Page 69 of Sypher

“Not my wife,” Mr. Reaper said, then grinned at me. “Yet.”

Nodding, I continued, “From there, the plane landed here in Louisiana. There was a Twitter update .3 seconds later from that exact location from a person by the name of Bipartisan Aces, saying ‘Pizza is here.’ From that point, the trail went cold until he reappeared on the dark web and purchased Mr. Ghost’s wife. But something was funny about that Twitter handle. It bugged me. So, while y’all were talking, I took a better look at it, and then I realized what it was, an anagram.”

“A what?” Mr. Reaper asked.

“An anagram. You take any name, mix around the words to create another. Bipartisan Aces is also Sebastian Capri.”

“Who the fuck is that?” Reaper asked.

“Boss, Sebastian Capri is one of the wealthiest men in the world,” Phantom stated. “I’m talking untouchable rich. He’s known for making or breaking politicians, movie stars, banks, you name it. Hell, he fully funded the current president’s re-election campaign, and it didn’t even put a dent in his wallet. He runs the world from his desk. Nobody does anything without his permission, and he can make you disappear without a trace.”

“What else, boy?” my dad asked, pride shining in his eyes.

“Ms. Phantom is right, Dad. Mr. Capri is untouchable. The second I started a search on him, my computer was tagged. I’m running a back trace now, but whoever is on the other end is better than me.”

“Fuck, kid, no one is better than you,” Jackson stated proudly, and my heart swelled.

“If this man, Mr. Capri, is the Collector, and I am 90% sure he is, there is no way anyone can get to him unless he allows it. He is guarded twenty-four seven by fourteen armed mercenaries. He’s never been in the same place for long. He travels by plane, jumping in and out of the dead spots.”

“Dead what?”

“Dead spots. When you fly, there is a projected path most planes take. That’s how air-traffic controllers keep the friendly skies safe. Basically, everyone stays in their lane, kind of like driving on the interstate. Those who don’t want to be seen will fly around those areas, the dead areas. Typically, those areas are designated for military and high-ranking officials around the world, but if you know the patterns, it’s easy enough to figure out.”

“I can’t even figure out my Roomba,” Mr. Massacre whispered, shaking his head.

“So, what makes you think this Capri guy is the Collector?” Mr. Reaper asked.

“Well, for starters, the anagram. Then there are numerous cryptic messages he’s posted, which I am running a program to decipher. Also, every time he did post, this Sabastian Capri was in the area for some function or another. Then there is the plane itself. When I skimmed Matrix’s and Phantom’s hard drives, I noticed the plane in question was registered to Thomas Collingsworth, but if they dug deeper, they would have seen theactual bill of sale. Collingsworth’s name may be on the title, but Capri bought it.”

“Matrix? Phantom?” Mr. Reaper asked.

“Sypher’s right, boss. I can’t believe I missed that,” Phantom admitted.

“Same here, boss,” added Matrix.

“So where is Capri now?” Mr. Reaper asked.

“He’s in Washington D.C. at the Press Gallery Dinner.”

“Is there any way you can track his movements, boy?”

“Sure, Dad, as long as Bipartisan Aces keeps posting to his social media accounts and there is some function that Mr. Capri attends, I can verify everything.”

“Okay,” my dad said, lightly nudging me so he could sit in his seat again. I immediately got up. “That’s one fucker we can keep tabs on. Now, what about the other? This fucking cult is not getting my baby girl. Anyone got any ideas?”

The room went eerily silent.

After Dad and Reaper dismissed the brothers, Mr. Reaper cleared his throat. “Kid. Stay for a minute.”

Nodding, I stood in my spot when my dad pointed to the chair next to him. I wasn’t a patched brother, so I didn’t deserve to sit at the table unless ordered to. Sitting down, it felt strange sitting where the club brothers sat, almost like I was a phony, someone playing at being a brother.

Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Reaper rubbed his chin as he took a good look at me. If it were anyone else, the scrutiny wouldn’t have bothered me, but this was Reaper, the president of the Golden Skulls. The man was already legendary, even at his age.

“How good are you with that computer?”

Looking down, I whispered, “I’m better than okay, I guess.”

“Head up, boy,” my dad growled, and I immediately looked at Mr. Reaper.

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