CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Las Vegas was hot. Beyond hot. It was the most miserable place that Marcel had ever been in his entire centuries of living, and he'd been to the deep jungles of South America, the tropics, and so many more places.

"Why would anyone live here?" he gasped.

"Some people like the heat," said Angel. "Besides, it's not always like this. Summer is pretty rough, but they get cold, even snow in the winter."

"I find that very difficult to believe," said Marcel.

"You'll get used to it. Just make sure you're hydrating, drinking a lot of water." Nine looked at Gaspar, then back at Marcel. "Marcel? Do you remember how to handle the weapon we showed you?"

"Of course. I'm an expert marksman, and I enjoyed our time at your gun range. I can manage by myself if necessary."

"Alright, good. Put this vest on beneath your shirt. It's made of a very special metal that will prevent bullets from penetrating your body."

"Yes, the technologies from G.R.I.P.," he smiled. The others all stared at him, their mouths open. "Oh. I used to go out there quite often and watch as the devices were being made. I understand the concepts behind the whisper technologies and your communication devices implanted just behind the ear. I love mine, by the way. I feel very informed. The stealth vests and suits are simply miraculous, and I particularly love the weaponry being created. Marvelous. Just marvelous."

"I need to visit G.R.I.P. more often," frowned Whiskey. "I feel like an idiot."

"Don't feel foolish," laughed Marcel. "You have to remember that I have been able to witness history unfold. It's been a gift. Many days, I felt like a child at Christmas waiting for my presents to be delivered. Perhaps that's why things happened like this. By the way, Alec, thank you for helping me to order big and tall clothing. I never knew such a thing existed. My clothing was always custom-made."

"You're welcome, brother. But if you ever want anything custom-made, Tailor and Gwen can help."

"Tailor? Your name is true to your occupation?" he asked. Tailor laughed, a huge bass belly laugh.

"No, brother. I just couldn't find things to fit me growing up, so I made my own things. The name stuck. My real name is Billy Joe."

"I see. Why do you call me ‘brother'? I am not related to most of you, and those that I am, technically, I would be your six- or seven-times grand-uncle."

"Brother is a term we use in the military. We believe that we are all brothers in arms. We aren't joined by familial blood but rather the blood we spill in battle," said Nine. "I trust Tailor, Whiskey, Gaspar, Angel, any of these men as if they were my blood brother. It's an affectionate term."

"I like this very much," said Marcel. "I had one brother, much younger. I suppose he would be your six- or seven-times grandfather."

"I suppose he would," nodded Gaspar. "We've always been lucky to have a lot of family around. Remy and Robbie, all of my siblings, distant cousins. One thing the Robicheauxs knew how to do was reproduce."

"It's such fun," smirked Marcel. "I still cannot believe that I will be a father soon. To twins!"

"Hey, we're coming up to the subdivision where the home is. Pigsty? Are you guys still getting readings from the house?" asked Code.

"We are. Spencer said it's generating unusual activity."

"What does that mean, Spencer?" asked Nine.

"Well, sir, I think they're trying to hack into everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, sir. I think they targeted like a bunch of companies and are just going after them all to see which doors might open. Metaphorically speaking, sir."

"Kid knows what metaphorically means," smirked Tailor. "I was twenty-seven when I figured that out." He heard the giggles of the little boys and shook his head.

"Can we assume that these are not the only systems running?" asked Angel.

"That's right, sir. We think there are at least a dozen more somewhere, but we don't need those to find them."

"Good to know. Thanks, kids. You did good. You too, Pigsty."

"Thanks, Dad," came the echo of laughter.

"Little shits."

After driving by the house, they noticed the garage was open but with no car inside. There was an older model Toyota in front of the house. It had California license plates that were expired.

Parking around the corner, Angel, Tailor, and Whiskey walked behind the unfenced yards, coming in from the rear. Gaspar, Marcel, and Nine approached from the front. Grabbing a stack of pizza flyers that were left on the porch next door, Nine knocked several times.

"Pizza delivery!" he called out.

That's when he heard someone running toward the door. When it opened, he was somewhat shocked to see a woman. She was easily in her mid-to-late-fifties, brownish-gray hair in a messy ponytail and food stains on the front of her shirt.

"I thought you said you had pizza?" she frowned. She tried to close the front door, but Nine stuck his foot in the door, pushing it open as the other two men followed. "Hey! Get out before I call the cops."

"Good news. We are the cops," growled Gaspar. "Where are the servers?"

"Wh-what? I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered.

"I have no patience for lying women. Tell me where there is service, or I will shoot you here," growled Marcel. Nine and Gaspar raised their brows at his brazenness, then let him take over.

"They're in the bedroom. What's the big deal? I'm just running a program for a friend," she said, taking her seat in front of her computer screens. Nine watched as the screens scrolled lines of data, numbers, and letters.

"You getting this?" he whispered to his comms.

"We're getting it all."

"She's lying, Mr. Nine," said Spencer. "She's programmed that to hit on any non-profits who have collected more than a million dollars in donations in the last six months. I can see the coding from here. It's not very complicated, but it's effective."

"How can he know that?" asked Marcel. The woman stared at the men, wondering who they were speaking to.

"Because I'm in her system now," said Monroe. "I could get much better speed if you would move just about four inches closer." The men took a half step closer, then watched as things began to light up.

The woman stared at her screens, trying to ignore the men. Then saw the erratic lines of data.

"No. No, no, no! What the hell? What did you do? What's happening?" she screamed.

"Problem…" started Angel, coming in the back door.

"Brandi Buckwalter," said Spencer. "That's her name. It's not a nice name. Oh, she's been in jail before. Credit card fraud, bank fraud, and identity theft."

"Problem, Brandi Buckwalter?" asked Angel.

"How do you know my name? Who the hell are you?" she said, suddenly panicked.

"Who wrote the program you're running?" asked Gaspar. She stared at him, then at the other men, now six strong, standing in her living room.

"What does it matter to you?"

"You're stealing money from non-profits. Organizations that are trying to help the less fortunate."

"Oh, please! Don't give me some sob story. My family was nothing but trailer park trash. We were the definition of it before it became a term thrown around like peanut butter and jelly. My father was a drunk, my mother whored for drug money, and she was more than happy to let them use me and my sister."

"That doesn't give you the right to do this," said Tailor. "Two wrongs don't make a right."

"Whatever," said the woman, waving them off. "I won't go to jail again. I'm not doing anything except running a program for a client."

"Who is your client?" asked Nine.

"He's anonymous," she smiled.

"Well, then. Let's see if your anonymous employer will bail you out of jail," he said, gripping her arm.

"No! No, I won't go," she said, trying to shove the men away from her.

"I don't want to hurt you, lady. But you're going to jail, or you're going to tell us who your employer is."

"I don't know! Okay, I don't know. He contacted me through my consulting company on the web. He never gave me a name. Just told me what he needed me to create. All I had to do was run the program and identify multi-million-dollar donors for non-profits worldwide. That's it. I built the program, and that's what I'm doing."

"I do not believe that's all," said Marcel, standing in the entry of the hallway. He pointed down the hallway, and the woman tried to run, Tailor easily holding her in place. "She has four bedrooms back there, none of which are for sleeping. They are crammed with merchandise, expensive merchandise, I believe."

Angel eyed the woman, then went down the hallway, looking in each of the rooms. When he returned, he nodded to Nine and Gaspar.

"My guess is Brandi here has been purchasing merchandise on someone else's account. There are gaming systems, televisions, luxury watches, and five mountain bikes. No offense, Brandi old girl, but you don't strike me as the mountain bike type."

After a few phone calls, the LVPD arrived to place Brandi under arrest. In a box beneath her bed were dozens of stolen credit cards.

"You'd think with all the technology available, people would turn off their cards the minute that they discover them lost," said the officer. "Tourists aren't paying attention and don't notice it for a day or so. We see it all the time."

"Well, she's done some damage," said Angel. "By my estimates, there's about forty grand worth of merchandise in there. Her garage was open when we arrived, so it makes me wonder if she wasn't selling it, and someone had just made a pickup."

"We'll look into it," said the officer. "Thanks again for the tip. Hey, you three must be brothers." He pointed to Alec, Gaspar, and Marcel. They all smiled, nodding, Gaspar and Alec staring at one another.

As they drove out of the subdivision, Gaspar turned toward the city and took the team to the Venetian for a late afternoon lunch. His ulterior motive was to also show Marcel what Las Vegas was really about.

Turned out, Marcel didn't care for the noise, sounds, congestion, or people snapping their cards on the street, only to hand him something with naked women and a phone number on it. Once in the air, headed home, he felt more relaxed.

"Lesson learned, Marcel. You do not care for Las Vegas," smirked Gaspar.

"Not in the least."

"I do have a question," said Alec. "Gaspar is older than me by almost seventeen years. Technically, I'm older than Marcel by at least thirty. How did that cop think we were brothers? I mean, we have the same features, but the age disparity is big. He should have guessed that we were maybe father and son or something."

"I don't know. That's a good one."

All eyes turned to Marcel who simply turned his head, staring out the window. Gaspar stood, taking the seat across from his ancestor.

"Spill it."