The Useless Son-in-law Who Became A Crypto Genius

Casting The Net (I)

Neo pulled up a private browser. The kind that didn't keep logs. Didn't remember searches. Didn't leave traces.

He'd been thinking about the thugs for days now. The three men who'd stabbed him. Who'd been hired to kill him.

'They're still out there. Probably got paid already. Probably think the job's done.'

But Neo had their faces. Had screenshots from the security footage. Had run them through facial recognition databases until he found matches.

Vincent Torres. The tall one with the gun. Ex-military, dishonorable discharge. Assault charges dropped due to "insufficient evidence."

Marcus Webb—no relation to Richard, thankfully. The one with the knife. Criminal record longer than his arm. Robbery, assault, extortion.

And James "Jimmy" Park. The quiet one. The one who'd actually stabbed Neo. Drug charges. Gang affiliations. The kind of guy who'd do anything for the right price.

'Desperate men. Dangerous men. Perfect.'

Neo downloaded an encrypted messaging app. The kind criminals used. The kind that burned messages after they were read.

He created an account. Username: The Broker.

Then he started digging for their contact info. Took him three hours of searching dark web forums, criminal networks, the digital underbelly most people didn't know existed.

But he found them.

All three had accounts on the same encrypted platform. Made sense—that's probably how they'd been contacted for the Bellvue job in the first place.

Neo's fingers hovered over the keyboard.

'Do this right. One shot. Can't seem too knowledgeable. Can't seem like I know who they are.'

He typed.

"Looking for discrete professionals. High-risk, high-reward opportunity. Interested?"

Sent it to all three. Simultaneously.

Then he waited.

The response came faster than expected.

Vincent replied first: "Who is this?"

Marcus: "How'd you get this contact?"

Jimmy didn't reply. Smart. Or paranoid. Probably both.

Neo typed back, addressing Vincent: "Someone who pays well and doesn't ask questions. I need a simple job done. Data transfer. Nothing violent. $10,000 each."

Ten grand. Enough to get their attention. Not enough to seem suspicious.

Vincent: "What kind of data?"

'Careful. Can't give too much away.'

Neo typed: "Encrypted drive. Needs to move from point A to point B. No questions. No looking at contents. Just transport."

Marcus jumped in: "Why not mail it?"

"Because I need people I can trust to handle it carefully. People with experience staying off radar."

Translation: criminals who know how to avoid cops.

Silence. They were thinking. Or discussing amongst themselves.

Finally, Vincent: "When and where?"

'Got you.'

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Neo set up the meet for three days out. A parking garage downtown. Public enough to be safe. Empty enough to be discrete.

He wouldn't be there in person, obviously. But he'd have cameras. Would watch them. Test their reliability.

The job itself was simple—transfer an encrypted drive from one dead drop to another. The drive contained nothing important. Just test data. Junk files.

But they wouldn't know that.

'If they follow instructions, they're useful. If they try to open it or steal it, I'll know. If they run to the cops...'

Neo smiled.

'Well, I have insurance for that too.'

He'd included a tracker in the drive. Hidden deep in the casing. Impossible to find without completely dismantling it.

And he'd anonymized the entire thing. Burner phone. Encrypted messages that auto-deleted. Payment through cryptocurrency that couldn't be traced.

'They'll never know who The Broker really is. And if they're good—if they're loyal—'

Then he'd have three killers on retainer. Three men who'd already proven they'd cross lines most people wouldn't.

'Poetic, really. Using the weapons aimed at me to aim at others.'

–––––––––––

Across town, Lyra sat in a coffee shop. Laptop open. Article pulled up on screen.

She'd spent the weekend rewriting it. Making it stronger. More focused. Less conspiracy theory, more investigative journalism.

Richard had said no. Had reassigned the story. Had basically told her to drop it.

'Fuck that.'

She'd submitted it to an independent news site instead. The kind that published what mainstream outlets wouldn't touch. The kind that valued truth over palatability.

And they'd accepted it.

Published it that morning.

The headline: "Bellvue Tragedy: Unanswered Questions in 'Robbery Gone Wrong'"

Lyra scrolled through her own article, checking for typos she'd already checked for a dozen times. Nervous habit.

She'd been careful. Hadn't accused anyone directly. Hadn't claimed Noam was alive—she didn't have proof of that. Just raised questions about the investigation.

The insurance policy increases. The convenient timing. The cryptocurrency movements. The too-clean crash site.

[When tragedy strikes, we owe it to the victims to ask hard questions,] she'd written. [And in the case of Noam Ash, those questions remain unanswered.]

Professional. Measured. But pointed enough that anyone paying attention would see the implications.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Lyra hesitated. Then answered.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Chen?" Male voice. Older. Careful. "This is Douglas Carver. I'm calling about your article."

Her chest did something complicated. Anxiety mixed with—was that excitement? Validation?

"Mr. Carver. I'm sorry for your loss—"

"Cut the bullshit." His voice went cold. "That article is sensationalist drivel. You're capitalizing on our tragedy for clicks."

"I'm asking legitimate questions about—"

"You're implying my family had something to do with my son-in-law's death. That's defamation. Our lawyers will be in touch."

He hung up.

Lyra stared at her phone. Her hand shook slightly.

'Good. Let them threaten. Let them panic. Because people who have nothing to hide don't make threatening calls to journalists.'

She pulled up her notes app. Started typing everything Douglas had said. His tone. His exact words.

More evidence. More ammunition.