Chapter 2The Broadcast

"Ugh, don't mention that buzzkill woman," the female voice whined. "Caleb, doing this here... will we get caught?"

"Don't worry, I scouted this place ages ago," Caleb gloated. "Those old geezers dancing Zumba play their music so loud it covers everything. They make their noise, we have our fun. It's exciting."

The words "old geezers" were like a spark dropping into a powder keg.

Mrs. Robinson trembled with rage, picking up her fan and waving it fiercely:

"Bullying us! Doing dirty deeds right under our noses and calling us names?"

"It's under the shade trees! I've been eyeing that black car for a while!"

Someone shouted, and hundreds of pairs of eyes swept toward the roadside parking spots.

The black BMW X5 stood out glaringly under the streetlamp.

"Let's go! Let's see which animal it is!"

The crowd surged toward the car like a flood breaking a dam.

I merged into the back of the crowd, watching Caleb's car get surrounded tightly.

The people inside clearly hadn't realized what was happening until the woman screamed in panic:

"Caleb, outside... why are there so many people?!"

"What?!"

Caleb's terrified roar came through the speakers, followed by the frantic rustling of clothes being put on.

People started banging on the windows: "Get out! Explain yourself to everyone!"

"Poisoning people and cursing us in the street? Get out here!"

The BMW rocked like a small boat in a stormy sea, shoved by the angry mob.

Caleb panicked. He tried to start the car, but he was blocked in front and back.

He rolled the window down a crack, yelling furiously:

"What are you doing? Get away! This is my private business! Move or I'm calling the police!"

This shout, transmitted clearly through the "pen" clipped to his collar, once again boomed across the square.

"Police? Call them!" Mrs. Robinson had a fiery temper. She pointed the Zumba microphone directly at the car window.

"Let the police see who's in the wrong—you poisoning people, or us catching perverts!"

Caleb's face appeared intermittently behind the glass, pale as a sheet.

He probably never dreamed his every word and action was being "livestreamed" right there.

As the standoff continued, I tapped my phone screen lightly.

If I'm going to hammer him, I'll hammer him so deep he never gets up.

I switched the signal source. No longer livestreaming real-time audio, I played an encrypted file recovered from the recorder—one he had hidden very deep.