Infinite pieces volume 3, p.1
Infinite Pieces Volume 3, page 1
INFINITE PIECES VOLUME 3
A Good Day To Die and Other Thriller Stories
Infinite Pieces
Book 3
Copyright © 2025 by Sterling & Stone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.
Thank you for supporting our work.
Contents
Layover
Layover
Translation Game
Translation Game
Vlog Her
Vlog Her
Bedlam Beth
Bedlam Beth
Dead Men Don’t Sell
Dead Men Don’t Sell
U Up
U Up
Dirty Girls: A Love Story
Dirty Girls: A Love Story
Getting Lucky
Getting Lucky
Blistered
Blistered
Gina, Is That You?
Gina, Is That You?
The Final Rose
The Final Rose
Alpha Incorporated
Alpha Incorporated
A Good Day To Die
A Good Day To Die
Special Delivery
Special Delivery
Field Trip
Field Trip
Divine Intervention
Divine Intervention
About The Authors
Layover
WADE PETERSON
Layover
WADE PETERSON
People!
Saul Freedman hated them. His stomach rumbled in solidarity with the thundering jets passing over the terminal. He glanced at his phone out of reflex, confirming that the line had not moved in the five minutes since he last checked. Saul was only two body-widths from the coffee kiosk’s counter, but the jackass ahead of him was refusing to budge.
“I specifically ordered turmeric, and this doesn’t have it,” Jackass said. “You don’t smell turmeric, do you?” He pushed the cup forward and absently hitched his pants up by a belt loop. A wild-haired kid three spots back made another attempt at wheedling his mom into going to the baked pretzel place across the way instead. It was accompanied by a loud “pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”
A purple-haired girl in cat eyeglasses behind the counter sniffed at the cup and raised her eyebrows. “I smell spice?”
Jackass leaned in. “Whatever it is, it’s not turmeric. You’re not confusing it with pumpkin spice, are you?”
“I’ll add more,” said the barista.
Jackass doffed his glasses and rubbed at his forehead. “No, I want you to make it over. It’ll taste like ass if you mix pumpkin spice and turmeric.”
The girl turned and reached for a container. “I can make it again, but this is our turmeric.” She held out the canister and turned the label towards him.
“Can I smell it?” he asked.
She recoiled. “It’s not hygienic...”
But Jackass grabbed her wrist. For a moment, Saul thought she was going to punch the guy out, but her snarl faded as Jackass brought the canister under his nose. He took a mighty sniff. “Whatever is in there isn’t turmeric.”
“Jesus,” Saul muttered. He knew Jackass heard him, saw his shoulders bunch beneath the high-end mountain climbing jacket that Saul had once fancied buying himself. But the man didn’t turn around. The whining kid changed tactics.
“I need to go peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
The barista’s lips pressed together, and she shrugged. “This is all we have. I can try adding more to your smoothie?”
Jackass dropped the cup. It splattered on the counter, and he walked off. “Forget it. And I better not be charged.”
Saul stepped up. The barista grabbed a towel and mopped at the counter. He squinted at her name tag, but its ink was all smudged and dotted with red syrup, as was the upside-down cartoon character pin on her apron. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I’ll be right with you.”
Saul sighed. “I got a plane to catch, and this will only take a second.”
“So will this,” she said, scrubbing up the spill.
He waited, watching her wipe up every last drop of turmeric coffee.
Then, finally, she let out a breath, tossed her rag to the side, and put on a wide smile.
“How may I help you?” Her eyes blinked rapidly behind her glasses, and Saul wondered if she were cursing him out in some kind of blinking Morse code.
“I want a pesto chicken on whole wheat bread — not the ciabatta — and double shot soy latte, no whip, under hot, with two pumps of sugar-free almond syrup, and I’m not kidding about no sugar. I’m diabetic.”
“Dude,” said someone behind him. Saul didn’t bother turning around. With luck, he’d never see these people again. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the weary woman who had been behind him in line. She led her wild-haired son by the hand towards the bathrooms. He really hoped they weren’t on his flight; the kid looked like a seat kicker.
Saul made his way down the concourse, slaloming past tourists stopping to stare at departures screens, cutting through the economy travelers hoping their boarding group would be called next, and getting the stink-eye from a driver for not moving aside fast enough for his electric barge’s geriatric passengers. He arrived at his own fortress of solitude: a pair of rent-by-the-hour work pods. One was already occupied with its privacy glass darkened and noise canceling engaged.
Rumor had it the cancelation was so good that a couple could have the loudest screaming sex ever, and those passing by would never know. Saul shook his head at the idea. Maybe the noise canceling was good, but only if the couple were serious contortionists. There was barely enough room for him in the pod with its tiny desk, his coffee, and his bag.
Saul punched through the options on the touchscreen mounted outside the pod’s door, sloshing coffee over his hand as he paid for an hour’s time. He cursed, set down his bag, and wiped his hand on a pant leg, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Pressure built on his eardrums when the door sealed and the fresh air pump kicked on. Then, the active noise canceling engaged, centering Saul in an audio dead zone. The silence unnerved him; he fiddled with a knob built into the desk, cycling through various white noise, nature sounds, and instrumental options. He finally settled on a track called “Serenity.”
Saul took a cleansing breath, then pulled his laptop from his bag and plugged it into the pod’s private gigabit feed.
He clicked through a series of terms and conditions for pod use, wolfing down the sandwich. Then, once he had agreed, he engaged his own security measures and VPN. He saw himself reflected in the privacy glass divider between his pod and the one next door. He wondered what the chances were the person in the other pod was staring back at their own reflection.
How startling would it be if the privacy glass suddenly cleared, and for a split second, they each thought they were the other guy? He laughed, catching sight of his pesto-flecked teeth.
His computer finally connected, and he checked the time in Istanbul. The banks would be closing now, and while their systems never truly went to sleep, some things were better accomplished when the junior varsity cybersecurity team was in charge. Or, for some of his accounts, was absent altogether.
Not that he was worried about their varsity squad, either. He couldn’t imagine a life where one sat around collecting a paycheck, letting their skills go to waste while they waited for something bad to happen. Saul had honed his craft for years. He could route wire transfers in and out of accounts, leaving nothing behind but a faint vanilla aftertaste in the bank’s logs.
The people who got caught doing what he did were the ones who didn’t understand the game. Trying to leave no trace was like trying to spray Febreze on dog shit. It just didn’t work. Sure, it may not stink so much, but it was still shit, easy to recognize and sticking to anything it touched.
Saul processed his dog shit through a series of shell companies in several time zones in countries with lax oversight until it came out the other end like vanilla ice cream. Shitty vanilla ice cream, to be sure, but Interpol didn’t bother itself worrying about that when there was dog shit emanating from other numbered bank accounts around the world.
And for this service, Saul collected a pittance, a flea’s bite off the dog, but what a dog! He would never be a rich man — that was for the bosses above him, those who had the connections and muscle to keep what they took. And Saul didn’t begrudge them of it, mostly. He was a lone wolf, responsible for only himself, and being the boss was the opposite of that.
The way to get caught was wanting more than vanilla ice cream. People in his position often got greedy, thinking they could skim a little more here and there, do a few side projects for higher commissions, or just take the entire bankroll and disappear. But they almost always got caught. Even if there was a decent shot he could get away with it, Saul didn’t see what more money would get him other than unwanted attention and a life on the run. He was happy with what he had, flying under everyone’s radar.
Even if it meant flying from LA to Boston every other week and working remotely. Even if it meant showing respe ct and obedience by walking into the mobster’s lair and putting his head in the lion’s mouth to see if he would live another month. None of this passive-aggressive bullshit his corporate foes put up with. You do your job, you live. You fuck up, it’ll be a bullet to the back of your head, professional-like. Unless he did something they took personally. Then he would be in a world of shit no amount of vanilla could cure. That kept him up some nights, not knowing when or how the end would come…
The sweet latte hit his system, and Saul’s brain began his daily workflows, starting with the account in Istanbul, whittling away five million dirty euros into tiny chunks, little line items of widgets and bobbins ordered by one shell company and fulfilled by another, financed by a third under byzantine repayment terms and scheduling that would result in contaminated money getting that sweet vanilla scent of legitimacy through purchase invoices, interest payments, and 30-day penalties. All queued up and ready to process.
Then Saul hesitated. His neck itched, and the plush seating felt uncomfortably warm. He had the sense of being watched, so he glanced out through the pod’s one-way privacy glass, seeing nothing but a mostly empty terminal with a few people hunched and slumped in rows of uncomfortable chairs and a pair of flight attendants power-walking to their next gate.
The line at the coffee kiosk was gone, and the purple-haired barista leaned against the counter, splitting her attention between the passing flight attendants and her phone.
Saul shook his head and returned to the Istanbul workflow. Then, the laptop screen flickered. It went black for a moment.
That was odd.
Saul had made sure it was fully charged.
And then it turned back on, displaying a low-res interface straight out of the 90s.
Hello Saul.
Saul blinked. What the hell was going on? He reached for the power button to reboot.
Do not disconnect your computer. If you do so, outstanding warrants in your name will be sent to the US TREASURY SERVICE, INTERPOL, & a business interest in Cyprus.
Warrants?
To prevent this and release yourself from confinement, play the game. Shall we begin?
Hell, no.
A picture of Saul getting into the work pod, coffee in mid-slosh, face fully exposed, appeared on screen. Then another window showing the warrants and that lame mugshot from when he was 18 and stupid, looking half-stoned and sheepish, back before he knew the difference between dogshit and ice cream.
Saul’s hand flew to the door latch. But it didn’t budge, not even when he leveraged his weight against it. He stood as best he could and lowered his shoulder. But the inner door’s spongy plastic surface absorbed the blow. He tried to get any momentum or leverage in the pod’s confines but managed only to strain his legs and batter his shoulder.
He wasn’t scared of the authorities. The worst they could do is throw him in prison. But he had a sinking feeling he knew who the business interest was in Cyprus and how personally they might take it if they believed the authorities were onto him.
You are competing against another player.
The first to finish wins.
The other will be executed.
Executed?
The game is simple. Who is guilty?
A 10-minute timer appeared on his screen and began counting down.
Complete the tests before (1) the timer runs out or (2) your opponent completes their test.
At the top of the screen, next to a flashing red ISOLATION MODE banner, a cartoon picture of himself appeared, labeled Player One. A second was labeled Player Two.
Saul tried the door again, but it was still locked. A man walked by, a suitcase rolling behind him. Saul pounded on the door, trying to get his attention, but the door’s inner surface muffled the sound.
Saul screamed, and his ears felt pressure as the noise-canceling kicked in. And outside, the man walked on, oblivious.
Saul fell back onto the pod’s padded chair and fished out his phone. Angry red exclamation points, barred circles, and a No Service filled the upper corner. He tried placing a call anyway, but his phone just pulsed twice in error before displaying the unhelpful suggestion of moving to a different location and reconnecting to the network or wifi.
Who would he call anyway? The police? He studied his old mugshot and the picture of him getting into the pod, wondering if this was some elaborate hoax or con job.
Could he afford to wait out the timer and see what happened? They knew who he was, yes, and seemed to have control over the pod, his computer, and at least one camera in the area. That pointed to hackers and blackmail. Saul relaxed. He knew how these cabals operated.
The execution angle had to be a bluff; hackers couldn’t get money out of a dead mark.
“Amateurs,” he muttered. The question was: would he play along? Depending on whose money they wanted to steal, it could go badly for all involved. Saul could get whacked just for being seen as a weak link. If he did nothing and got arrested, his chances of getting killed decreased, but they weren’t zero. Especially where the client from Cyprus was concerned.
These damned amateurs were going to get him killed.
He would play their game for now.
STEP 1 of 4: Identify all criminal actions in the following gallery.
The first picture was of a man about to shoot another in the back of the head; the next picture showed a bag of white powder exchanging hands. Each frame held an unchecked box in its corner. Saul assumed he was supposed to take the implications at face value, but in his head, he wanted to argue about the lack of context. Maybe the man with the gun was an actor in a movie; maybe the powder in the baggie was just baking soda. There wasn’t anything objectively criminal in the pictures. This wasn’t like identifying stoplights, bicycles, or crosswalks from random street pictures. He clicked their checkboxes anyway.
The following series of photos were more obvious. Dead bodies packed in a shipping container. Passports and ID cards exchanged for wads of bills. He picked those, too.
The next pictures threw him. Two people holding hands and crossing the street, a man mowing the lawn, and a woman drinking coffee. How serious was this supposed to be? There wasn’t anything obviously criminal unless you counted jaywalking or noise ordinances, but again, there was no context. The coffee drinker surely was okay unless he was supposed to believe there was something in the coffee, or it was one of those lefty political things, and the beans weren’t fair-trade. In the end, he left those ones unchecked.
The last two frames made him lean back from the screen. Both showed Saul at the airport. One of him talking to the barista after Jackass left, and another taken as he was checking over his Istanbul workflow.
He didn’t want to click either. His legs trembled with the urge to run, his knees knocking against the desk’s underside. The unease grew the longer he stared at the images as the timer counted down.
He sensed another trap closing around him.
Saul pushed the laptop away and put his hands in the air. “Nope. No. Not playing.”
The pod’s air pressure increased, and “serenity” was replaced by a modulated computerized voice. “If you quit Player One, Player Two will win by default.”
Saul looked around and found the partially concealed speaker grille. “You can hear me? Let me out!”
