Chapter 5: Code and Consequences

I hid my laptop and some hacking tools in the glove compartment ahead of time.

It felt like prepping for a heist. I double-checked the charger cables, the custom USB stick, the little toolkit I’d built back in grad school. I even packed a couple of Red Bulls, just in case.

After work, my boss got in the car, saw his phone battery was almost dead, and handed it to me to charge.

He grumbled about the charger in his office being busted—exactly as I’d planned. I’d swapped it out that morning, leaving a broken cord in its place. He didn’t suspect a thing.

Of course, this was my doing—I’d secretly swapped out his office charger so he’d have to use mine.

I played it cool, plugging his phone into my USB cable. My heart raced as my code started running in the background. To him, it just looked like his phone was charging.

I plugged his phone into my tool’s USB cable and started charging—and hacking.

The screen flickered, but he didn’t notice. I kept my eyes on the road, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary.

I deliberately took the most congested route and chatted with him about his favorite NFL teams to keep him distracted.

We argued about the Bears’ playoff chances, swapped stories about tailgate parties at Soldier Field, and cursed the traffic on the Kennedy. He barely glanced at his phone, too busy ranting about the new head coach and the time he almost got into a brawl at Ditka’s Bar.

We were stuck in traffic for an hour and a half. After dropping him off at home, I returned his phone. A message popped up: "System update available."

My hands shook as I handed it back. “Looks like it’s updating,” I said, trying to sound casual. He barely grunted, already heading inside.

That was my program—no matter if he clicked cancel or confirm, his phone would reset to factory settings and erase everything. He’d blame Apple, never suspect me.

I’d spent all night coding the update prompt, making sure it looked legit. He’d never know what hit him.

Now, Marissa would finally be free from his blackmail, and I could sleep a little easier.

I felt lighter than I had in days. I texted Marissa a thumbs-up emoji, then found a greasy spoon diner and ordered pancakes, even though it was almost midnight. For the first time in a while, I thought maybe things would be okay.

I found a small diner for dinner. About an hour later, my boss called me in a panic—his phone was broken.

My phone buzzed while I was halfway through my coffee. His name flashed on the screen, all caps: “CALL ME NOW.”

I asked what happened.

He was frantic, voice cracking. “Eddie, all my photos and contacts are gone! Customer service says they’ve never seen this before. You’re smart—can you help me fix it? I’ll pay you a repair fee!”

The words “repair fee” made me pause.

I pictured another fat Venmo payment, maybe enough to pay off my car. But then I remembered the risk—if he took it to a real tech, they might figure out what I’d done.

My boss was generous—I knew that. This repair fee would be no small sum.

He always paid in cash or gifts—never left a paper trail. I knew what was coming.

Besides, if I didn’t help and he took it to a tech expert, not only might they recover the data, but they might also discover it was hacked. Then I’d be in real danger.

I imagined the police at my door, my boss’s lawyers breathing down my neck. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm.

So I told him, "I can fix it, but my tools are at home. I’ll need to take the phone back with me."

I tried to sound confident, like I did this sort of thing all the time. He hesitated, but finally agreed.

"Eddie, there’s very important stuff on that phone. I’m counting on you—take this seriously!"

He stared at me, eyes cold. “If you screw this up, I’m finished. Don’t let me down.”

I was confused. Weren’t those just photos used to threaten Marissa? Why was he so panicked?

What else could he be hiding? I started to wonder if there was more to this than I realized.

Maybe there was something even more important on his phone?

I pictured bank accounts, blackmail material, maybe even worse. My hands shook as I took the phone.

With that question in mind, I went to his house to pick up the phone. As he handed it to me, he also slipped me a black bag. "Don’t forget—you must fix my phone!"

He pressed the bag into my hands, eyes darting around the hallway. “Don’t open it here. Just go.”

Back in my car, I checked the bag.

A gold bar.

It was heavy, solid, stamped with a serial number and a logo I didn’t recognize. I’d never held that much money in my life.