The Coterie-Declaration

Chapter One

Assaulted by a third wave of fear, I stop breathing. My nerves, raw and rigid, shove my brain into high alert. This is not who I am. I don't act this way. Stop. Breathe. Relax. This job is no different than all the rest.

I never get nervous when I'm doing the one thing I was born to do, the thing I do better than anyone. On a scale of one to ten, I'm a twenty. Superior is what I am. In my world, I'm lord and master, and everything and everyone becomes subject to my will.

Without warning my breathing plummets, leaving me lightheaded. I can't turn back now. It is, as they say, time to put up or shut up. Though I can't pinpoint why, this job is more significant than I let myself believe. The image of my life teeter-tottering on the crest of the abyss quivers before me.

I'm not your average goofy-looking high school geek who breaks into a teacher's computer and downloads the science final for wealthy cheats who'll pay four hundred dollars apiece to get hold of the answers. Nor am I the intelligent looking semi-smart nerd who wears thick black-rimmed glasses that are all the rage these days. I'm better. At the sound of the starter's gun, my IQ leaves theirs jammed in the starting blocks as I celebrate victory at the finish line. It's not a crime to be stinking smart. Deal with it.

It occurs to me that the person reading or listening to these words has probably taken offense with me. My words have a cayenne pepper bite to them. I admit that. Those who know me would say my arrogance is nauseating, concurring this air of self-importance will ultimately lead to my downfall. What do they know? People are quick to judge what they don't understand, what they fear. When you're the best at what you do, you can afford to have my swagger.

Now we get to the pertinent question. What makes me so frikkin phenomenal?

I'm glad you asked.

In exactly 00:10:22, I am going to steal forty-five million dollars from one of the richest men in Durham, North Carolina. How, you ask? I'm going to sit on this park bench and literally use one finger to make it happen. When I'm finished with this job I'll walk to the garage where I've parked my Ducati 1299 Panigale S. Then I'll casually ride northeast on the 147, hop on the 501, then speed home on I85. The Chinese food I ordered will be on the table at home waiting for me. I'll grab a dish from the cupboard, eat leisurely, do some reading, go to bed, and sleep like a baby.

Before you become one of those who judges too quickly, you should understand I don't steal money for the sake of stealing. Let me qualify that statement. I love stealing. The rush I get from hacking into a bank and relieving the account holder of everything but one dollar, my signature, is indescribable. It's never about the money. Getting rich at other people's expense isn't what drives me. My motives are more honorable.

Every dollar I steal goes into one of four accounts. The first account is what I call the Offshore Holding Account. It's made up of thirty individual accounts. These monies are stored at financial institutions in the countries that understand the need for confidentiality. I have accounts in Belize, the Bahamas, Switzerland, the Cook Islands, and of course in the Caymans.

The banks, account numbers, access codes, etc. are different for each account. Some contain more than twenty-four numerals. I never commit to writing the information down, I never store it on a zip drive. Saving those details in the cloud is equally ridiculous. When it comes to storing information, total security is a farce. I store my financial information in the only safe place in the world: my mind.

The second account is a General Account. Attached to this account are the typical savings and checking facilities. I don't keep more than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in this account. There's no need. I can always get more.

My favorite account is the Worthy Account. Monies filtered into this account are used to help those in need. For example, a wife whose husband left her so he can relive his youth with a younger woman will feel my generosity. He will suffer my outrage. Money is put into a separate account to which her husband has no access. Next, I empty his account, leaving him a single dollar. This action forces him to face the ramifications of an un-holstered libido.

Recently, a policewoman in our city died from GSWs received in a fierce battle with members of a drug gang. She left behind a husband and three children. I've set up accounts for the eight-year-old boy and twin girls aged six, purchased a significant quantity of life insurance for them, and increased the dad's account balance. Money will never be a worry for him.

When natural disasters occur, I act quickly. From my fourth account, the Charitable Account, I send out anonymous cashier's checks to the grieving and injured parties. In this account, the balance sits somewhere around fifty million. When I need more money I steal it.

I refuse to label myself a modern-day Robin Hood because the truth is I'm a rich kid with too much time on his hands. Stealing from others fills a void in me. When I see injustice, something inside me rises up and I am duty-bound to set those wrongs right.

I pride myself in being an ardent follower of the first half of the Golden Rule. Do unto others. That's my motto. The others that I do unto are not the do-gooders, those law-abiding citizens who work hard to provide for their families and toil to make a difference in this world. It's the unscrupulous Wall Street types attracting innocent investors, the dishonest lawyer, the immoral politician, the drug dealer…the list is endless. These are the beneficiaries of my well-honed craft. To tell you how much I've appropriated from others over the years would be bragging, and as I intimated before, I have my own moral code.

There is another account that I haven't mentioned, mostly because I don't consider it important. It's my trust fund. It won't officially be mine until I turn twenty-five. It contains a lot of money, money earned by my rich father. The thing is I don't want or need his filthy money. I have access to the world's supply of cash.

There's only 00:09:37 left. I glance at the time on my tablet. It's an obligatory move. The circadian rhythm in my body is always within a sixteenth second of JILA, the Joint Institute for Laboratory Astrophysics' strontium atomic clock.

Today, I steal intermittent peeks.

Two so far.

These glances are not for verification. I need to watch the timer count down. The tranquility of this moment cannot be rushed. It is but a prequel to the euphoria that will follow in a few moments when I execute my three hundredth hack.

00:08:24.

Blood cascades through my veins like a bullet train at top speed. The lightheadedness has vanished. Per usual, my senses are intensified. I tune into the least inconspicuous sound, the faintest aroma, and can feel the slightest touch. A half-mile away, at the main entrance of the park, I catch the whiff of hot dogs from a vendor's stand. The sputtering of a car engine three blocks away triggers reverberations in my ears, making the vehicle sound close by. The remnants of a floating dandelions blow across the back of my neck. My heart derails for a split moment as the feathered tentacles scrape across the skin just above my shirt collar.

Unintentionally, I lurch forward.

I steal a quick look around me to assure myself I have attracted no undue attention. The park is full of adults, children, and pets enjoying the vestiges of a warm summer afternoon. They're self-absorbed and take no notice of the strange teenager sitting on the bench. They could be making a conscious choice not to stare. Either way, I'm glad.

I realize at this juncture I need to offer, if not an apology, an explanation. When I spoke earlier about my lack of nervousness, I may have given the impression of a guy who is calm, cool, collected, conversant, and comfortable in his own skin. This is not the impression most people get when encountering me. I have a slight problem hardly worth mentioning. Candor is not my strong suit, so you might as well know the truth. I suffer from anthropophobia.

If you're a person who does his or her fact finding by scouring Wikipedia, you'll read, anthropophobia is an extreme, pathological form of shyness and timidity. Being a form of social phobia, it may manifest as fears of blushing or meeting others' gaze, awkwardness, and uneasiness when appearing in society, etc.

Okay? Enough said.

Chapter Two

St. Paul's Cathedral sits cattycorner to Garibaldi Park, a stone's throw southwest. Its magnificent stone edifice, stained-glass windows, and towers, the outgrowth of Old World architecture, makes it a 'must see' for tourists. Outside on the sidewalk is a charming booth where tickets can be purchased at eight dollars apiece for adults. Children under ten pay half price.

I plug my ears seconds before St. Paul's offensive bell sounds out the six sepulchral tones. The overwhelming sound makes my fingers ineffective. Not too long after, another wave of people floods into the park. They stroll along the asphalt path, taking in the pleasant sights, glad for the weekend's arrival. Others run with determination around the dawdlers, eager to preserve peak fitness regiments. Long thin anemic snakes slither from their ears. Most are listening to iPhones, droids, or dated MP3 players. It is difficult to figure if it's music, news, sports, or an audio book of the latest New York Times bestseller that fills their minds.

A young couple walks side by side, their fingers wormed together. He carries a humble straw basket worn by years of use. She holds the blanket as they prepare to enjoy a semi-intimate picnic. Their love for one another is undisguised. Their bodies are so close together that for a moment I see a single person. I blush when they kiss shamelessly in the midst of the vast crowd.

I've fantasized about being in love, but I have no expectation. I spend ninety-seven percent of my time indoors, rarely leaving The Fortress, which makes relationships difficult. Love is something I've never known and I don't expect to be the recipient or the giver of love. I adhere to the widely known colloquialism, It is what it is.

Children run in crooked lines as if drunk while on-looking parents cherish their few remaining moments of freedom before the evening challenges of mealtimes, baths, stories, and bedtimes ensue.

A continuous shiver runs through me as person after person passes. My body senses the discomfort of a racing heartbeat and a rising blood pressure. A brown paper bag sits at my side in case I hyperventilate. To use it would draw unnecessary attention. I can't afford to stand out, not today, not now. Nausea attacks my stomach. I fight the urge. Anytime I don't vomit is a win

I keep my gaze directed to the ground, refusing to make eye contact. The panic in my chest is just as potent. Years ago the doctor prescribed medication for my condition. Coincidentally, I stopped taking it years ago. I'd rather live in fear of others than in an anesthetized existence. An inkling of hope still exists in my heart that one day I'll overcome this fear of my own accord. Today's episode is the worst I've experienced in a long time.

At home when I hack, I'll sit against the backboard of my soft king-sized bed to carry out the deed. If I'm going to make money, I might as well be comfortable. Less than a handful of hacks have required me to leave The Fortress. This happened in the early days. I've since built my own wireless interloper. It allows me to spoof any firewall or penetrate the many unidirectional security systems out there…well, almost all of them. Today's intrusion requires my unit to be within proximity of the bank.

I check the signal. It's good. The reason I'm in the park, a place I'd never visit in a thousand lifetimes, is because of the shielding it provides. Otherwise, I might as well erect a billboard outside the bank's doors and inform them of my intentions and whereabouts. Mixed in with a jumble of people milling around the park is low-key, and unobtrusive. If a problem occurs, this unsuspecting crowd will aid in my escape.

I glance quickly at my left hand. I created a sheepskin glove to resemble a large polar bear's paw, complete with fake claws glued to the end of the manufactured glove. I then glued the glove to the back of my tablet. My hand fits snug into the mitt, and with a piece of Velcro, I secure the glove to my wrist. The glove is not going anywhere from my hand, and the tablet is not going anywhere from the glove. People think I'm weird anyway, and so when they take a look at the large claw, they freak out and give me a wide berth. If they knew just how good I am with this contraption…I have the power to change their lives.

The tablet I carry is not quite top-of-the-line, but with the modifications I've made I can do or get anything in the world without having to leave The Fortress.

I steal another look. The countdown on the screen and the time in my head are exact. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…two, one.

I tap my index finger against the screen.

Seconds after I hack into the Durham Federal Credit Union, myriads of accounts with the holder's name and other personal information appear. I slide them out of the way.

Now a smaller white rectangle with the phrase continue transfers appears. I'm prepared to tap the screen when my body is suddenly covered with millions of goosebumps.

I can't pinpoint what, but something's wrong.

A woman in her mid-forties strolls by me. She bends over to retie a shoe whose shoelace isn't undone. I lower the pad and the screen goes dark. My heart rate, which has already been on high alert, goes to DEFCON 1. The next moment, my world crashes.

A man runs by the woman and bumps into her.

Was it an accident? I'm not sure.

The woman falls into me. I'm overcome with anxiety, dread…the whole gamut. Paranoia slithers through my body. A thousand snakes start to recoil. My pulse surges. I don't need to look in a mirror to know my cheeks are flush. Sweat creates an icy casing underneath my clothes.

The man continues on, unaware, while the woman pulls back from me, her face teeming with anger and embarrassment.

Jerk.

She turns to me. I keep my head down, refusing to make eye contact or acknowledge her profuse apologies. If things couldn't get any worse, this strange woman sits on the bench next to me. Every nerve in my body awaits orders. I don't have the luxury of crumbling into pieces. Not here.

Her reflective green running shorts and similar colored shoes tell me she's a health buff. I watch as she checks her pedometer and pulse while taking small sips of spring water from a bottle she has tucked into a tiny pack attached to her waist. I will hold my breath until she leaves or I pass out on the bench, whichever comes first. A minute later she leaps from the seat and launches into a medium sprint. A rushing wind leaves my mouth as I exhale.

This last wave of fear has incapacitated me. I have no choice now but to abort my plan.

I grab the brown paper bag, my lifeline, and breathe into it. Each breath I take feels like the last. Even in the midst of riotous park noise, the abrasive crinkling of the bag draws many looks my way. The exercise isn't working. I need to get to my island now,

A Salvo Island was created in my mind eleven years ago. In a room of children seated at small tables, I sat with my hands in my lap. Many of the children were enticed by the numerous games and activities on display and delved into finger painting, connecting puzzles. Others colored or built Lego monsters and castles. Too childish for my tastes.

I looked up and saw her coming from across the room. She didn't wear a white coat, which pleased me. For days, I'd been examined and interrogated by physicians. She stood beside me. I didn't see what was in her hand.

Hi Dakarai, she said, her voice soft and warm.

Right away I wanted to throw my arms around her and never let go, but I can't explain why I knew this wasn't appropriate behavior. She seemed to read my mind.

Dakarai, expressing your feelings is a natural part of life. If you hold them in, one day you'll pop like a balloon.

She stooped, smiled and I watched brown bangs drift across her auburn face. When she looked into my eyes something inside me broke. It wasn't a bone or anything. It's then I could feel a snap. I had no clue what to do.

Dakarai?

This time I couldn't look at her. To do so would mean losing something of myself, and I needed every part of me to survive. I responded by closing my eyes as tight as I could, blocking her and the world from unsettling me. That's when I heard something being placed on the table. I kept my eyes closed for a long time. The suspense was killing me.

When I couldn't stand it any longer I opened them. I'm not sure what I was expecting to see. Certainly not a framed picture of an island surrounded by a deep blue ocean.

That's A Salvo Island, she said.

For weeks I'd been trying to form words, but no sound came from my lips. Before I could tell her I wasn't interested in some stupid island, she took my hand and placed it on the picture.

A Salvo Island is your own private island. When you want to be by yourself to think about things or maybe when you're afraid, you can go to the island. There are some really cool things on the island.

I looked up at her. Like what, I wanted to ask.

This is your island, Dakarai, she went on. There's nothing to be afraid of on your island. It's a safe place. Take another look. Do you see it?

See what?

The doctor gently placed my hand on the picture again. Look harder, Dakarai, and you'll see what I'm talking about.

I stared again at the picture, waiting for something magical to happen. The room spun around me until the blur was so great I couldn't distinguish anything or anyone. My eyes closed from fear. When I opened them again I felt the warm sand pushing through the crevices between my toes.

A Salvo Island.

As I sit on the bench shaking from a cataclysmic episode of my phobia, A Salvo Island looms near.

Chapter Three

From A Salvo Island, I drift back to the present interrupted by two voices. An average-looking man with round-rim glasses and short brown hair coos to a baby. The infant responds with something unintelligible.

That's exactly what I said, the man says. The infant reaches up and smudges his lenses.

My breathing normalizes.

When I have time to prepare for a phobia blowout I use two techniques to get my anxiety under control. Deep lung-filled breathing exercises and mental reinforcement. In the latter, I condition myself to believe I can overcome this intrusion to my personal space. When these and other tips don't work I use my last resort and escape to my island. I always find safety there.

I have been computer savvy since I exited the womb. My first hack occurred at the age of seven when I wanted to find out the answers to the questions my tutor gave me. The room was comprised of a chalkboard, bookshelves, and two desks facing each other. He read while waiting for me to finish my quiz. I hacked into his computer and located the answers.

When he discovered what I'd done he let go a hearty laugh. This made me want to learn. When I reached eleven I'd read every book on the shelves from cover to cover. By thirteen I'd taken up the hacking/stealing craft with serious-mindedness. Now sixteen, I'm an authority on a ton of subjects and my hacking skills I've honed to perfection.

A haze of reddish orange fills the teatime sky as the sun escapes and the somber dusk encroaches. Bodies leave the park in droves, eager to get home before the dark swallows them. With decreasing numbers of people, I'm naked out in the open. Earlier, I scouted the grounds and discovered a secluded area underneath a grove of oaks. I head there now and have my choice of empty benches. The lady in the mustard green shorts passes by. This time she doesn't acknowledge me. Her body glistens with sweat. I wonder if she's training for the 10k run coming up next week.

At one of the five water fountains in the park, I push on the handle, letting the water run aimlessly. Thirst is far from me. I'm looking for anomalies anything that's out of the ordinary: a black van parked on the street, two or more men in suits congregating, someone holding a visible communication device, or a large, mean-looking man walking with an equally vicious Alsatian trademark of a tail. I see nothing.

The final flare of the sun leaves the sky and I glimpse distorted images of my reflection as the water swirls down the weathered chrome drain. It's the first time I've looked at myself in weeks. I'm not frightened by what I see.

It is what it is.

Once I'm sure the coast is clear, I choose a bench that allows me the clearest view of the city block. Durham is a busy city made up of tall and short buildings. During early evening, heavy traffic floods the streets. Horns sound as buses, cabs, and cars jockey for position in lengthy queues. Commuters run in haste, hopeful to make the next train. I sit, gazing, interested in the western side of the street. That's where the headquarters of DCFU is located. My head swivels three hundred and sixty degrees to view my surroundings.

I take my millionth deep breath.

In almost three hundred hacks, I've failed one time. For fun, I broke into the Department of Transportation. I turned the lights green for my motorbike ride home, nothing terribly horrible. Several days later, however, several FBI agents showed up at The Fortress, then interrogated and arrested me. At my trial the judge sentenced me to six months' probation. I have three months remaining. I've learned a lot since the early days of hacking, and now that I've found my equilibrium again, this should be a piece of cake.

As I said, I have no problem being termed as arrogant. One reason for my overconfidence and minimal regard for cyber security stems from a program I wrote that obliterates my electronic trail. Sometimes, when the security guardians of information seek my whereabouts, I flirt and leave visible footprints for them to follow. These steps lead them on a whirlwind journey of servers around the world, culminating at the unit they're using to track me. Because of my ingenious aptitude for remaining invisible, I've earned the nickname Casper.

I raise my left hand to get a clearer view of my tablet. The illumination on the screen lowers at twilight. The desktop background is black