Page 23 of The Primary Pest (Iphicles Security #1)

“Which home?” Peter winced. “Because your dad’s in Geneva at an oncology conference, and your mother’s in Luxembourg on business.”

Ajax sighed. “Back to the motel, I mean. Or back to LA.”

“No.”

Ajax’s heart dropped. “Please?”

“Nope. Your uncle Zhenya wants you on that boat,” Peter said sternly. “From now on we’ll be moving you constantly. Let me just iron out a few details, and we’ll make it happen. Bartosz says you like the coast, eh?”

“The coast,” he admitted, “not the water.”

“The boat’s not a safe house per se, but Iphicles will be watching from land, sea, and air. Until we find out more about the most recent emails—”

“What emails?” Ajax asked. “I’m on enforced digital detox.”

“He doesn’t know?” Peter glanced to Dmytro, who shrugged. “You know we cloned your phone before we took it away from you. Whatever threatening messages you’ve received since we came on board are part of a database we’re using to find the assholes who are sending them.”

“I knew that.”

“Well, under these new circumstances, the police, maybe even the FBI, will be taking over the investigation. In the meantime, you’re going to go for a cruise, and Iphicles will try to smoke your bad guy out.”

Ajax shook his head. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“You got a better one?”

Even if he’d planned to answer, Peter didn’t give him the chance. He was one of those guys with energy to burn, and Ajax had to practically sprint to keep up with him.

“I’ll have the IT guys tell you what we need from you once you board. We can get started tonight. The gist is Ajax Freedom rides again.”

He said the words like that was a good thing, which—Ajax narrowed his eyes. “You know that was all fake, right? The Ajax Freedom persona got blown, and not in the fun and spanky way. He can’t come back.”

“Aw… I know. But”—Peter smiled brightly—“we’re betting at least some people in the angry mob don’t care about that.

Or they figure there’s some conspiracy driving your transformation.

We’re betting we can engage your stalker because he wants to punish you for telling lies.

He’s furious. He feels betrayed. He’s going to want to air his grievances against you, and we’ll be right there, monitoring your feed, when he does. ”

Ajax agreed, in theory, that it could work. “I’m told I can make anyone angry, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, I got the memo on that too.” Peter shot Dmytro a fond look.

“Zhenya wants you to go live as if Ajax Freedom never left. We’re set up to route you through the fake safehouse servers.

When you’re done being obnoxious, you’re free to knock off.

Let us monitor the stream. You don’t need the aggravation, all right? ”

“Okay. But if you think a good hacker won’t be able to see through a basic reroute—”

“Iphicles is the best, Ajax,” Peter said. “Trust me.”

Ajax didn’t. And he resented being coddled. “I’m not exactly shabby at this technical shit either. Whoever is doing this has chops. They were using multiple accounts, multiple VPNs, they bounced messages through obscure servers in countries I’ve barely heard of.”

Peter shrugged. “Of course they did.”

“Yeah. Well. I wrote a pretty efficient patch to filter dubious accounts. Whoever this is, they got around it. I was running a Wireshark packet sniffer, though. If I could just get my hands on my computer, I’m sure I could run down—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter grinned like a wolf in a fairy tale. “We have some proprietary tricks up our sleeve, baby. I tell you what, if you can find this asshole before we do, we’ll hire you.”

Peter’s words made him search out Dmytro’s gaze. Their eyes met for far too long. No man had ever looked at him like that. Was that only Dmytro’s protective instinct? Or was it more?

“Challenge accepted. Happens I quit my day job recently. Get me a brand-new laptop. I’ll need time to tear it apart, scrub it, and then we’ll see who gets there first.”

He had to force himself to think about his Freedom persona.

While he was rattled now, uncertain, afraid to take up the mic again and rant as he’d once done daily, he knew the second he started speaking on air, it would be effortless.

One of his therapists told him Ajax Freedom wasn’t an outlet, it was a compulsion.

Whatever the reason, things were different for him when he was able to channel his alter ego.

He knew actors who got over crippling stage fright the moment they walked on stage. Maybe it was something like that?

He could blink away nerves when Freedom was the center of attention. He was able to get a grip, not because he was fearless or confident but because Ajax Freedom didn’t suffer the same fears he did.

Peter apparently skippered the cruiser, and he introduced Ajax to Chet, his first mate. Chet ran a digital wand over everyone, looking for transmitters, before they climbed aboard.

The crew—which included two well-armed, athletic women in Iphicles gear—made their final preparations.

Dmytro found him later to slap a scopolamine patch on him. They stood on deck together, watching water foam against the bow. Dmytro dug through his pockets. “Here’s your watch. You left it behind in the restaurant.”

“Thanks.” Had he? Ajax frowned at his watch.

He was glad to have it back. If he’d lost it, he’d have had to buy another for scuba diving, which reminded him.

Sport was the only reason he ever got on boats.

The Iphicles boat was gorgeous and well maintained.

She carried the clean scent of teakwood but also engine oil and the inevitable aroma of mildew in the cabins.

He hoped he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his life, staying aboard. He missed his parents. He was afraid he’d never see them again. Why, oh why, had he agreed to go along with their request?

“You all right?” Dmytro already wore his own patch, but he looked as green as Ajax felt.

“I’m hanging in there so far.”

“Don’t you start,” Dmytro warned. “I’ll get sick if you get sick.”

He gave Dmytro’s beefy arm a slap. “Don’t you start either.”

Dmytro’s gaze fell on him and warmed. Not all the way to blue, precisely, but they weren’t the winter gray of disapproval either.

In light of the teasing, fond look Dmytro shot him, all the reasons he should not be there were gone, and in their place were Dmytro’s words: I will be sad should anything happen to you… I will protect you… Trust me.

He would trust Dmytro. Dmytro had his best interest at heart.

Hours later, they got him set up to stream. They gave him a brand-new computer and headset. Just like old times.

He’d grown up on the internet. Started as a lonely adolescent creating podcasts, telling jokes and stories.

He’d had an enormous amount of money to pursue his projects and produce his internet radio shows.

Through hard work and sheer audacity, he’d achieved whatever audience and merchandising goals he set for himself year after year, becoming a big celebrity in a short amount of time.

Sponsorships and fundraising opportunities made it very rewarding.

Cash poured in. But as high as he flew, it only took one scathing, drunken rant, livestreamed on YouTube, to bring him to earth with a thud.

His sponsors fled. Charities distanced themselves.

It had been his choice, but it still hurt.

When he’d started, he’d seen the Ajax Freedom persona as entertainment.

As satire. He was a modern-day Jonathan Swift, and Ajax Freedom was his “A Modest Proposal.” It wasn’t until he realized his fictional character gave others license to say things—to do the very things he wanted to shine a spotlight on—that he shut it all down.

Now he never wanted to see a microphone or video camera again.

“Hello once again from America,” he began as he often did: stiffly. “The land of the greedy and the home of the craven. This is Ajax Freedom, and just when you thought it was safe”—he smiled at the camera—“he’s baaaaaaack.”

He’d left his hair curly and wild. Donned the black cashmere v-neck over a white T-shirt he’d chosen for Ajax Freedom’s persona.

He looked like a super-rich geek-slash-gamer, the kind of computer guy who sells his first app for a billion dollars and settles down to a life of playing air guitar and dating supermodels.

The direction he’d decided to take with his rant felt easy as soon as he got started.

He heaped abuse on people who once believed in him.

He accused them of spending all their time listening to him rather than getting actual jobs or dating real live people.

He told them to grow a pair and make something happen in their own lives instead of listening to assholes like him.

As the boat rocked, the alcohol he’d had earlier and the motion sickness patch made him drowsy and relieved him of inhibitions. He gained traction, disappearing into the vitriolic headspace that was Ajax Freedom’s alone.

He could no longer pretend he was into women, so he told his old crowd he planned to head up a left leaning progressive gay army.

He blasted trend followers, social media mavens, and Digital media “it kids” like him.

He blasted designers—even those who’d endorsed him—and told people to read a goddamn book for a change.

He challenged them to light up their lives, not just reflect light like so many empty moons.

That fired up the comments like nothing ever had. Lots of anger, but a lot were positive. Some of the comments he got were honestly… supportive. Maybe Ajax—even if he was acting more Fairchild than Freedom—had more traction than he thought?

When he’d finally piled enough garbage onto his big shit sundae, he flung the cherry on top: “Aaaaaand guess what. Seems like somebody out there wants to kill me. They don’t like me. Can you believe this shit?