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year-old inn that sat along the edge of the island. On the roof there was an infinity pool, and next to it
a steaming hot tub. Ross slipped into the frothy water, his body feeling lighter under the weight of two
worlds sitting on his shoulders. As he peered at the splendid Caribbean Sea, he took a deep breath
and calmness enveloped his mind.
These types of chaotic issues, like hackers and ransoms, didn’t bother Ross for long. In many
respects he had started to enjoy them.
“How lucky are we to get these problems,” he had written to VJ. “I always wanted big problems
on my plate; never knew if I’d get there.” And such problems, he explained, had Ross thinking about
his legacy and what he would leave behind when he was gone.
“Winning the drug war is gonna be easy,” Jones said.
“I think that’s more or less a foregone conclusion,” Ross replied.
DPR wasn’t the first pirate to visit Dominica. For hundreds of years it had been home to real
raiders, the ones who hid their booty in the caves around the archipelago. Now pirates like Dread
could hide their digital wealth in bank accounts around the islands without worrying about the U.S.
government reaching in and grabbing any of it.
“My top priority right now is getting a new citizenship,” Ross had told Variety Jones, who had in
turn counseled, “Make sure your plan includes at least two backup locales.” While Ross was in
Dominica, he had also started exploring other countries, including Italy, Monte Carlo, Andorra, Costa
Rica, and even Thailand, as alternate places to live if he went on the lam.
But disappearing came with its consequences. Ross worried about those closest to him and
whether he could handle never seeing them again. “I grew up here,” he said to VJ about leaving the
United States. “My family is here.” And more important, he admitted, one day he wanted to start his
own family. “The worst part is that I have no one to talk about this stuff with,” Ross wrote. “It just
bounces around in my head.”
Jones knew that feeling better than anyone, and he counseled his friend as best, and as sternly, as
he could. “Best advice I can give right now is plan on a few years without emotional attachments,” VJ
wrote. “Ex’s can put you in jail for life.”
“I’m not complaining about any of this,” Dread wrote back, noting that this was a “great fucking
problem to have.”
Over the following two weeks Ross tackled his objective methodically. The process of getting
citizenship wasn’t as easy as dropping a bag of hundred-dollar bills, or a thumb drive of Bitcoins, on
someone’s doorstep. Ross had to gather letters of recommendation from some longtime Texas friends,
telling them that he was exploring a citizenship in Dominica because there were some interesting tax
opportunities for non–U.S. citizens. Then there were official forms to fill out, documents to submit,
background checks, and even a medical exam. All annoying but necessary officialdom Ross had to go
through for the sake of DPR and his future should he have to follow his emergency plan.
When he wasn’t dealing with his citizenship application, Ross made friends in Dominica. There
was Lou, a midthirties, sinewy local island woman who showed him the coves and shantytowns and
poured him lots of liquor–and–Coca-Cola drinks, a Dominican specialty. He spent time at the beach,
kicking a soccer ball back and forth with Kema, another local. He swam in the Lagoon River at
sunset, then spent the evening under a gazebo on Purple Turtle Beach, eating barbecue, plantains, and
rice, partying late into the night as the sound of the waves trickled onto the shore in the distance. It
really was paradise.