Code Kill

By Richard Jenkins

Blake, a wayward teen on the cusp of following his estranged father into the army, discovers his phone has been hacked by a mysterious app. Using what appears to be an artificially intelligent avatar, the app convinces Blake to help it investigate the brutal abduction of its creator, a loner computer genius specializing in AI called Jacob.

Blake accepts the challenge, not least to enrich himself with the rewards offered as payment to draw him in.
Initially unafraid and dismissive of any potential threat, Blake soon discovers he's not the only one playing to win the spoils at any cost. The shadowy international organization that helped fund Jacob's work and the UK intelligence service also conspire to control the code that Jacob has unleashed.

Facing personal ruin and battling the guilt of his criminal actions, Blake must become both detective and soldier while remaining an amateur - an adolescent alone, fighting his way out through the world of professional men, women and something beyond them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Jenkins
• Release date: Mar 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9780957056046

Richard Jenkins

Well, I just love to write, to think about and to come up with stories. Maybe my life is boring.I have been writing since the age of 15. Fortunately, life got in the way, and now, aged 38; I have finally finished my first novel.My influences span literature, theatre and film - if a story is good and engaging, it's all I need.Those who have influenced me are many, far too many authors and creators to list here - any genre, any era, if the story has got some humanity, I'll listen.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Help me. Find me. Dead or alive, It says, over and over, pleading, an avatar on my phone - a CGI 3D face, an unremarkable male aged about thirty - its voice coming through the earbud I have in.

Is it malware? It's nothing installed by me, not by choice. A game, an ad, an app?

I don't take it seriously.

Fuck off, I mutter, about to kill it with an uninstall.

Blake. It knows my name. Help me. I am the victim of kidnap or murder.

You? I whisper, as our shitty new house is shitty and small, and my mum is in the bedroom next to mine, and the curtain-thin walls could easily reveal I was breaking her rule of not having my phone in my bedroom at night.

Me, it answered.

I can talk to you? I ask.

Yes. Me. Something of me.

The voice has emotion, too much, makes it sound weak. But its eyes have none.

Who then? I ask.

I am Jacob. Not completely, but I am him, created in the knowledge that this time would come.

His murder or kidnap? I ask, amused at the nonsense.

Yes.

So he knew it was coming, his own kidnap or murder?

Yes.

And he still let it happen?

One flame against the sea. Jacob did his very best.

What, you? He left you to sort it all out?

I will work to free him.

What if he's dead?

Then we will bring those responsible to justice.

I laugh, too loudly, then ask, Who is he, this Jacob?

A scientist.

Who built you.

Yes. Don't think of me as some cheap, simple gimmick.

No? Then go make me a coffee or show me your moves to knock out a killer.

His knowledge is mine, all mine to use, all his suspicions, the clues, the leads. His obsession to uncover, to learn the truth. No need to eat, sleep, befriend, no human waste. Of course, I cannot punch, but I can hack away relentlessly, unyielding. You must believe. I am him, my master. I serve him, myself. It is all I do. I serve without question or doubt. Instructions own me. I am ruled and offer no protest. I will complete the task I, my creator, began. I am his pain. His need to win.

Jesus, you heard of Twitter, two eighty characters max, and always enough.

You have to be convinced. You have to know.

So tell me more. Jacob knew the crime might happen. Why? What was he up to?

His work.

Was what?

I cannot say. Not yet. Work through the levels, and you will know everything.

So just a game, is it?

Trust is the issue. I have to know I can trust you.

I'm not applying for some shitty job that I can't do without.

Correct, but-

I cut it off, Why not go to the police?

We can't trust them, or rather what lies above them.

So go to a sixteen-year-old. That's the move. That's the class of soldier required for your freedom or revenge? Who's the main man of a suspect, a twelve-year-old girl? Who is this Jacob, a fuckin pedo? Sounds like his death is proper good news.

Who would suspect you, Blake, sixteen and completely unknown?

You know me.

But a soldier? Who would think you a soldier at all.

Try me.

But you have natural stealth. No one we have to fear will ever suspect you.

No? But why me? Why ask me?

You were selected. The best there could be. The algorithm's choice. It cannot be debated.

I pause, thinking. It's good. I mean, this is starting to be the best and longest conversation I've had in months.

And what would I do? I ask.

Leg work, be the eyes, the ears, the hands on the ground. To assist me.

So you need a robot, manual labour, does as its told?

A partner.

You AI? Or is there a man in there, on a mic, watching maybe? 'Cause whoever you are, don't think you can ever scare me. Or win anything out of me.

The flesh behind me has vanished. And I need your help to investigate, to solve a crime.

Me, yeah, right, me. Chosen by the algorithm, which means the big fuck all in anyone's language.

They, it is the truth.

Prove it.

Your proximity to the crime scene. Jacob was based in Shrewsbury, as you are now. A town you are new to, so a space you can move through unacknowledged, another layer of transparency. You have no friends. Not here. No roots to trap or influence you. Digital records show this. No friendly communications. Online gameplay only, in which you show considerable skill. Beyond school, you rarely go out. You have time to act. You hold a black belt in karate. Your school records show a willingness or need to fight. The curse of the new boy. Seven different schools following your father's military career and your talent for getting expelled. Another school, another battle to win or lose. Records suggest you never give in, that you always eventually win. You plan to join the army. Against your mother's wishes, you plan to follow your father's footsteps. A top-level soldier. Top secret ops we have yet to uncover. A genetic advantage you likely share. You have something to prove. Your father is perhaps more a myth to you than real. In recent years, your time spent together has been minimal. Communications confirm a difficult relationship. Your father is now a private military contractor spending most of his time abroad, and willingly so. Your mother divorced him and, against your wishes, married another man. The three of you live together in a too-small house. All that unwelcome reality too close and touching. You dream of escape. Life at present bores you. Your daily routine is an imposition. You will accept this challenge. You want to escape into a world you think is real. We know you are ready. You will follow your father, who was never a coward.

Yeah, but for Queen and country, or at least a monthly wage.

In the house, you will find a prepaid credit card giving you access to funds ninety per cent of the UK population would consider generous. For expenses and sensible reward. Nothing to draw attention to yourself. You will also find a top-of-the-range phone that is unlimited in every way.

And you think you can trust me?

One level at a time, Blake.

And what would level one be?

A simple task, search the crime scene. Enter our house, from which Jacob vanished.

His house, a Shrewsbury address?

Yes. Address and route will appear here.

Won't be tonight, but tomorrow.

Do you commit?

Yes.

Then tomorrow it must be.

Not that it will. I'll take a look tonight, just to get a feel.

Mum and him, the stepdad, their crap jobs, working for me, packing them tight into sleep. At the factory, they clock in to work. At home, they clock in to sleep. Dutiful people. Working alternative shifts and sharing one car for the 20-mile commute, they rarely see each other.

Today was a rarity, their schedules aligned to give them time off together. And what did they do? They slept. That's their life, work and separation. Making up for the waste, all that time Mum spent nursing him back to health while making her bank balance critical. Still, it puts me off their radar, so some good done at least.

I had to get involved. Whether true or not, I couldn't resist. I knew too little to walk away with any sense of self-respect. As my dad told me, you have to find the edge. You have to lean over and take a look to know what's really waiting below.

If Jacob knew that much about me, I had to learn more about him. To even the score, to close the gap.

We think technology is better than us. And Jacob, the app, I can totally believe. Of course, there's a man behind it. But the gap between him and me could be the thinnest piece of glass ready to smash and fuse our worlds together with a burst of violence. Or the man could be lost to me. The gap could be vast - the future and the past. With Jacob the future and me the past.

Like my dad says, mankind is fucked. Either party to the end or play for glory and get a hard-on for war.

The roads are deserted; the street lights off. It's three in the morning, and the world feels good. An easy twenty-minute bike ride into town, through the Quarry, a park in the centre of Shrewsbury, then over the river to the posh part of town, an area named Kingsland.

I've memorized the route so I can leave my phone behind. I have to consider it hacked and able to track my location.

I stash my bike behind a hedge to move silently on foot. The street is wide and generous. Houses hide behind trees and substantial driveways.

I don't feel wrong in any way, not watched or judged. The streets are public, and no one owns the night, so I'll take the right of way regardless of the time.

I find the house, number twelve, and stop at the driveway, a gate blocking my way. But the wall is easy to scale, and the trees behind it give me cover.

Nothing much happens in Shrewsbury, not kidnap or murder, which was part of the charm pulling me towards the edge. We three kings, the newbies in town.

My dad talks about underground rivers - hidden wars, conflicts, corruption - flowing beneath the surface of everyday life and always flowing, never any drought to dry them up, always new shit to fill the source.

A thin moon keeps ducking behind clouds to make the darkness total. No light shines from inside the house, but no surprise there given the hour.

I'm not afraid of someone being in - Jacob or whoever. If I flush them out, I win. Truth and bullshit released in one. But better learn the truth unseen. Any commotion in a street like this would scramble the police fast away, although all to my advantage. Me, technically a child, lured to a house by some man inside. Why, for what? No need to ask. He's scum without question. Could be innocent. A pawn perhaps, but either way, I have to know more.

It's hard to hear silence. I try, wanting the chance to catch a sound that gives a game away, but I fail. Silence, I suppose, is impossible. There's always something that gets inside the mind to spark imagination or even sometimes emotion.

A good stretch of darkness leads to the house, the perfect hiding ground. Of course, I think I'm clever, one step ahead, but not enough to make me stupid. However remote, there's a chance someone is waiting hidden, the darkness their friend as much as mine.

The space feels enclosed, foreign, the perfect ground to kick-off an ambush. So I don't stall. I move forwards as quickly as I can, crouched low to the ground to make the target as small as possible and ready to spring eject up to escape or attack.

Leaving a patch of lawn, I hit the driveway - hard and silent under my feet so tarmac or brick. No cars block my way as I race towards the house.

I was expecting a security light to activate, but nothing comes on to shock the darkness out.

Reaching the house, I put my back against the wall and wait, expecting, ready, listening hard, but no sound rises above the ruckus inside.

The house, to me at least, is massive. I'd guess five bedrooms and more bathrooms than we have bedrooms. It makes me wonder what was going on inside.

Looking up towards the roofline, I can make out what appears to be a security light fixed to the wall. If it was working, I should have set it off.

I move to a large bay window and peer through, my face close to the glass but not touching. The curtains are open; the room beyond just black.

I thought everyone closed their curtains at night if at home to do so.

What looks more suspicious, a house in the day with curtains closed, or one at night with the curtains open? If the deed had been mine, kidnap or murder, then time to fade away, I'd have left the curtains open.

Another bay window on the other side of the front door, I find curtains open, the room beyond as black as the first.

The front door is recessed. I step inside and put my gloved hand through the letterbox, but it gets stuck before it can touch anything other than nothing.

Feeling with my hands, I search the tiled ground for debris and find a stone. With my ear to the letterbox, I push the stone through. The sound it makes when it hits the floor is soft and muted. Paper, an envelope perhaps, or that newspaper the residents of Shrewsbury get delivered for free?

I find another stone and, this time, flick it through the letterbox to force it beyond any uncollected post. A second later, a harder sound like a stone on wood or ceramic tile.

Fixed to the wall next to the door is a locked key box, which I try and force open. It doesn't budge. I'll have to wait for Jacob to give me the code tomorrow.

I circle the house. The three doors I encounter are locked, and the two back windows reveal no more than those at the front. Several security lights are fixed to the house but dozing on the job, none punch out light as I pass their gaze.

Just below the front roofline, I see a shape I think is a burglar alarm bell box. But don't these have a small light, flashing or not, so any would-be nighttime burglar would see the threat and think twice?

The double garage is locked. Maybe a car is parked inside. But who can take the hassle of pulling in and out of a garage in this day and age? Someone who wants to hide?

If Jacob really did fear for his life, wouldn't his house be pimped with working security? Not if he wanted to move in and blend out of sight. And who knows his talents? What hidden layers of security could a science/techno genius install? Well, nothing too effective. He still got snatched or killed. Or maybe it's all on me. I'm front of the stage, the star of the show.

What have I learned? Not much. Possibilities, nothing more. Although, if I had to choose, I'd say the house was empty.

I pull out my knife - a hunting knife that belonged to my dad when he was a boy. The five-inch lock blade makes it illegal to carry in public, but the streets at this hour are hardly being out in public.

I slice off a strip of bark from a tree and cut it into three small pieces. I then wedge each thin, rigid piece between an exterior door and its frame. If someone opens the door, the bark will fall out and let me know someone has been in or out when I return to the house the following night.

CHAPTER 2

I enter the kitchen. Mum and the Stepdad are cramped together around the table, sharing twenty minutes before he leaves to start a shift at work. His breakfast, her dinner. I've eaten already cooked my own. Chilli made from scratch. I often cook to feed us all. I'd left them some in the pan, but they couldn't take the heat.

I just popped in to tell a lie - I was off to join a karate class.

Really? Mum says, rejuvenated by what for her is a pleasant surprise.

I pick up a spoon and the pan of chilli and stand scoffing what should have been theirs, waiting to deal with the questions before I can make my getaway.

Where, at the school? Mum asks.

School's closed. It's the holidays, I say sarcastically to keep in character.

Then where?

The swimming baths in the quarry. It's got a gym and all sorts.

Well, that's great.

Great? Really? Yeah, for her. That's how low we've fallen.

She continued, How did you find out about it?

Someone from school. Their dad runs it.

You've been talking to people?

No.

Well, you must have-

Fending off questions, that's all.

Well, it's people making an effort, Blake.

Doing their job.

Meaning?

My officially appointed new best friend. All new kids get one. Turns out we both do karate.

Well, good, that's great. What about money? What does it cost? Here, let me pay.

Costs nothing. I'm only watching.

Why just go to watch?

He might be a prick.

Blake! Who?

The instructor.

Your friend's dad.

She's not my friend.

She?

Yeah, a girl? Well, men are pricks, who can punch better, so,

Blake!

On average, not all, by no means.

I glance at the stepdad. He knows it, too, although he doesn't dare look at me. I turn away to face the stove. There's a pause. I suspect mum and him share a look to offer support to each other and confirm restraint.

Right, well, is she any good?

No, she's ginger, not my type.

I meant at karate!

How do I know? I say it loud to stop a lecture.

Well, what belt is she? asks Mum, just trying to keep the conversation alive.

What's it matter? She ain't good enough. Not enough to fend me off. If she tries anything, she'll be straight on her knees.

I know, in 2022. But whatever happened to the fine art of pissing people off?

Blake!!

Joking! And going! I'll be back about nine.

Wait. Take some money for a drink or something.

Job done. I leave.

I told Jacob I'd be there at seven, but I plan to arrive at six-fifteen. I want some life left in the day, but the night still nice and black, and Jacob perhaps unprepared.

I must stop calling it Jacob. I'll call it The App instead. My dad has a technique of remembering faces when he's at work or in the field. He assigns the face a made-up name, usually something stupid or taking the piss. The name should connect the person to an image in your head but never be too friendly or personal. He adapted advice he heard from a man who ran a smallholding farm. If you name your animals, you risk turning them into pets which complicates matters when you take them to slaughter.

I park my bike at the swimming baths. I based my lie on fact. The karate class starts at seven, but Ava has no connection. She does have ginger hair, though, which is long and shockingly red, but none of the wild, my dad says, makes every redhead an interesting possibility. Too worthy, and dull, too keen to please. A girl who volunteers to be the special friend of the new boy with special needs. The guilty posh, my dad would call her, people who, if I had to, would be the best sort to rob.

I jog away through the Quarry and over Porthill Bridge - my hooded tracksuit giving cover and making me feel legit. In one gloved hand, I clench my phone in the other, my knife.

The road I have to cross is busy with traffic driving into town. A burst of speed takes me across. A car horn blasts my way. I refrain from giving the finger, fearing I could drop my knife or phone.

Kingsland is the most alive I've seen it, including today mid-afternoon when I rode through on my bike. Seeing the house in daylight tells me nothing new.

There are plenty of lighted windows lining the street. And several cars pass me, and a man walking a dog. But nothing makes me change my mind or hesitate. When I reach the house, I jump the wall and hide amongst the trees, a brief pause to settle in.

The three pieces of bark remain in place. Moving to the front door, I turn on my phone and bring The App to life. He, it, gets straight down to business saying,

You're here, Blake. Earlier than you said. Good. 5671, now open the box and take the key.

I follow the instructions and find a single door key in the otherwise empty box.

As I slide the key into the lock, The App chooses to share a detail - the electricity is off. So once inside, I will need to turn it on.

Why's it off? I ask, suspicion making me tense.

Ask those whose crime we investigate. It is how the perpetrators left the scene. The fuse box is in a cupboard under the stairs. Just flip the master switch.

And is this cupboard empty?

It is.

Yeah, well, if I even find a spider, you can...

I turn the phone off. I'm not sure why, although, no point telling a machine to go fuck off.

I twist the key then push the door. As it slowly opens, I aim my phone inside, so the screen throws some light beyond the entrance. A hallway, barely lifted out of the dark, but one I reckon beats for size every room in the rented shithole I get to call my house. To my right, I can see a staircase, which rises beyond the light to vanish into black. I hear nothing to cause alarm. I step inside, knife extended. A light switch flicked changes nothing. I kick a pile of uncollected mail and count two editions of the free weekly paper. The air is no warmer than the air outside. I leave the front door open. Screen light illuminates nothing of menace, but what could lie waiting beneath the stairs? I think, open the door and stab the knife in, catch anything that shouldn't be there. But I hesitate, think, no. What if?

I don't feel like being slow. I rush to the cupboard and snatch the door open at a good arm's length, then more as I instinctively shuffle back. Nothing leaps out. But I leap forward, stabbing and slashing the knife into the space inside. As I hook a bladed punch, my gloved knuckles graze a wall, but nothing else connects.

On the fuse box, I find a dozen or so switches that all point up, but one, on its own, points down. I flip it up. It changes nothing.

The light switch I tried gets pressed again. Light fills the hall. It's empty. No furniture, no pictures on the wall. Still silence inside, not even plumbing creaking into life.

I shut the front door loudly, slamming it. Then stand there waiting, listening. No sound competes with my thumping heart; nothing creaks or rustles or creeps into play. The indoor security camera fixed to the ceiling watches me dead-eyed. A security chain and two heavy bolts fitted to the door confirms someone past or present took home security seriously.

Eight minutes pass easily. When I walk away, my heart is tottering away at a calm fifty-five.

The furniture in the living doesn't match the house, too young, too new, too thinly spread. Only the fixtures and fittings belong. Having been shunted around from house to house, I know these come as part of the deal. The curtains, carpet, wall and ceiling lights all ooze tasteful cash and unity. The rest - a plain table or desk with a single wooden chair; a futon, just like the one I once had to use, with quilt and pillow dumped on top; a leather recliner, soft for comfort and looking new; and a mountain bike, which again looks newly bought as well as top-of-the-range expensive. What else takes my eye? The space, which owns the room

I prowl into every room knife and senses primed and ready but stumble into little more than soulless emptiness, all of which Jacob has seen fit to put under surveillance using home CCTV. There's a camera in every room.

In the kitchen, at least I find food. But all of it vegan fluff - shitty portions for one and maybe a fantasy friend. The use-by date on a chilled three-bean enchiladas ready meal has a week to go, as do several other So Organic and Sainsbury's Taste the Difference products.

I find no alcohol, just several bottles of sparkling water and a couple of bags of organic ground coffee. The usual appliances are all built-in. The cupboards are bare. One draw holds a scattering of cutlery. On the drainer, I count a few plates and bowls.

Only one of the four bedrooms shows signs of recently housing a human. Ironed clothes hang in a built-in wardrobe - seven pairs of dark coloured casual trousers along with plenty of dull-arsed t-shirts and sweats. All look hardly worn, and they're all the same brand, Folk, a brand that's new to me. On the floor is a neatly folded pile of clean white towels.

A bathroom reveals soap, shampoo, a charging beard trimmer, toilet paper, towels, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I touch nothing, thinking about a dead man's DNA colliding with my own.

Walking down the stairs, I sniff the air. I had half expected to taste the smell of death, but the air has no malice, nor even any of that mustiness houses get when sealed off from the outside world.

Back in the living room, I turn on my phone and eyeball The App. His stare tells me what? That I actually believe it's looking at me.

It holds my stare for a couple of seconds then speaks. So you didn't find a spider, Blake?

A little one, a money one, so show me the money, Jacob?

I will, but first a laptop needs to connect.

I ask where. The App tells me to look on the futon under the pillow. There I find a MacBook Pro. On the table, I start it up. Jacob tells me how and gives me the password to hack me in. The desktop screen reveals nothing. I see no personalisation, no background image, nothing to hint who this Jacob is.

As I wait for further instruction, I wonder why Jacob's enemies left the MacBook behind. Whatever they were after, surely any dick would think to check the man's computer? Perhaps they did and found nothing. But why not whip the MacBook away and take time to analyze it? Maybe all they needed to do was snatch the man. Computers don't care if you beat them to shit for failing to give up information. Perhaps they feared it had a tracking device installed, or Jacob loaded it with viruses or whatever? Never underestimate your enemy, I suppose.

I'd have taken the MacBook if only to destroy it. It's a competitive world. Nothing is of value to just one man. And what value has the prize that requires a man kidnapped and/or murdered?

I think about exploring the MacBook myself, even wondering if I could acquire it for free or at a knockdown price. But then the screen crashes to a single slab of blue. The App, no doubt, is making it worthless. Why, what information does it have to hide?

The few minutes of silence is broken by The App.

Thank you, Blake. I know so much more now.

I look at The App. A glint in its eye shows satisfaction. An algorithm. Who cares? Aren't we all just algorithms?

I conceded a task to The App. Now I want the rewards as offered. I tell it I need it to prove its word. Not that I do, real or not, all I want is the money promised. I have my price, like everyone. Let's hope it doesn't have an algorithm to calculate how cheap I really am.

It directs me to a torch, then out through the back door into the garden, across a patio, down a gravelled path to stop at a junction, a sharp right turn that cuts across a large expanse of lawn that leads to a fence.

Dead centre, it tells me, walk to the middle, the absolute dead centre, it says, as if boasting.

I do, my best guess anyway, which proves pretty good because I quickly find it. Pushing the gravel from the path, I first unearth a metre square plastic board, which I remove to uncover a safe buried in the ground, its door pointing up.

The code is the same as the key box. The space inside is small, just enough to store two heavy-duty zipped sealed plastic bags. The first contains no surprises - several USB drives, an iPhone, an iPad, one charger, and a prepaid credit card. The second, a handgun and two boxes of ammunition.

For a second, I don't believe my find. It doesn't look real, too far-fetched, but also too familiar. It's just a gun. Or, as my dad would say, a weapon. You never use the term