Up From The Deep Vaughn Jackson (book club suggestions TXT) 📖

three stories below. The back of his apartment faced a dense wooded area, perfect for his escape. He heard the sound of his door being kicked in, and hopped onto the fire escape, sliding down by holding onto the outside of the ladder. His hands burned as he dropped into the bushes below, crouching amongst the thick green foliage.

From above, he heard someone shout, “He’s gone into the woods,” in a thick Korean accent.

Two sets of heavy bootsteps clanged on the ladder and thudded to the ground right next to his hiding spot. He cupped his hand over his mouth and held his breath. The two pairs of boots shuffled on the ground nearby before taking off into a run towards the woods. He watched the two men disappear into the trees. When he could no longer see them, he let out a deep breath and relaxed. He lay there for what felt like an hour before disentangling himself from the branches of the shrubbery and set off at a quick pace. As he rounded his building, he saw a black Lexus parked behind his car. With a mischievous grin, he took the knife and slashed three of the four tires.

“Kick down my door will you, motherfuckers?” he sneered.

Satisfied with his work, he began his jog to the farthest public cafe within walking distance. He needed to check on D-Base first, then he could try to figure out what was going on, and what it had to do with the doctored photos from the Mariana Trench.

#

It was just before nine, so the cafe was packed. People filled the space in some bastardization of a line, waiting to order lattes and re-heated breakfast sandwiches. Devonte crept in with his hood on and slid into a booth near an outlet. His laptop booted quickly, and he tried to remote connect into his server.

Connection Failed.

“Shit.” In his panic to escape he forgot that he unplugged his desktop. He rubbed at the stubble on his face. The hair was coarse and uneven. Even at twenty-one it wasn’t growing in like he wanted.

“Dad, tell me you listened to me on this at least,” he muttered. In his father’s spare room, the one that would have been his if he hadn’t moved out, he’d convinced his dad to let him set up a backup server. “You promised not to touch it.”

He put in his password. Connecting...Welcome, Devonte!

Devonte pumped his fist in a silent cheer, then, noticing the strange looks the other patrons gave him, attempted to make himself less suspicious. He pulled down his hood and adjusted the way he was sitting. The gun pressed uncomfortably into his thigh, so he grabbed at his crotch and shifted it, glancing around, hoping people had resumed ignoring him. For the most part they had, save one older gentleman in the corner who stared intently in Devonte’s direction. He did his best to ignore him. Old people are just like that, he thought.

On his laptop he pulled up the data and the photos from the morning. “Okay, show me what you got,” he said. Most of the time, when a picture is modified, the changes are saved in the new picture. He went and found a tool online that claimed to be able to find that changelog and recreate the original image. The progress bar said it would take at least two hours.

“Public Wi-Fi,” he grumbled. At the same time, his stomach growled. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a granola bar, unwrapping and finishing it in three bites. “It’s okay, just try and relax.”

He logged into the message app that he and D-Base used and saw that his friend still appeared offline. A message popped up on his screen. Tempest.

Where did you go?

Devonte ignored it.

Another message. Where are you now?

And another. Your friend is asking for you.

Fed up, Devonte responded. Fuck you, creep. What do you want?

Just you now.

A chill ran down Devonte’s spine. He logged out of the app and closed the software. It’s okay, he thought, San Fran is a big city. They won’t be able to find you that easily.

“You’re in trouble,” a gravelly voice said.

Devonte jumped and reached for the gun in his waistband. The older gentleman slid into the seat across from him.

“You’re nervous, and packing,” the man said in his smoker’s voice.

Sweat beaded on Devonte’s brow. He clung tight to the handgun. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man held up both hands. “I want to get my wallet out.” He lowered his voice. “Please don’t shoot me.”

Devonte nodded.

The man pulled out a badge. A younger version of his face stared out from the picture underneath the words: Inspector Raymond Dehane.

“You’re police?” Devonte said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yet,” Inspector Dehane said.

“The gun is for my protection,” Devonte hissed.

“So, you are carrying?”

Fuck, Devonte thought. “My license is in my wallet.” He hoped it was still there.

The inspector shrugged. “I feel like there is a bigger issue here, than whether or not you are allowed to carry the gun. Why do you think you need it? Protection from what? Gang violence?”

Devonte frowned. “No, why would it be— oh, you think because I’m black—”

A few heads turned as his volume increased. Devonte scowled and lowered his voice.

The inspector cut him off. “I meant no offense. Please, what is your situation?”

“Why should I trust you?”

Inspector Dehane flipped open his trench-coat, making the inside visible only to Devonte. Inside the coat pocket gleamed a polished silver revolver. “If I thought you were a threat, I could have confronted you in a less polite manner.” He gave a tired smile.

Devonte released his grip on the gun with a sigh. “I’ll show you,” he said, motioning for the man to come around to the same side of the table as him.

He minimized the application running over the photos and re-opened the messaging app. His jaw dropped. All of the messages were gone. His and D-Base’s from before today, and the ones that included