John F. Banas

Someone once said that you must write what you know. With twenty years of Information Technology experience and a love for thrillers, it's only natural that my manuscript revolves around computers viruses, corporate power struggles, betrayal, intrigue and, oh yes -- a suspicious death thrown in here and there.

Essentially my characters are normal, flawed, every-day people placed in impossible situations, then called upon to be better then they ever thought they could be to survive. In fact, I've got plans for a series of Information Technology-related stories dealing with some of this generation's most vexing issues.

My heroes have always been writers: travel agents for adventure in far-off wonderful and sometimes scary places. People like Jack London, Tom Clancy, David Baldacci, and last but not least, Michael Crichton. I grew up on Remo Williams -- The Destroyer, the Hardy Boys (and I'm not afraid to admit it), and the first mainstream novel I ever read was Crichton's The Andromeda Strain. For me, creative writing is a great alternative to a midlife crisis; I can screw up the lives of fictitious people and escape the rat race for a few hours.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the Prologue to my first novel, Blended Threat, and would love to hear your opinion of it. You can email me at banas@metrofiction.com

Prologue

Thursday Night, 11:49 PM

It looked just like any other USB memory key, but Rohit Dhole had witnessed its wrath.  

He took a deep breath.  It didn't work.  He was so scared that he couldn't stop shaking, and it wasn't the cold night rain or wind that was making him do that.  It seemed as though the whole rest of his life was contingent on this hand off.  Joy, seeing his family again, future plans--all were on hold until it was certain he had survived the night.

Such huge consequences from such a little piece of plastic and metal.    

He had watched as the contents of the little device in his pocket laid waste to no less then three unused company laptops.  The only way to stop it was to literally pull the plug.  And what an effort it took to restore that first laptop!  As for the other two, well, they just took too long and they languished now, diseased and prostrate in the hatch area of his Civic.  

It would be necessary to get rid of the laptops before he was caught with them.  The police would have no trouble tracing them back to him.  That would be a disaster; failure so far above and beyond what his father had predicted back in Hyderabad.  He would have disgraced his family and his father's name, for now and all time.  

He needed to get rid of them, but of course he couldn't before the hand off.  

He tried to think of the positive things that would be achieved by getting rid of this cursed device.  The money, praise the gods, the money!  The money that would support his family in royal style for years, his reputation restored, and a little payback directed toward Mr. Jack Morgan, the unreasonable tyrant who managed the software team Rohit was forced to join, against his wishes.  

Maybe he'd start his own software company in Mumbai, or Hyderabad.  Yes, indeed.  Maybe.  

If he survived the hand off.  

No, those plans would have to wait.  They'd have to wait until after he was sure he had escaped with the money.  And the only way to do that was to get rid of this memory key!  

It felt heavy in his trouser pocket now; safe and dry as a torrential Midwestern spring rainstorm assaulted him, his car and the parking lot. 

Rohit glanced over his shoulder and found his Civic still parked alone, across the expanse of asphalt under the only functioning light.  

It seemed so far away.  

He tore his eyes away from his only sanctuary.  It was becoming difficult to walk.  Behind him--safety, in front of him, who could tell?  Whatever lay in wait for him, it wasn't going to be--what did the Americans call it?  A cake walk?  

Barely able to see from the rain splattered on his spectacles, Rohit moved forward as fast as his leg muscles would allow him to.  He glanced around again, trying to convince himself that he was alone.  

But he couldn't be alone, now could he?  If he was meeting someone here, then it stood to reason that they were already here or at least watching him from a place not too far away.  

His body burst in to a shiver that nearly shook the specs from his nose.  

Why couldn't the hand-off be in a well-lit shopping mall or something with other people around?  They could be lost in the crowd of American teenagers, milling around wasting their youth at the clothing stores or Internet cafes or cellular phone stores.  Why such a lonely place, in the middle of the night?  

And why this night?  The whole software team was supposed to be at a restaurant celebrating the new software release's code completion, and he'd be missed for sure.  The other offshore people would be back at the flat by now, curious as to his whereabouts.

Those questions would be difficult to answer.  

But his instructions were clear.  If he wanted the money, he had to meet his contact inside the tunnel of the West Chicago commuter train station, and make damn sure he brought the code.  

He took another deep breath and descended the sodden stairs to the opening in the concrete wall, carefully avoiding puddles on the steps and landing.

Once Rohit got down in the tunnel proper, he took out a damp cloth from his jacket and wiped his spectacles clear.  The tunnel under the tracks led to the west-bound commuter platform and it was long, dark and cold.  The walls were filled with cracks seeping moisture, and his footsteps echoed off the arched ceiling.  He would have pulled his collar up if it weren't already soaked from his jaunt across the parking lot.

He paused and listened, straining to hear anything that might indicate he wasn't alone.  Not that he would be for long, but a healthy dose of paranoia was always a good thing, especially when you had the power to bring an Iconic American company to its knees.

Rohit shivered again.  The light hanging from the far wall was barely a dim yellow, and it marked the split in the tunnel.  To the right, was a long ramp, the left side had steps, and both paths led to the platform on the other side of the commuter tracks.  If it came to it, he could take the ramp on the right faster then the steps.  He'd end up on the wrong side of the tracks from the parking lot, but he could always cross them, jump up on the station platform and run back to his car.  

Sure, that wouldn't be so hard.  He was glad he had done his homework.  He'd checked out the Metra Rail website from work, and knew the schedule.  The next commuter train wasn't due for nearly fifty minutes, so his exit wouldn't be cut off by a train unloading at the station if he had to head to the other platform.  The freight trains almost never ran on the passenger tracks, so if he had to run to the other side of the tunnel, he could double back while his pursuers were still in down here or on the ramp.  

He thrust his hand in to a jacket pocket where he kept his car keys.  He suddenly wished he hadn't locked the car.  

Rohit shivered again.  He was being paranoid.  This was just a business transaction.  Nothing more.  

It's just that these people liked to threaten him every time he spoke to their digitized voices, barely recognizable as human over the phone.  He couldn't even tell if he was talking to a male of female--that's how well the electronic devices they used disguised their voice.  

They knew where his Mother and Father lived with the rest of his siblings and grandparents.  They knew just how to get to them.  They knew where he lived, and where his roommate worked.  They knew, and they threatened him with the end of his roommate and family too.  It wasn't like that in the beginning.  It was just another business deal.  So calm, so professional.       

No, paranoia was a defense mechanism now, and he welcomed it freely.

A particularly loud thunder clap struck, and he felt the concussion even in the tunnel.  Somewhere above, a car alarm went off.  As he moved along the wall, he felt the tiny rectangular plastic-clad device in his pocket press against his thigh.  That little device that cost forty American dollars could be his ticket to success, or his death warrant.  He wondered for the first time if his contact and the "others" he spoke about would be satisfied.

His cell phone beeped again, and he reached inside his jacket pocket to get it.  Without even opening it, he could tell that his battery was far too low.  The clock told him his contact was late.  Very late.

That only meant trouble.  He was going to be found out for sure.  The police probably had already picked up whoever he was to meet tonight, and the trail would lead to him.  

The thought of being locked up in an American prison sent his body into more shivering convulsions, and he zipped up his jacket, drawing it tight right up to his neck despite the cold dampness of the material.  

In the distance, he could hear a freight train lumbering up the grade from the east.  It sounded so far away, but the acoustics in the tunnel at night seemed to amplify everything.  

He shivered again.  In a few moments--he had no way of knowing how many--he would lose one escape path.  If he couldn't double back to the parking lot from the tunnel, he'd have to try it from the other platform.  He'd have to do what he planned out before; run over the commuter train tracks, but if that path was blocked, the freight train would prevent him from running the other way.  

He'd be trapped!

Rohit shook his head to banish the worry as a particularly brilliant flash of lightening echoed its way down into the tunnel, sending shadows dancing wildly across the walls and ceiling.  Even the dim light at the far end of the tunnel winked on and off.  

He started counting the seconds until the thunder clap, but lost count when he heard the footsteps.  The sound riveted his eyes to the far end of the tunnel.

Oh why oh why hadn't he reported this to the police?  They knew his name; he knew nothing of them.  Just digitized voices on his cell phone, a few emails at work.  

Even if they let him leave with the money tonight, they could turn him in at a moment's notice if they wanted to.  

He'd have to get rid of those laptops!

A shadow angled out against the back wall of the tunnel, and over the hammering rain, Rohit could hear the distinct sound of dress shoes on cement.  It could be a straggling commuter from the last train.  It could be.  But the last train was just over twenty minutes ago, and the westbound platform--where the foot steps were coming from--had no shelter.  You'd have to be daft to stand out in the rain for that long.  

No, his contact was apparently here.   

Every muscle in his body ached from the tension, and he began to feel throbbing in his temples.  It was no use; he couldn't stop himself from shaking.  

He quickly put the phone back in his jacket pocket.  

At the far end, a figure much shorter then he expected showed itself, right under the wall light.  The figure was back lit from the already dim light at that end, and Rohit couldn't see the features of the person's face.  

Besides, the person wore a hooded garment that Rohit thought might be a sweatshirt, and you couldn't miss the Nike Swoosh.  In fact, he seemed to be confronted by a person in a running suit.  That wasn't good news.  If this guy was a runner, escape would be improbable.  

He shivered once again.

"Hello?"

Rohit had tried to keep his voice steady, but it cracked at all the wrong moments.  Not that it mattered; the person remained standing under the light, hands in the pockets of the sweatshirt.  

"Rohit Dhole!  So, we finally meet."

He whipped his head around to find the closest end of the tunnel blocked by someone in a long trench coat and ski hat pulled down nearly to his eyes.  He didn't recognize the person--it was too dark to get a good look at him anyway, but he could tell it was a man.  A tall man, too.    

He glanced back at the person at the far end of the tunnel.  That person hadn't moved, and it was starting to freak Rohit.  He swallowed hard.

"Who are you?"

"Not important.  Did you bring it?"

"You mean the code?"

"No, you idiot, the Hope Diamond!  Of course I meant the code!"

Rohit glanced back at the person at the other end of the tunnel.  They hadn't moved a millimeter.    

"I'm sorry," he said, still watching the figure under the light.  

"Well?  Did you bring it?"

Rohit turned back to the man at the parking lot end of the tunnel.  He was cut off, and he'd never even considered this possibility.  He grasped the device in his pocket.  

"Yes, I have it here in my pocket."

"And it is functional?"

He moved cautiously closer to the man.  He squinted but at that moment, a flash of lightening caused his pupils to retreat in agony.  

"Well, God damn it?"

Rohit was starting to sweat despite the chill.  "Yes, yes, it is fully tested."

Rohit suddenly decided he didn't want them to know that instead of a few bugs, he created the most malicious code yet released into the wild.  Now he had to figure out a way to complete his sentence, because if he didn't, it would raise suspicions.

"Well, what is it?"

"I think you'll be very satisfied."

The figure in the ski cap just nodded.  

"Um, how do we do this?"  There was no stopping his voice from cracking now, and a bead of sweat fell into his eye, causing him to blink in pain.  

"Easy.  You give me the code, and when I leave, you're free to go to your car."

"And--and my money?"

"It'll be on the hood of your car.  Oh, sorry, you would call it the bonnet."

Rohit glanced back at the figure at the end of the tunnel.  Had they moved closer?  His eyes were still reeling from the lightening flash.  

"W-well that's good, because I left the code in my car."

From the opening in the tunnel, the tall man shook his head.

"Now why would you want me to distrust you now, Rohit?"

"What to you mean?  I left the code in the car, so we might as well go get it together.  I have it hidden out of the way, so nobody will see it and steal it."

"What's in your pocket, Rohit?"

"Huh?  Why do you ask?"

"You keep fondling what's ever in there."

This brought a snort from the other person, who seemed to be even closer.  It didn't sound male of female, just a sort of quick throat noise.

"N-nothing.  I don't have anything in here, see?"

Rohit had pushed the memory key past his wrist and into the sleeve of his shirt.  He then pulled his pocket inside out to show the tall man.  

"I'd rather conduct business here, away from prying eyes," said the tall man.  

Rohit was trying to smile, his head whipping back and forth from one person to the other.  "Ha ha, ah, who would be out on a night like this to see us?"

"The police."

Nearby, Rohit could hear the railroad gates activate.  Bells on the gates started ringing and the horn of a freight train ripped through the night.  The train was close, very close.    

"Well?  How 'bout it, Rohit?  Do you want your money?"

"Um, h-how do I know I can trust you?"

The man stepped into the tunnel, but he was still in the shadows.  Another lightening flash made Rohit's vision worse.  

"You'll just have to.  The way I see it, we're holding all the cards."

Rohit squinted into the tunnel opening, but could see very little.  He thought he heard breathing behind him, but didn't dare glance backwards.  He couldn't see--his eyes hadn't adjusted yet.  

He was sure that the person at the other end had moved closer.  When he refocused back on the tall man, he was finally able to see that the guy had pulled down his ski cap into a ski mask, totally hiding his face.  He loomed larger, a tall man for sure, but he was moving toward Rohit, and quickly too.  

Rohit started to back up.

"Why can't we just go out to my car together?  Then I can take the money at the same time I hand you the code?"

"That won't do, Rohit.  Don't be difficult now.  I'm getting impatient!"

There was only one thing to do, and he had to do it quickly.  This was no good; he had to run and reengage under better circumstances.  If they wanted the code that badly, they would contact him again, and he could dictate his own terms under which he'd hand off the code.  

He'd have to get by that shorter person, but he was a lot taller then the short person; he could run and kick and just use the force of a speedy collision to knock the other person down.  The other person was pretty short.  He'd be able to do this.  

He was sure of it.  Yes--he could do it.  

Except his heart was beating faster then he ever remembered.  He suddenly needed to use the water closet, and quickly.  He couldn't get sick now, he just had to turn and knock the short person down and run, run like hell!

"Don't do anything rash, Dhole.  You'll get your money.  You need to freeze and right now!"

Just as the man in the ski mask yelled, Rohit turned and sprinted.  But it didn't last long; he ran right into the short person who punched him in the stomach so hard that it nearly knocked the wind out of him.  

Even this close to the short one, Rohit could not see the face.  

But he didn't worry himself about that for long--something was wrong.  He felt odd, and his legs, no, the entire bottom half of his body felt weird.

He looked down.  The short person had never removed his hands.  Odd, it felt like...just then the short person jabbed him again, and Rohit lost all ability to stand.  

As he fell backwards, he saw it.  Not very well, but he saw it because at that exact moment, the moment he began to fall backwards, a flash of lightening strobed the tunnel, and Rohit got a glimpse of a very big, very ugly knife.

And part of Rohitís shirt was attached to the blade.  

The pain hit him quickly after that.  Even before his head bounced off the puddle stained concrete floor of the tunnel, he felt the beginnings of a searing pain in his gut.  

He began to grasp at his belly, but by then his head had crashed into the floor, sending stars across his field of vision.  

He'd been stabbed.  Double crossed.  And he couldn't run anymore.  

Adrenalin is a funny thing.  As messed up as he was, he was able to open his eyes rather soon after hitting the floor.  What he saw didn't make him feel any better.  

The two others were standing over him.  The short person was fumbling in Rohit's pockets.  

"Look in his palm or his sleeve maybe," the tall man prodded.

Rohit rolled his hand into a ball, tying to get at the memory key that had slipped further up his sleeve now.  If he could just get it and toss it into a puddle, he could get even.

But it was too late; the shorter one grabbed his arm and did something to his wrist, something that caused great pain and his fist flew open.  His arm was patted down, and within seconds, the shorter one found the device and pulled it out and held it up victoriously for the tall man.  

The tall man nodded, then stooped down.  His face drew very near.  

"That was very stupid my friend.  But thank you.  You just saved us a few hundred grand."

The tall man was handed that little stick of plastic and metal that could fell whole networks.  Rohit watched as the tall man rubbed it, flipped it over, then pocketed it.  It was like watching his life's work drain down the gutter.  

Then they were gone, their footsteps leaving in opposite directions and eventually fading into the roar of the locomotive pulling past not a hundred meters away.  

Rohit could feel the rumbling through the concrete on the back of his head.  Water from the puddle had splashed down the back of his collar, cold on his neck.  It helped him stay awake.  

He fumbled with his jacket, and found his cell phone.  It beeped when he took it out and held it up to his face.  

Low battery.  No signal.

He had to move.  He wasn't that far from the opening.  He'd have to crawl.  

It was the only way he was going to stay alive.  He'd be going to jail, but he would live.  What was his father going to say?  He had been right all along.  Rohit was a failure.  

But failure was not an option now.  That's what Jack Morgan always said.  Failure is not allowed.  

He struggled to swing his legs over.  Managing to scoot sideways, he reached out for the wall.  It took a few attempts, but Rohit was able to pull himself up using a crack in the wall to a sitting position.  

Too weak to stand, he'd have to scoot on his rear end to the opening.  He keyed 9-1-1 into the phone as he moved, despite the pain in his wrist.  Then all he'd have to do when he got enough bars for a call would be to hit send.  

He could make it.  He could!  Moving slowly and with great pain, he was nearing the opening in the tunnel.  He'd get a signal for sure now!

He was stabbed.  Robbery attempt, that's it!  That's what he'd tell the police!  Then he would just go about his business, getting well in the hospital.  No need to mention the code or exchange or anything like that.  

Just a simple mugging.  

Of course, he'd have to come up with a good explanation of why he was in the tunnel at that time, and those two would get away with it.  But he could say he was waiting for the last train, right?

He could make it, he could.  Just a few more feet.  

The freight train finally passed into the night.  The bells from the railroad crossing gates rang a bit longer then silenced themselves.  He was about three feet away from the opening.

But he looked down and thumbed the button on the side of his phone.  Three bars!  Three!  It was time.  

He pushed his thumb as hard as he could into the send button.  His phone was connecting.  

Rohit brought it up to his ear and steadied himself with his other hand against the wall.  He would not need to move any further.  

That was good, because he couldn't catch his breath.  He coughed, and he spit up a bit of blood on his phone.  

It didn't matter; he could hear the phone ringing on the other end.  He was going to make it.  

"Emergency operat--"

There was suddenly no sound.  He tried to say hello, but a pink frothy goo leaked out of his lungs and up into his throat and out of his mouth.  

He couldn't talk.  

No matter.  They could triangulate and look for his signal.  It would take longer.  He hoped he had a little longer.  It was only a knife wound.  He could still feel the dampness in his legs; they must have missed his spine.

He looked at that phone.  What he saw made the blood he still had in him run cold.  

The phone had died.  No signal.  No battery.  

No!  Not now!  He fumbled with the on button, mashing it in again and again, but the phone would simply not turn on.  

He dropped it and it landed in a stream of water running down from the stairs.  He'd have to make it to the car.  He'd have to find someone out there, at this hour to help him.  

As he crawled toward the stairs, his ears detected what sounded like a jet engine, spooling up for take off.  That was crazy; the DuPage Airport was a long way from here.  His father's face flashed in front of him, and he was not pleased.  

The jet sound got louder, and Rohit couldn't see out of the corners of his eyes.  It was that jet sound through; where had he heard it before?  

Yes, yes!  The operation he had to remove his appendix--right before they put him under, he heard a jet sound.

He didn't feel so cold any more.  

He looked up toward the rain.  All he got was a blinding flash of light and a clap of thunder so loud and violent that Rohit felt the concussion rattle the concrete.    

All that money, gone.  Stolen from him.  His father would not be pleased one bit.

A jet sound.  

He was going home.