The Scheme

THE SCHEMEA JAKE MONTOYA FBI CRIME THRILLER SAM CADE THE SCHEMECopyright © 2021 by Sam Cade All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. PRINT: 978-1-7352133-5-4EBOOK: 978-1-7352133-4-7Published by: Black Point PressInterior formatting and cover art by: Rising Sign Books ACKNOWLEDGMENTSA special thanks to Katie Salidas of Rising Sign Books. She has been a tremendous resource regarding all aspects of indie publishing. She formatted this manuscript for ebook and print publishing as well as participated in the creation of the cover. She is an author in her own right with many books available to purchase. She also guided me through some advertising for my original book, BLACK POINT. I highly suggest contacting her for any of your needs or questions about the indie publishing universe. Contact her at www.risingsignbooks.com BOOKS BY SAM CADE Black PointThe SchemeThe Midnight Man (2023) SCORPIONSMOKY BLUE LIGHT bounced off a cache of computer monitors onto Scorpion’s pallid face. The digital screens were vertically stacked, three on top of three. They were big mothers, thirty-two-inch gaming monitors. The small room was otherwise dark, leaving the space with the ambiance of an analyst’s cubicle at a Central Intelligence Agency nerve center. Like a guy sitting there tracking a cell of al Qaeda men skulking around in Pakistan. Through a pair of Bose earbuds Scorpion listened to the tranquil “Blanket of Stars” by Eroded Sky. Something easy on the morning nerves.It was early May, 6:17 in the morning, sunrise in 21 minutes. Outside, the heat was in the planning phase of reaching blast furnace temperatures by mid-day. The e-book version of American Kingpin was displayed on all six screens, the story of Ross Ulbricht, the criminal mastermind who created the Silk Road website, a wild bazaar of a place dedicated primarily to selling drugs online with payments made in Bitcoin. Scorpion leaned back in his ergonomic gaming chair; a chair designed for a guy who could stare at a screen like a zombie for twenty hours without a twitch. He was at the beginning of the last chapter. It was the third time he’d read the book, because he liked digital shenanigans. After launching the text, he pulled a long wooden kitchen match from a rectangular cardboard box resting on his desk, ripped the business end across the strike pad, and splashed the flame to the day’s first Jamaican brushfire, a fat doobie of herb. Scorpion had been an epic dope smoker since he was twelve. The kind of guy that would have Willie Nelson, or maybe even Snoop Dogg, flip out with paranoia and lock up their shit if he came around. He inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs, held it as long as he could, and let it drift out of his nose and mouth. His eyes closed for the spiritual event. One big rip…and he was IN the book.Wake n bake. He snorted at the thought.A car door closed across the street, one he recognized, a door that connected with the solid latch of precisely engineered components. His fingers tweaked the blinds apart for a peek; he saw exactly what he expected to see. Lit by a streetlight, a man stepped out of a glossy black Maserati holding a minimalist leather Tom Ford man bag. Guy’s a total pussy, he thought. Ugliest thing a man could buy for $2500 bucks. The car tells the story, dude.The fellow, health-club trim, about fifty, with dark, thick hair, wore a summer-weight linen suit. He was a well-known architect and property developer. The signs on his building and around Miami said so.The street between Scorpion’s apartment and the architect’s office was the great divide in the neighborhood’s gentrification perimeter, invisible, like the Iron Curtain in the Cold War. The apartment was a crumbling eighty-year-old three-story brick eyesore with faulty plumbing, creaky floors, and last century electrical wiring. Everything on the architect’s side of the street was an assemblage of ultra-chic offices and residential lofts, all re-imagined by the architect’s development company. Soaring ceilings, oversize windows flushing spaces with bright natural light, glossy reclaimed-wood floors, exposed brick walls, and updated high-capacity cabling for the digital age. IN AN ODD twist of fate, the man on the street was also the cheating husband of one of Scorpion’s clients. Scorpion installed, for cash only, of course, an audio and video surveillance system in an ultra-luxe oceanfront Bal Harbour condominium a couple of months earlier. With scant detail provided by the client, it was plain for anyone to assume that this was a case of spousal distrust.Scorpion casually asked, but the client wouldn’t reveal the name of his husband. The more the client hid the information, the more Scorpion’s mind dazzled with temptation. A project was right before his eyes.It was only a simple matter to identify the man in question. Scorpion had the address of the condominium, he’d been there. Digitally, he searched the county real estate records of the property ownership. He found a name. And lookee here. Serendipitously, the man works in an office building directly outside of his bedroom.But unexpectedly, the client asked for a meet at a coffee shop three weeks after Scorpion installed the A-V system. At the first meet the client revealed a simple need. Who’s the cheating bastard fucking? But at the coffee shop an