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caught in a tree in the park and had climbed the branches, higher and higher, to rid the park of the
dangerous plastic bag. But his kindness had come with consequences. “I have poison oak rash from
head to toe,” he had e-mailed Julia a few days later. “I wish you were here to comfort me :(.”
Still, the ointment that could fix the pain would come soon enough, when Ross would be able to
see Julia again. He had booked a flight to Austin, planning to leave in a couple of weeks. He was
done with San Francisco. What choice did he have? The city knew too much. He would go to Austin
first, find another hiding place. Probably somewhere far, far away, where he could see his vision
through. Maybe it would all be a new beginning.
The site was making more money than he knew what to do with. He had tens of millions of
dollars on thumb drives scattered around his apartment. The problems, though abounding, had simply
become daily work obstacles for Ross. When he wrote in his diary that he had loaned a dealer half a
million dollars, or had Variety Jones deploy one of his soldiers to deal with another problem, or paid
hackers or informants $100,000 apiece, it was just a day in the office for Ross. Murders, extortion,
reprisals, and attacks had all just become the job. Sure, it was stressful at times, but in Ross’s
alternate universe he was king.
On the beach, as the fire roared, a massive fireworks display began exploding in the distance
like a magical, colorful rain. Boom! Boom! Boom! The thuds of the drum mixed with the sound of
fireworks bursting overhead, their burning embers sprinkling into the ocean.
At around midnight two new visitors joined the group, though not the kind that Ross wanted to
see: two San Francisco police officers walked up, inquiring into what was going on. But they weren’t
here for him. They politely said it was time to put out the fire; the beach was closing. One minute red
sparks shot violently into the sky, the next sand was being kicked over the embers as darkness
returned to the beach.
The troupe of friends gathered their things and walked back toward the parking lot, in the
direction of the white pickup truck.
The party, it seemed, was over.
As Ross slipped his black jacket back on and looked out into the darkness, he had no idea that a
team of undercover FBI agents were looking back at him, and that for the past two weeks they had
been watching his every move.