms on the run. Madame Suki’s security fought like samurai holding off the intruders long enough for her guests to escape.
One floor down, Tucker and Tammy broke into a luxury suite. Tammy’s right side was covered in blood. Tucker stuffed a wash rag in her mouth to muffle her scream. Then, crammed a tampon into the bullet hole to retard the bleeding. Tammy drifted off and slept throughout the night. Tucker cautiously slipped out the back exit canvassing the alleyway shops for jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers.
Early the following morning, Tammy and Tucker wove through the crowded sidewalk in floppy hats and dark sunglasses. Four-blocks North they caught a cab to an exclusive Bailey Town residence’s private helicopter pad and were swooped away to Miami’s Weston Hospital. Tammy’s wound was disinfected, cauterized, and stitched up while receiving a constant drip of IV antibiotics. Five hours later they landed atop the St. Regis Resort in Bal Harbour, Florida.
______________________
In the meantime, T.D. munched down on a coney with kraut and mustard, while Harold’s coleslaw and cheese dog dripped mayonnaise in a stream down his shirt at the Weiner World Café in Orlando. Alive and well for the moment, they had escaped Harold’s bombed house.
Unbeknownst to Tucker, the Jalisco (CJNG) cartel had tracked Farnsworth to the Fontainebleau Miami Beach, just five miles South of Bal Harbour. Angel Sanchez, second in charge to cartel leader Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes (El Mencho), had issued a kill order for Farnsworth.
Tucker’s hotel phone rang unexpectedly. Figuring it had to be the front desk, he answered.
“Tucker, this is Farnsworth.” Speaking in his harsh, distinct voice. “Don’t hang up. I don’t have time to explain, but you need to get out of the St. Regis, pronto. And Tucker, I swear, I’m not the bad guy. It’s Niall’s army trying to kill you . . . not mine, or Jalisco’s.”
Farnsworth and his goons had arrived at the barn only minutes after Tucker’s getaway. Then, he instructed his search force to track all planes scheduled to leave surrounding airports within a two-hour radius. In six-short minutes he was notified of a pending flight from Evansville, Indiana to Clewiston, Florida.
The Jalisco Cartel’s East and West Coast henchmen from Fort Myers, Cape Coral, Naples, West Palm Beach, and Boca Raton had inundated the Clewiston airstrip in just over an hour of the escapees' Indiana liftoff, ready and waiting for their arrival.
Upon landing, Tucker opened the plane’s emergency exit and flipped the slide-bustle latch releasing the plane's evacuation slide. With the pilot and crew exiting the stairs, Tucker, Tammy, and T.D. jumped on the slide and slid as Tucker had instructed, hitting the ground running.
They darted behind what was left of the air control tower, using it as cover, then headed due South sprinting away from the action.
Johnny Fields fired his pistol indiscriminately, more for noise and distraction than at visible targets. Always prepared, Johnny handed out weapons from the storage bunker to the five crew members who hunkered down ready to fight.
T.D. raced along the downhill grade, most likely headed toward water, and a possible trap—Tammy close behind—by design, Tucker brought up the rear.
Nearing a fence line, Tucker cut left, Tammy and T.D. fell in line behind. The steel-wired barrier soon turned slightly right up a gradual upgrade leading beside a dilapidated cabin and his friend's rusty, souped-up 1950s-model Chevy truck with its 350 engine and 391 rearend. A modified speedball.
Tucker knocked on the side door. Harold, his old fishing buddy, soon greeted them with a hearty welcome. Aged, yellowed wallpaper covered with taxidermy-mounted plaques of beady lake and forest eyes that seemingly watched, following their every move. The musty shack was an arsenal of fishing gear, guns, and ammunition.
“I don’t have time to explain, Harold, but—” Tucker sneezed from the dust, then continued, “Can Tammy and T.D. use your truck?”
“Sure, Tuck, key is in it.”
“T.D., you and Tammy need to get moving. Drive East 52-miles to PBI airport in West Palm Beach. Ask for Dan Wilson. He knows you’re coming and will fly you to safety. Harold and I will hold off the assassins and buy you time.”
“Nope, not this time, Tucker,” T.D. said. “You’re going with Tammy and I’m staying with Harold.”
“Get rolling and stop killing time,” Tucker growled, red-faced and spitting mad. “It’s not debatable.”
“I’m not arguing, Tucker. I’m calling the shots this time. You and Tammy take off. I've been miserable since losing Claudia and only have me. You two need each other. Besides, I’m the biggest, meanest, and toughest S-O-B—.” He grinned; his outrageous lie meant to be humorous. Tucker grunted and shook his head, and everyone laughed. “Plus, I’m the sharpshooter.” T.D. said, which was undisputable.
“Okay, you win . . . there isn’t time to argue. I’ll be back for you and Harold soon as I get Tammy squared away.”
“Don’t worry about us, Tuck,” Harold put a pinch of Skoal between his cheek and gum. “Me and your buddy here, we’ll give those tontos (Spanish for fools) good as they send.”
The old truck fired up on its first crank. Then Tucker and Tammy whipped out onto the hot blacktopped road, tires squealing, and hightailed it toward PBI airport. Racing time on the two-lane road and passing cars in 100-mph bursts, the trip still took forty-odd minutes with traffic.
Tucker had ditched his and Tammy’s phones back in Evansville to avoid tracking, for all the good it had done. So, he stopped to buy three burner phones en route.
Dan Wilson answered on the second ring, thirty minutes out, and had supplies loaded and the plane idling as the truck wheeled in and came to a screeching halt.
On another call, Tucker had explained the whole situation to longtime acquaintance, Niall O’Connor, at the FBI. Then, Niall transferred him to Eddie Grady one of the government’s best hackers, whom Niall had already filled in with most of the updated details. Tucker ended his conversation and clicked off his phone as they taxied down the runway.
No sooner than airborne and leveled off, Tammy asked, “Well, Tucker, where are we going from here?”
“We’re headed to Bimini Island”
“Is it far?” Dejected, Tammy sat puppy-faced sad in the corner.
“It’s only about fifty miles East of Miami.”
Tammy looked up at Tucker, and asked, “What will we do after that?”
“Tammy . . . right now, we just need to stay alive.” Tucker walked over, took Tammy’s hands in his, lifted her to standing, then wrapped her in his powerful arms’ firm hug and kissed her on the forehead. “If we live through this, you can call the shots from then on.” In a smiling gaze they squeezed each other tightly, tears of happiness trickled down Tammy’s cheeks.
___________________________________
Defeating Farnsworth’s criminal horde combined with the cartel’s army of bloodthirsty savages would take more than brawn and bullets, and many would likely die.
For months Tucker and government hackers had laid out plans on how to pit Farnsworth and the cartel against each other. Niall and Eddie had set up network connections with rogue hackers and the government’s highest intelligence agencies.
The plan was to siphon money from all the Jalisco cartel’s bank accounts and leave traceable paths for the cartel to find, linking the thefts back to Farnsworth and his organization.
The FBI, along with Niall’s professional counter-hackers had full control inside Swift - The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication - the Rolls Royce of payment networks.
The interconnectivity of worldwide banks makes cyberattacks 300 times more likely to impair the solvency of financial institutions and had allowed the hacker assemblage to locate and obtain direct access to the cartel’s many accounts.
Estimated billions having been stolen from 100s of banks worldwide. Back in February 2019, hackers stole $81 million in a single heist from Bangladesh’s Central Bank. Cyberattacks increased by 238% between February and April of 2020 alone.
Eddie Grady’s crew ran phishing attacks to obtain bank executives' emails and embed sublayers. Then, initiated intelligence phases using ZBerp malware system with Trojan and Botnet capabilities, like Anunak and Bleodolab.
DNS poisoning, site cloning, and keylogging had penetrated cartel accounts and bypassed two-factor authentication to replicate the needed codes and articles.
The MITM (man-in-the-middle-attacks) had intercepted targeted communications by around-the-clock cartel and bank monitoring. They copied every banking transaction for months: HTTP forms, SSL Certificates, FTP and POP account credentials, screen shots, passwords, and processes.
Bait planted, hook set, and in complete remote control of the banks’ computers, they processed their own nefarious transactions to drain the cartel’s international accounts. Farnsworth—framed as the thief—the supposed mastermind behind it all.
If everything worked out as planned—inside 48 to 72 hours—the Jalisco cartel and Farnsworth’s organization would dismantle each other from within.
_____________________
Back at Harold’s house, a couple dozen mad Mexicans surrounded and fired FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missiles into all four corners of the cabin. The exploding fireballs quickly spread in all directions. Hope of saving Harold diminished with every crackling pop of the house’s blistering flames.
Camouflaged in ghillie suits of sprouting foliage and perched in trees from behind, Johnny Fields and four of his crew of five soon gave up and slipped away.
Despite news and television reports claiming Farnsworth as the FBI liaison in charge of busting the cartel, the criminal union hadn’t seemed to change. The Cartel’s men still appeared the dirty-deed doers under Farnsworth's direction.
_____________________
The helicopter landed, delivering Tucker and Tammy atop the Atlantic Royal Tower East, the tallest hotel on Bimini Island. Madam Suki’s The Experience massage parlor filled the whole top floor.
Probably in her late fifties, Suki passed respectively for near thirty. She greeted Tucker and Tammy with a welcoming smile. She flipped her waist-length, raven hair over the shoulder of her red kimono, sparkling under the revolving-colored lights. Her kimono a symbol of longevity and good fortune: red, signified youth and glamour during the Edo period of Japan. The benibana dye fades quickly, the color symbolic of mad, passionate love, all-consuming but fleeting.
Suki and Tucker’s smiles, hugs, and flurried cheek kisses revealed more than just familiarity or a glowing friendship.
“Prettier than ever, my dear, Suki,” Tucker said. Their undisguisable intimacy distorted Tammy’s fake smile.
“Oh, Tucker, you always could make a woman feel special with your bull—”
“Now, now, let's not spoil your polished image with your potty mouth.” Tucker and Suki laughed as she fell against him, and they hugged like long-lost lovers. Fuming, Tammy kept her strained emotions in check.
Six machine gunners burst through the swinging glass doors spraying a hail of bullets. The bevy of couched beauties, arched and posed, tumbled like bowling pins from the encircled seating arrangements.
Tammy collapsed on the oriental carpet, Tucker scooping her into his arms on the run. Madame Suki’s security fought like samurai holding off the intruders long enough for her guests to escape.
One floor down, Tucker and Tammy broke into a luxury suite. Tammy’s right side was covered in blood. Tucker stuffed a wash rag in her mouth to muffle her scream. Then, crammed a tampon into the bullet hole to retard the bleeding. Tammy drifted off and slept throughout the night. Tucker cautiously slipped out the back exit canvassing the alleyway shops for jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers.
Early the following morning, Tammy and Tucker wove through the crowded sidewalk in floppy hats and dark sunglasses. Four-blocks North they caught a cab to an exclusive Bailey Town residence’s private helicopter pad and were swooped away to Miami’s Weston Hospital. Tammy’s wound was disinfected, cauterized, and stitched up while receiving a constant drip of IV antibiotics. Five hours later they landed atop the St. Regis Resort in Bal Harbour, Florida.
______________________
In the meantime, T.D. munched down on a coney with kraut and mustard, while Harold’s coleslaw and cheese dog dripped mayonnaise in a stream down his shirt at the Weiner World Café in Orlando. Alive and well for the moment, they had escaped Harold’s bombed house.
Unbeknownst to Tucker, the Jalisco (CJNG) cartel had tracked Farnsworth to the Fontainebleau Miami Beach, just five miles South of Bal Harbour. Angel Sanchez, second in charge to cartel leader Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes (El Mencho), had issued a kill order for Farnsworth.
Tucker’s hotel phone rang unexpectedly. Figuring it had to be the front desk, he answered.
“Tucker, this is Farnsworth.” Speaking in his harsh, distinct voice. “Don’t hang up. I don’t have time to explain, but you need to get out of the St. Regis, pronto. And Tucker, I swear, I’m not the bad guy. It’s Niall’s army trying to kill you . . . not mine, or Jalisco’s.”
 Recognized |
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One more chapter . . . I hope, and think. Thanks for hanging with me!
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