Virtually Dead Read online

  High-Tech Crime Solvers

  Virtually Dead

  USA Today

  Bestselling Author

  Edwin Dasso

  From USA Today Bestselling Author, Edwin Dasso, comes a gripping techno-thriller, part of a multi-author series tied together by an interlocking cast of characters, all centered around the fantastic new promise of high technology and the endless possibilities for crime that technology offers, in a world where getting away with murder can be not only plausible, but easy…if you just know how.

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  Praise for his Work:

  "Overall, Death Hub is a really satisfying thriller novel that is certain to entertain fans of the likes of Lee Child and Tom Clancy.” ~K.C.Finn for Reader's Favorite (Praise for Death Hub)

  “I really enjoyed this story and found it almost impossible to put down. The story was mesmerizing and definitely captured my attention. The characters are some of the best I have ever experienced in a book. I can't wait to read more books by this author = unbelievable imagination and talent!!” ~Steve Hildebrand

  Contents

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  About this Book

  About High-Tech Crime Solvers

  About the Author

  Acknowledgment

  A Note to the Reader

  Also by Edwin Dasso

  Virtually Dead©2020 Edwin Dasso

  Prologue

  Wes Watley stepped out of the trendy Washington, D.C. restaurant, pausing on the entrance step, gazing at the beautiful blossomed trees lining the old, undulating brick sidewalk. The celebration dinner had gone well. He rubbed his full belly, enjoying the slight but just right buzz he had from the wine. The fragrance of the cherry blooms wafting on the gentle evening breeze tickled at his nostrils. He smiled, taking in a deep breath of the fragrance. Life was good.

  He ducked away as a monarch butterfly flitted past his face. Before the sound of the gunshot even registered in his brain, a pressure wave from the supersonic round zipping past his head smacked against his face. The bullet ricocheted off the wall near him, fragments of brick burning into his face like a bunch of bee stings.

  Wes threw himself onto the ground, landing hard on the cobblestone sidewalk, the corners of the stones gouging into his ribs. He rolled until he butted against a car sitting nearby at the curb, wedging himself between the pavement and a tire. That’s an AK-47! Who the hell is crazy enough to be using one of those in this town?

  Wes’s gaze shot up to Cameron Leonard, Wes’s partner in his security firm. Cameron stood frozen in the doorway of the building, his eyes wide as he stared at Wes. Cameron was an IT whiz kid and definitely not used to being shot at…unless it was in a video game. Wes waved frantically at him with one hand, reaching under his jacket with the other, yanking his Glock from the shoulder holster.

  “Cameron! Get back inside and get the hell down! Tell everyone in there to get on the floor—and stay away from the windows!”

  Wes turned onto his stomach and crawled to the rear of the car, sneaking a quick glance around the bumper. The flickering light of muzzle flashes gave a fleeting, surrealistic view of a bearded face in the alley across the street, reminding Wes of some high-tech light show at one of the hip local bars. Bullets smacked into the car he was behind, creating a cacophony like the staccato of a rapid drumbeat on metal. Wes jerked his head back. Geysers of stone chips flew up from the surrounding sidewalk, a few bullets ricocheting up and shattering the window of the restaurant.

  The sniper stopped shooting. Time to load a new clip, eh, you dirtbag? Wes snapped his pistol up, resting his hand against the bumper to steady it, then fired three quick shots at the shooter. The would-be assassin responded by sending a fusillade of bullets sparking off the rear bumper of the car Wes was behind.

  Damn! He’s got me pinpointed. Wes ducked back, shooting a quick glance up at the restaurant window to make sure no one was in the line of fire. He low-crawled to the front of the car, positioning himself under the front bumper, concealing himself as best he could behind a tire. This gave him a better angle to return fire while offering more protection. He mopped sweat from his eyes then felt for the extra clip in his jacket pocket. Not much of a chance with just this pistol against a machine gun. A myriad of tactical contingencies for the scenario scurried through his mind as more bullets raked the car and sidewalk. If I’m lucky, I can hold him off until help arrives…hopefully.

  “Damn! When’s he going to run that clip out?”

  The shooting halted, and Wes again squeezed off several rounds toward where he’d last seen the muzzle flashes. A siren sounded in the distance, and he let out a long breath.

  “Finally!” He was going to be the loser if this little exchange continued much longer.

  Another barrage of automatic gunfire erupted for a few seconds, spraying rounds wildly across the front of the buildings. Suppressing fire—this guy has had some training. The shooting stopped, and Wes heaved a big sigh. He cocked his head, straining to hear. Were those footsteps retreating hurriedly down the alley?

  Wes rolled and sat up, brushing dirt from his clothes as he leaned his back against the side of the car. The prickly stings on his face got his attention. The hand he used to wipe at the abrasions came away covered with blood. He snatched a hanky from a pocket, held it against his face, and grunted.

  “Obviously, another satisfied customer,” he quipped. Who the hell could the shooter have been? And, more importantly, why was he so desperate to kill me?

  Wes was no stranger to gunshots, having spent eight years as an Army CID investigator then transitioning to the role of an FBI agent for ten years. He’d really expected to finish out his career at the Bureau. But, while saving the life of a good friend of his, Jack Bass, MD, he’d had a run-in with an FBI SWAT medic who had been waffling on making every effort to save Jack Bass’s life after Jack had been shot in the chest. Finally, the medic had agreed to continue working on Jack, even though Jack was clinically dead, but only after Wes had pulled his pistol and held the man at gunpoint. Jack had survived and recovered, but the same could not be said for Wes’s FBI career. The medic had filed an internal complaint, and Wes h
ad been “allowed” to resign or face an official investigation and possible charges.

  Wes had landed on his feet, though, soon starting a private security firm in the D.C. area, specializing in international crime and antiterrorism intelligence. He’d quickly established himself as a go-to expert in those areas and had recently been bringing on more staff to handle the rapidly growing workload.

  He rolled to his knees, peeking around the car. A police cruiser was tearing around a corner of the street. He stood slowly, still crouching behind the car, his legs shaking as he holstered his gun. Getting shot at was something one never got used to. The cop car screeched to a halt in the street, and the officers piled out. Guns drawn, they did a sweep of the area.

  One of them gazed in Wes’s direction. “You behind the car! Stand up with your arms raised above your head!”

  Wes brushed off his pants and raised his arms over his head.

  Chapter 1

  John, a video game tester, jumped from the virtual city landscape platform, screaming as he ripped at the latches of the mixed-reality “LiveIT” haptic suit he was wearing.

  “Ouch!” he howled.

  The get-up looked similar to a Star Wars Storm Trooper suit but was an ominous matte black color. He snatched the helmet off his head and tossed it onto the floor then bit at the fingertips of the gloves, yanking them off with his teeth. He shot repeated hateful glances at the observers sitting behind a large viewing window as he continued to drop pieces of the suit at his feet. He flinched and jumped then threw one of the gloves at the glass. The heavy plastic mitt smashed against the window, and the viewers behind the glass jumped.

  “Dammit, turn off the simulation! The test is over!”

  A man in the viewing booth got an embarrassed look on his face and hurriedly leaned forward, flicking a switch on the table in front of him.

  John fumbled with the latches on the side of the hard vest he wore, finally wriggling out of it and throwing it aside. He stared down at the multiple bruises on his chest and belly, some with rivulets of blood trickling from them. He dabbed at the blood with a fingertip then scowled at the audience.

  “This is bullcrap! I’m done with this mess!”

  He kicked off the leggings of the high-tech-looking suit, letting them drop onto the platform.

  A man sitting in the audience leaned forward, putting his mouth near a microphone. “Aren’t you overreacting a little, John? I think it’s just a matter of fine-tuning—”

  “No! I’m not overreacting. Testing video games is not supposed to be a fatal profession!” He dabbed again at the blood on his chest then growled. He bent down, picked up the helmet, and hurled it at the window of the audience booth. The helmet crashed into the glass hard enough to create a spiderweb fracture. The observers all recoiled, and one woman shrieked then threw a hand over her mouth.

  “John—take it easy, dude! You’re scaring some of our guests!”

  “Screw you—all of you! I’m outta here!” Wearing only his boxer shorts, John bolted through the door, slamming it behind him as he left.

  “John!” the man behind the glass called into the microphone. “John!”

  He wrinkled his brow and frowned as he turned to the others seated around him, his face flushing as he shrugged.

  “That’s the third tester we’ve lost on this deal. We don’t have any more.”

  He turned to a young man sitting in the rear of the small room and shook his head slowly. “Sorry, but I think we’re done here. Done with testing, period.” He shrugged. “Great idea but I don’t think there’s going to be a market for it…”

  Chapter 2

  Jack Bass, MD squinted as he bent down, scanning through the MRI images with the radiologist. “What do you think, Scott—doesn’t look like a vascular-related stroke to me, but you’re the expert.”

  Jack had worked primarily in an administrative role for a number of years but still worked an occasional weekend in the ER, just to keep involved with actual patient care. He enjoyed interacting with patients and even after being a physician for decades was still intrigued when an interesting case like this one presented.

  “I don’t think so, either, Jack. I just don’t see any typical anatomical pattern that would lead me to that conclusion. Doesn’t seem to follow any waterfall pattern from regional vascularity, so I wouldn’t suspect a thrombotic or embolic stroke. And there’s no evidence of a hemorrhage, so I’d say that’s ruled out, too.”

  Scott scooted his chair back from the large monitor, took off his glasses, and turned to Jack. “I guess it could have been a vaso-spastic event, but I don’t see any evidence of even temporary ischemia.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Plus, the damage just doesn’t seem to follow a vascular pattern. Definitely weird.”

  “Any other hints you can point out?”

  Scott pulled a pen from his pocket, placing the tip near an area of one of the images. “This is a bit strange. Look here.” He moved the makeshift pointer to several other images. “And here on these shots. “The bilateral symmetrical hyperintense signal in peri-third ventricular thalami and the peri-aqueductal regions are a characteristic MRI finding in some types of toxic encephalopathy.” He turned back to Jack. “But it could also reflect non-alcoholic Wernicke′s encephalopathy, drug-induced encephalopathy, or enteroviral encephalitis. Though, it would be odd for these findings to present as a stroke as you described.” He rubbed his chin and jabbed a thumb at the screen. “These findings just aren’t confined to a specific anatomic area like you’d expect to see in a typical stroke.”

  “Yeah, the patient’s unilateral ataxia was pretty pronounced, though.”

  Scott rested his glasses back on the tip of his nose and turned back to the monitor. “Got me a little stumped right now. Sounds like we need a little more history…maybe check on work-related chemical exposure?”

  “That’s a bit more of an investigation than we can take on in the ER,” Jack muttered and stood straight, blowing out a long breath. “We’ll stabilize him and call in the big brains from the neurology service to figure this out, I guess. I think I’ll hold the alteplase protocol for now—with such a cloudy diagnostic picture, I don’t want to potentially complicate things further.”

  “Probably not a bad idea. I’ll read up on cases that presented like this—see if I can turn up any additional differential diagnoses,” Scott said. “Interesting case.”

  Jack grunted. “I don’t like ‘interesting’ in the ER. I just want something I know how to fix—leave the mysteries for somebody else.” He clapped Scott on the shoulder. “I’ll read up, too, Scott. Maybe one of us can find something.” He backed up and turned toward the door. “Meanwhile, I guess figuring out the best treatment plan is the neurologist’s problem.”

  ❋

  (next day)

  “Dr. Bass, call on line three.”

  Jack glanced up at the patient’s face. “I’m sorry, I need to take a quick call.” He smiled at the elderly woman. “Then we’ll get a splint on that wrist of yours…and talk about some things you can do to reduce your risk of falling at home.”

  He squeezed her hand gently then stepped over to the wall phone and stabbed the blinking button. “Dr Bass.”

  “Jack, it’s Scott.”

  “Hey, Scott. What’s up?”

  “Might have an answer for you on that quasi-stroke case from yesterday. Might be from chronic methyl iodide exposure.”

  “Huh. Can I swing by later to chat with you about it? I’m taking care of a patient at the moment.”

  “Sure. I emailed you a copy of the article.”

  “Thanks, Scott. Much appreciated. Bye.”

  He turned back to his patient. “Now, let’s get you taken care of, young lady.”

  The woman brushed a lock of gray hair from her eye and giggled.

  Chapter 3

  The young man jabbed his TV remote toward the large-screen TV and hit the mute button as the closing credits of the movie, Ready Player One, rolled
across the screen.

  “I love that movie!”

  He huffed loudly and ran his fingers through his greasy hair, untwisting some of the long locks that entangled his fingers. Maybe I oughta just start wearing my hair in dreads, he thought absently. He hit the replay button, tossed the remote on the couch, then reached behind himself and pulled out the empty pizza container, throwing it on the floor before flopping back on the crumb-covered, grease-stained couch.

  “I wish the real world was just like the Oasis.” He growled. “It should be!”

  He hung his head and rubbed his jaw, the stubble of his sparse beard prickly against his hand. He picked a few crumbs of pizza crust from the front of his crumpled, sweat-stained shirt, tossing them on the carpet.

  “Reality sucks.”

  He turned his head and gazed at the helmet lying cock-eyed on the couch next to him then slowly picked it up, turning it around in his hands. He ran his fingers over the smooth, cool surface as he admired it. Suddenly, he tossed it aside and jumped from the couch to pace rapidly back-and-forth in the front of the TV as Ready Player One started to play again.

  “Reality needs to change,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No—I need to change reality! I’m tired of all these snobs in the world thinking they know what’s best. Thinking they’re better than everybody else. Better than me! They’re stupid, and I’m tired of them looking down their noses at me!”

  He kicked aside a couple of empty Red Bull cans on the floor as he strode, suddenly stopping and stomping one of them flat.

  “I’m going to do something about that…about them!”

  He raised his head, smiling. “Yeah! I’m going to make the world a better place.”

  He reached down, swatted a few flies away, then snatched up his helmet. He spun and dashed out the door of his apartment. He reached the alley behind his rundown apartment building, hopped onto his Vespa scooter, and zipped away.