3 times soul stealing

Chapter 8

A sudden pressure pressed on my chest. Suddenly, my mind cleared. They were using the entire city as leverage. This was a declaration of terror. The G8. That was their target. This summit of giants was scheduled for the 10th—nine days to go. The finance ministers of the world's major industrial powers were coming to San Francisco for a meeting.

"Does anyone else know about this?" I asked.

“Just you and me,” Cindy said. “And of course, the letter writers.” “They want you to publish their bluff in the paper,” I said. “They want to use the Chronicle as their makeshift stage.” I imagined all sorts of possible scenarios. “Trajo will definitely make a big fuss when he finds out.”

"The countdown has begun. Every three days. Today is Tuesday. I know I have to report this email to my superiors, but once I do, I know the case will no longer be my responsibility. I have to do something ahead of time."

“We can try to find where the letter came from,” Cindy said. “I know a hacker—” “It won’t lead anywhere,” I said. “Think again,” I urged her. “Why would they contact you? The Chronicle has many other reporters. There has to be a reason.” “Maybe it’s because I signed my name in the paper. Maybe it’s because I went to Berkeley. But that was ten years ago, Lindsay.” “Could it be someone who knew you back then? Someone you know? That piece of shit Ramons?” We looked at each other. “What do you want me to do?” Cindy finally asked.

"I don't know either..." They came knocking on my door. I'm familiar with the psychology of assassins, and I know that when they want to talk to you, you have to find a way to deal with them and prevent them from killing you again.

“I think you should reply to them,” I said.

Part Two of "The Third Soul Stealer": A Rights Initiative for Free Individuals

All the clues pointed to the bay. The origin of the emails sent online. The location where the Letour children were found.

Raymonds. Wendy Raymond's altered student ID. The clock ticked relentlessly. Every three days someone was unjustly killed… I was tired of waiting for others to tell me the progress of the case. A large group of FBI agents had arrived at the station; they were tracking, dissecting, and analyzing the emails Cindy had received. Whoever committed this heinous crime, it was time for them to take charge.

Jacobi and I found Joe Santos and Phil Mattley, the two heads of the Berkeley Police Department in charge of interrogations. Santos had been in this line of work since the 1960s, working in the robbery unit and homicide unit; he was a seasoned veteran. Mattley was younger and worked in the drug unit.

“Generally speaking, that free republic has all sorts of junk,” Santos said, popping a piece of gum into his mouth and shrugging. “There are Liberal Arts, IRAs, Arabs, Free Forums, Free Trade. Anyone can do whatever they want, and they really do.” “I heard,” Mattley chimed in, “that some rabble came all the way from Seattle to cause trouble at the G8 conference, those economic giants who are the masters of the world.” I pulled out the files, along with photos of the horrific state of the Lightol family and Bengossian. “Phil, our opponents aren’t just empty talkers.” Mattley smiled at Santos. He knew the crux of the problem. “Once,” he said, “we learned through an informant that some guy wanted to cause trouble for Pacific Gas and Electric.” He was referring to Pacific Gas and Electric, the public utility robbery tycoon here. In California, nobody didn’t feel exploited by that company, and perhaps he wasn’t wrong.

“Everyone’s complaining about these bastards,” Jacobi said, “and so am I.” “But this guy doesn’t just grumble at the customer service desk. He went outside headquarters and started a protest, handing out flyers and encouraging people to refuse to pay their bills. The flyer was titled ‘A Power Initiative for Free People.’ We felt,” Santos chuckled, “that guy was really on fire.” Mattley chimed in. “Those lunatics always wander around with such huge bags. We guessed they were stuffed with these leaflets. One day, the informant stopped him and managed to get him to open his backpack. The guy had an M49 rocket launcher in it. We then searched his house and found grenades, C-4 bombs, detonators, and so on. It was an organization called the ‘Freedom People’s Rights Initiative.’ They were plotting to blow up that damn power company; they hated the bills they were getting.” “So, Joe,” I interjected, steer the conversation back on track, “you mentioned a group of radicals heading this way to disrupt the G8 conference? You could start investigating from there.” “Getting serious…” Santos popped another piece of gum into his mouth and shrugged. “An informant reported there’s a party today, over in Shatcliffe, outside a branch of a Bank of America. I heard some big shots are going. You should check it out yourself. Welcome to our nightmarish place.”

Part Two of "The Third Time" - Bank of America is sucking people's blood.

Twenty minutes later, we parked our car two blocks away from the Bank of America. We had arrived in a Santos and Mattley without badges. About a hundred demonstrators had gathered in front of the bank; most were holding hastily written signs: "Free money supply is the mark of a free people," one sign read. Another read: "Hang the WTO."

An organizer wearing a T-shirt and ripped jeans stood on the roof of a black car, shouting through a megaphone.

“Bank of America is exploiting underage girls. Bank of America is sucking people's blood!” “What are these people protesting?” Jacobi asked. “Protesting mortgages?” “Who knows,” Santos replied. “Maybe child labor in Guatemala, the WTO, big monopolies, and the damn ozone layer problem. Half of them are probably destitute, dragged from food distribution centers and bought a pack of cigarettes each. I’m interested in their heads.” He took out a camera and began snapping photos of the crowd. About ten police officers stood in an arc between the bank and the demonstrators, riot batons hanging from their waists.

Cindy's words echoed in my ears again. People living in comfort, when reading the newspaper about the poor without social security, about underdeveloped countries mired in debt, how easily they can turn the page. But some people can't. But that's something far away, isn't it? Not as real as what's happening right now.

Suddenly, another speaker climbed onto the roof of the car. My eyes widened. It was Raymonds. Unbelievable.

The professor took the megaphone and began shouting. “What kind of organization is the World Bank? It’s an organization made up of sixteen member institutions from around the world, and the Bank of America is one of them. Who lent money to Morton Lightol? Who underwrote this company’s IPO? Friends, it was all the Bank of America!” Suddenly, the atmosphere in the crowd changed. “These bastards deserve to be torn to pieces!” a woman shouted.

A student tried to lead the crowd in chanting, "Bank of America, Bank of America, how many girls have you murdered today?" A riot seemed imminent. A young man threw a bottle at the bank window. I immediately suspected it was a homemade Molotov cocktail, but the bottle didn't explode.

“Look at all the things we have to deal with every day,” Santos said. “But the thing is, they’re not entirely wrong.”

“See that his mother is not entirely wrong,” Jacobi cried.

Two officers rushed into the crowd to try and grab the young man who had thrown the bottle, but the crowd pushed past them. I saw the young man run down the street, screams erupted from the crowd, and people fell to the ground. I can't even recount how it all happened.

“Oh, damn it.” Santos put down his camera. “This is going to escalate.” A policeman brandished his baton, and a long-haired young man fell to the ground. More people started throwing things. Bottles and stones flew everywhere. Two protesters grappled with the police, who dragged them to the ground and poked them with their batons.

Raymond was still yelling through the megaphone. “Look what this country is doing—crushing mothers and children’s heads with batons!” I simply couldn’t sit in the car and watch any longer. “They need help,” I said, reaching for the car door.

Mattley tried to stop me. “We’ll be caught in this as soon as we get out of the car.” “I’m already caught in,” I said, pulling up my trouser leg and opening the holster hidden inside. I ran down the street, Mattley a few steps behind me.

The police were shoved and jostled by the crowd, with stones and debris constantly being thrown at them. "Swallows! Nazis!" The shouts rose and fell.

I pushed my way through the crowd. A woman was covering her head with a handkerchief, blood streaming down her face. Another woman, holding a baby, was screaming and trying to squeeze through the crowd. Thank goodness, at least some people still had some sense.

Professor Lemons's gaze fell on me. "Look at how the police treat unarmed protesters! They pulled out guns!" "Ah, Officer," he added, smiling down at me from his makeshift lectern, "you're still trying to broaden your horizons, aren't you? I see. Tell me, what have you learned today?" "You orchestrated all of this," I said, wanting to warn him of sedition. "What a disgrace, isn't it? Peaceful demonstrations never make the news. But look…" He pointed to a news van that had just pulled up across the street. A reporter jumped out, and a cameraman ran alongside, filming.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Lemons.” “You flatter me, officer. I’m just a lowly professor in a field that’s not popular these days, a relic of the past. To be honest, we should have a drink together. I’d love that. But sorry, this case of police brutality is waiting for me right now.” He bowed, a smug smile on his face that made my skin wrinkle, then raised his hands and began gesturing wildly at the crowd, chanting, “Bank of America, Bank of America, how many girls have you enslaved today?”

Part Two of "The Third Soul Stealer": The Burning Fury in My Heart

Charles Danco stepped into the city police station. The large hall was gloomy and deathly still. To his left was a guard post, where two lax guards casually checked people's backpacks and bags. His hand unconsciously tightened its grip on the handle of his suitcase.

Of course, he no longer uses the name Danko; he uses Jeffrey Stanzer. Before that, he had used Michael O'Hara and Daniel Brown. Over the years, he has used so many names, constantly changing them, and he would move at the first sign of danger. In any case, a name is just a symbol; changing it is as easy as getting a driver's license. What remains unchanged is his belief, which is deeply ingrained in his soul. He firmly believes that what he is doing is significant, that he is fighting for the people he loves, and for those who dedicate themselves to a noble cause.

But when it comes to fear, there's no such thing.

Because Charles Danco felt only a burning rage within him.

He had secretly observed how the guards checked people entering and leaving the lobby, and it was still the same old routine. He had practiced it countless times and knew it by heart. He walked up to the inspection platform and took something out of his pocket. He had practiced these actions repeatedly over the past few weeks, becoming as adept as someone who had worked in this building for a long time. "Put the box here," he muttered to himself. He knew the guard would say that next.

“Put the box here,” the guard told him, and he moved a clearing on the viewing platform. He opened the box.

"Is it still raining outside?" the guard asked as he put the box into the X-ray machine.

Danko shook his head; his heartbeat was as steady as ever. Malcolm had done a thorough job this time, embedding the explosive gel into the box's lining. Besides, these idiots were all blind; they wouldn't see a bomb even if it were right in front of them.

Danko walked through the metal detector gate, and the alarm beeped. A look of surprise crossed his face, and he patted and felt his pockets, then pulled a bulging object from one of them.

“It’s my cell phone,” he said with a smile and an apologetic expression. “I usually forget about it until it rings, then I remember I still have it with me.”

“My phone only gets calls from my kids,” the kind guard said with a smile.

It was so easy to get by. These people were completely oblivious; even with warning signs plastered all around, it was no use. Another guard pushed his suitcase past the back of the checkpoint. He got through and slipped into this so-called Hall of Justice.

He's going to blow it to the sky! He'll kill everyone here. Without hesitation, without mercy.

In that brief moment, Danko stood there, gazing at the hurried footsteps of the people coming and going. He thought of all the years he had spent quietly lying low, living a low-key, peaceful life. His palms began to sweat slightly. In a few minutes, people would know that he could act anywhere, in the heart of government power, in the very core of the intelligence services.

No matter how rich or powerful you are, we will eventually settle accounts with you... The explosives he had were enough to blow up this entire floor.

He stepped into the crowded elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator was packed with people returning from dining out—police officers, prosecutors from the local prosecutor's office, all henchmen of the state apparatus. They were surrounded by family and pets, comfortably watching the tycoons' activities on television, feeling no connection to their lives. They were wrong. It concerned them, even the cleaning lady scrubbing the floor. They were all implicated, and even if they weren't, who would care? "Excuse me," Danko said to the people in front of him as the elevator stopped on the third floor. He squeezed out, along with two or three others. Two uniformed police officers walked past him in the aisle; he showed no panic, even offering a slight smile. It was all too easy. The heart of the local prosecutor, the police chief, and the Bureau of Investigation.

They just let him swagger in like that! What an idiot! They wanted to show how tightly they controlled this G8 conference, but he'd make them realize they had no idea who he was dealing with! Danko took a breath and went to the door of Room 350, which had a sign that read "Murder Division."

He paused at the doorway, looking as if he were a member of the homicide division. But then he turned and walked back towards the elevator.

"It's just a rehearsal," he thought to himself as he rode the elevator downstairs.

Practice makes perfect. Then... boom! August Spies salutes you.

The Second Part of "Triple Soul Stealing": Everything is Under Control

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when I left Berkeley and rushed back to my office. My secretary, Brenda, happened to run into me in the building lobby. "Assistant District Attorney Bernhardt has two messages for you; it seems to be a bit troublesome. The boss is waiting for you upstairs." I knocked on Tracho's office door; the SWAT team was having a meeting inside.

Tom Roach from the FBI's local field office was also there, which didn't surprise me at all. These guys had been working feverishly ever since Cindy received the email this morning. Also present were Gabe Carr, the deputy mayor in charge of policing, and press liaison Steve Fiore.

There was a stranger with his back to me; he had dark skin, thick brown hair, and a muscular build. This guy was acting like he was in charge of the advance security team for the G8 summit. Okay, there's an antidote.

I nodded to the people I'd worked with before. I glanced at the unfamiliar face. "Officer, could you give everyone an update?" the boss asked me.

“Okay,” I nodded in reply. My stomach was cramping a little. I hadn’t planned to give a case briefing; I felt I’d been forced into it, which was typical Tracho’s style.

“Everything points to Berkeley,” I explained. I laid out the main threads of the investigation over the past few days: Wendy Raymond, today’s demonstration, and Raymonds.

“You think he was involved too?” Tracho asked. “He’s a professor, right?” “I looked up his name, and the information shows he’s only been involved in illegal demonstrations and resisting arrest,” I said. “None of that. He’s not dangerous. Or rather, he’s a very, very shrewd man.” “Any leads on the C-4?” Tracho asked. He spoke as if to the federal government man in the brown suit.

“The Bureau of Tobacco, Alcohol, Firearms and Ammunition Control is investigating,” I replied.

"And what about those who send emails from public computers and keep making threats?" he asked.

“That won’t yield any results. Are we going to send people to monitor every public computer terminal in the Gulf region?” I asked.

“Boss, do you know how many public ports there are in total?” “Two thousand one hundred and seventy-nine,” the federal government man in the brown suit suddenly interjected. He waved a piece of paper in his hand. “There are two thousand one hundred and seventy-nine publicly accessible computer terminals throughout the Gulf region. Of course, that depends on how you define ‘publicly accessible’—universities, libraries, cafes, airports, etc., including the two ports at the military recruitment center in San Jose, but I don’t think these people will go there to use the internet or send emails, so that would slightly reduce the statistics.” “Yes,” I replied, our eyes meeting, “that would reduce the targets.” “I’m sorry.” The man rubbed his temples, his expression relaxing slightly, a tired smile appearing on his face. “I just got off the plane twenty minutes ago, coming from Madrid to arrange protection work for next week’s G8 finance ministers’ meeting. But now it seems I’ve suddenly been caught in the vortex of World War III.” “I’m Lindsay Boxer,” I said.

“I know who you are,” the federal government official said. “You solved the LaSalle Heights church bombing last year. The Justice Department has the record. Can we keep these people under control next week?” “Control?” That sounded rather formal.

“Let’s not mince words, officer. We’ll have the Treasury Secretary from the free world flocking here for a meeting soon. Add to that the threat to the public, and like your boss said, we don’t have much time left.” This guy was very straightforward, which suited my taste. Unlike the typical Washington bureaucrat.

"So, everything is under control?" Deputy Mayor Gabe Carr asked.

"Under control?" The Washington man looked around. "All locations need to be secure, right? We have enough manpower, don't we, Director?" "Next week, every uniformed man will be at your command." Tracho's eyes lit up.

I cleared my throat. “What do we do about that email we received? How do we deal with it?” “Officer, what are your plans for dealing with it?” the man from Washington asked.

My throat felt dry. “I think I should reply to it,” I said. “I want to start a conversation with them. Circle where they sent the emails. Maybe there will be some clues. The more we talk, the more likely we are to find out something…” Then there was a heavy silence. I silently prayed that I wouldn’t be ordered to abandon the case at this point.

“Good answer.” The federal government official winked at me. “No need for formalities. I just want to meet my colleagues. My name is Joe Molinari,” he said with a smile, handing his business card over the table.

I read his business card, trying my best not to change my expression, but my heart still skipped a beat, or perhaps it skipped a few beats.

“Department of Homeland Security,” the business card read. “Joe Molinari. Deputy Secretary.” Damn, this guy’s rank is way higher than I thought! “Let’s get started talking to these bastards,” the Deputy Secretary said.

The second part of "Three Times Soul Stealing" lets me mind my own business.

I headed towards my office, my head still buzzing from running into Molinari. I stopped halfway at Jill's office door.

A cleaner was vacuuming in the hallway, but the lights were still on in Jill's office.

The sound of Eva Cassidy's voice came from inside the room. The music was soft, coming from a CD, and I could hear Jill speaking into a walkie-talkie. (Eva Cassidy (1963-1996): American jazz singer who only performed in bars around Washington, D.C., and passed away from skin cancer in November 1996. She gained international attention in 1999 through a BBC charity program.)

“Hi,” I knocked on the door, apologizing for disturbing her. “I know you left me a message. But it seems that even if I tell you how busy I’ve been all day, it won’t do any good.” “Well, I know what you’ve been up to this morning,” Jill said, her face icy.

They deserved it.

"Let me put it this way, I won't blame you for getting angry," I said as I walked into her office and placed my hands on the back of a high-backed armchair.