Chapter 5: Battle at Best Buy
The Best Buy loomed out of the darkness like a temple to consumerism, its blue and yellow sign flickering in the wet night air. The parking lot was empty. The security lights cast pools of sickly orange on the asphalt, and the front windows displayed a wall of flat-screens, all dark, all waiting.
Mainframe killed the headlights a block away and coasted into the lot on momentum. The Camaro's engine ticked as it cooled, the smell of hot metal and rain filling the cabin.
"This is insane," Zarana said.
"You said you wanted a computer."
"I said I wanted to find a computer. Not break into a fucking big-box store."
"Same thing."
She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "You've changed."
"Desperate times."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the store. No movement. No cars. The place was locked up tight for the night, but Mainframe had spent enough time in places like this to know the score. Best Buy security was a joke. A couple of cameras. A motion sensor near the high-value electronics. Nothing that couldn't be bypassed with a little know-how and a lot of luck.
"Back door," he said. "Employee entrance. They always have a keypad, and the default code is almost never changed."
"And if it is?"
"Then we improvise."
Zarana pulled her knife from its sheath and checked the blade. "I'm good at improvising."
They moved across the parking lot in a low crouch, sticking to the shadows. The rain had stopped, but the ground was slick, and Mainframe's boots squeaked on the wet asphalt. Zarana moved like a ghost beside him—silent, fluid, her eyes scanning for threats.
The back of the store was a loading dock, raised concrete and a roll-up door that was probably bolted from the inside. A smaller door to the left, metal, with a keypad beside it.
Mainframe knelt in front of it. The keypad was old, the numbers worn. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and examined the keys. The 1, 2, 3, and 4 were worn more than the others.
"Default code," he muttered. "Please be 1234."
He punched it in.
The lock clicked.
"Lucky guess," Zarana said.
"Not luck. Laziness."
They slipped inside.
The stockroom was dark and cluttered—shelves of boxed merchandise, pallets of TVs, a forklift parked in the corner. The air smelled like cardboard and dust. Mainframe navigated by memory, his hand brushing the wall, counting doors until he found the one that led to the sales floor.
The store was eerily quiet. Rows of refrigerators hummed. A display of smart speakers blinked with tiny blue lights. The carpet muffled their footsteps as they moved toward the computer section.
"Over there," Mainframe said, pointing to a row of open-box laptops on a display table. "Those are already set up. Should have internet access."
"And the Pentagon thing?"
"I'll need to get past their firewall. It's not easy, but I've done it before."
"You've hacked the Pentagon before?"
"Once. For a training exercise. They weren't happy about it."
Zarana snorted. "You're full of surprises."
He sat down at one of the laptops and woke it from sleep mode. The screen glowed blue, casting his face in sharp relief. His fingers found the keyboard, and he began to type—fast, precise, the rhythm of a man who had spent his entire adult life in front of a screen.
Zarana stood behind him, her back to the aisle, watching the darkness. Her knife was in her hand again. She didn't put it away.
"The Juggler's files are buried deep," Mainframe said, his voice distant, distracted. "He's got layers of encryption. Military-grade. But he made a mistake."
"What's that?"
"He used the same password for everything. I found it in his personal email six months ago. He never changed it."
"What is it?"
"His daughter's birthday."
Zarana was quiet for a moment. "That's cold."
"He's a traitor. He deserves worse."
The screen flickered. Lines of code scrolled past, faster than Zarana could follow. Mainframe's brow furrowed, his lips moving silently as he worked. The clock on the wall ticked. Minutes passed.
"Got it," he breathed.
The screen filled with documents—emails, memos, financial records. Transfers from Cobra shell companies. Payments to offshore accounts. Orders for weapons shipments. Proof, laid out in black and white, that the Juggler had been selling out G.I. Joe to Cobra for years.
"Jesus," Zarana whispered, leaning over his shoulder. "That's enough to hang him ten times over."
"More than enough." Mainframe's fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm going to send this to every major news outlet. CNN, BBC, Reuters, Al Jazeera. And I'm CC'ing every member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."
"They'll try to bury it."
"They can try. But once it's out there, it's out there. Can't put the genie back in the bottle."
The upload began. A progress bar crawled across the screen. 1%. 2%.
"Come on," Mainframe muttered. "Come on."
3%. 4%.
A sound.
Zarana's head snapped toward the front of the store. "Did you hear that?"
Mainframe didn't look up. "Hear what?"
Glass breaking. Distant, but unmistakable.
7%. 8%.
"Cobra," Zarana said. "They found us."
"How? We were—"
"Doesn't matter. They're here." She grabbed his shoulder. "How long?"
"Two minutes. Maybe less."
"We don't have two minutes."
She was already moving, sprinting toward the front of the store, her boots slapping against the polished floor. Mainframe watched her go, his heart hammering, his eyes fixed on the progress bar.
12%. 13%.
The first shot took out a display of smart TVs. The screen shattered, glass spraying across the floor. Zarana dropped behind a counter, her knife replaced by a pistol she'd pulled from somewhere—probably the same place she kept her endless supply of weapons and bad attitude.
Another shot. Closer.
She returned fire.
The pop of her pistol was sharp and loud in the cavernous store. Somewhere, someone screamed. Or maybe that was just the sound of merchandise exploding.
21%. 22%.
Mainframe's hands were shaking. He forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus. The upload was moving faster now—the connection had stabilized. But it wasn't fast enough.
"I could really use that famous computer magic right about now!" Zarana shouted.
"I'm working on it!"
"Work faster!"
31%. 32%.
The Cobra agents were spreading out. Mainframe could hear them—the clatter of their boots, the crackle of their radios. They were trying to flank, to surround the store, to cut off any escape.
"We're not going to make it," Zarana said.
"Yes, we are." Mainframe's voice was steadier than he felt. "The transmission is almost done."
"Almost done isn't done!"
45%. 50%.
A bullet whizzed past Mainframe's head. He ducked, nearly falling off the stool. The laptop wobbled, but the upload continued.
"Don't you dare hit this computer!" he shouted. "I swear to God, if you break this computer—"
Another shot. Another shattered screen.
Zarana was moving again, firing and reloading, firing and reloading. She was a blur of pink hair and leather, her face twisted in a snarl. "Finish the damn upload!"
67%. 68%.
The Cobra agents were close now. Mainframe could see them—three of them, dressed in dark tactical gear, their weapons raised. They hadn't spotted him yet. They were focused on Zarana, on the whirlwind of violence she'd become.
75%.
"Zarana, get ready to run!"
"I'm a little busy!"
83%.
She took down one of the agents with a shot to the chest. The second one returned fire. She dodged behind a display of washing machines.
91%.
"Almost there!"
94%.
The third agent spotted Mainframe. Their eyes met across the store. The agent raised his weapon.
98%.
Mainframe slammed the laptop shut and dove off the stool.
100%.
The bullet tore through the empty air where he'd been sitting, embedding itself in the wall behind him. Mainframe hit the floor hard, his shoulder screaming in protest, and rolled.
"Done!" he yelled. "It's done, let's go!"
Zarana didn't need to be told twice. She broke cover, sprinting toward him, firing blindly over her shoulder. The remaining Cobra agent dove for cover. Another shot rang out, and she stumbled, but kept running.
Mainframe was on his feet, grabbing her arm, pulling her toward the back of the store. The employee exit was there, a green sign glowing above it. exit. exit. exit.
They burst through the door and into the alley behind the store.
A car was waiting.
Not just any car. Mainframe recognized it immediately—a beat-up station wagon, baby seats in the back, a bumper sticker that said "My Other Car Is a Hiss Tank." Lifeline was behind the wheel, his face grim.
"Get in!" he shouted.
They piled into the backseat. Lifeline hit the gas before the doors were even closed, the station wagon fishtailing on the wet pavement.
"Hold on!" he yelled.
Mainframe didn't have time to ask what they were holding on to. The station wagon careened around a corner, tires screaming, and then they were heading east, toward the highway, toward something that might have been safety.
Zarana was slumped against him, her hand pressed to her side. Blood seeped between her fingers.
"You're hit," Mainframe said.
"No shit."
"Lifeline—"
"I see it." The medic's voice was calm, clinical. "Keep pressure on it. We're four minutes from the safe house."
Zarana's eyes met Mainframe's. She was pale, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Did it work?"
"Yeah. It worked."
"Good." She closed her eyes. "That's good."
"Hey. Hey, stay with me."
"I'm fine, Mainframe. I've been shot before."
"You've been shot before?"
"Once or twice."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not supposed to be."
Lifeline drove like a man possessed. The station wagon flew through the streets, running red lights, ignoring stop signs. Mainframe held Zarana against him, his hand pressed over hers, both of them trying to stem the bleeding.
The safe house was a small apartment in a nondescript building on the outskirts of the city. Lifeline pulled into the underground garage and killed the engine.
"Help me get her inside," he said.
They carried her between them—Lifeline on one side, Mainframe on the other—and took the stairs two at a time. The apartment was spartan but clean. Lifeline directed Mainframe to lay her on the couch, then disappeared into a back room.
Zarana's eyes fluttered open. "Where are we?"
"A safe house."
"Safe?"
"For now."
She laughed—a weak, rasping sound. "For now. That's my favorite kind."
Lifeline returned with a medical kit. He set to work immediately—cutting away her shirt, cleaning the wound, checking for internal damage. Zarana hissed through her teeth but didn't cry out. Mainframe had never seen anyone so stoic.
"You're lucky," Lifeline said. "The bullet went through clean. No major organs hit. You'll need stitches, some rest, but you'll live."
"I always do."
"Mainframe," Lifeline said, without looking up. "You're bleeding too."
He looked down. The gash on his arm had reopened, and there was a fresh cut on his forehead—probably from the dive he'd taken. "It's nothing."
"Sit."
Mainframe sat.
Lifeline worked on Zarana first, stitching the wound in her side with steady, practiced hands. She didn't flinch, didn't make a sound. She just stared at the ceiling, her jaw clenched, her fingers gripping the edge of the couch.
When he was done, he moved to Mainframe. The cut on his forehead needed butterfly bandages. The gash on his arm needed stitches. Lifeline handled both with the same quiet efficiency.
"You two," he said, shaking his head. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Occupational hazard," Zarana said.
"Speaking of which." Lifeline sat back, wiping his hands on a towel. "What the hell happened out there? The news is already picking up the story. 'G.I. Joe Officer Accused of Treason.' It's everywhere."
"We hacked the Pentagon," Mainframe said. "Leaked the Juggler's files."
Lifeline stared at him. "You did what?"
"It was necessary."
"Necessary?" Lifeline ran a hand through his hair. "Mainframe, you just committed a federal crime. Several of them, actually."
"I saved lives."
"You hope."
"It's done now." Zarana's voice was hoarse but firm. "Can't take it back. Just have to deal with the fallout."
Lifeline sighed. "You're right. It's done. And for what it's worth, I think you made the right call. The Jugglers are rotten. Everyone knew it. They just didn't have proof."
"Now they do."
"Now they do."
Mainframe looked at Zarana. She was still pale, still weak, but her eyes were alert. She looked back at him—really looked—and something passed between them. Something that didn't need words.
"You saved my life," she said.
"You saved mine. Again."
"Guess we're even."
"I guess so."
Lifeline cleared his throat. "I'm going to make some calls. Try to figure out what our next move is. You two should get some rest. There's a bedroom in the back."
He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving them alone.
Zarana shifted on the couch, making room. Mainframe sat down beside her.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No. But I will be."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She reached for his hand. Her fingers were cold. "We did good today, Mainframe. We actually did good."
"We did."
"So what happens now?"
He thought about it. The sun would be coming up soon. The news was already spreading. The Juggler would be exposed, the Cobra connection would be revealed, and the Joes would have a fight on their hands to clean up the mess.
But they'd be ready.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But whatever happens, we'll figure it out."
"That's a terrible plan."
"It's the only one we've got."
She laughed—a genuine laugh this time, low and warm. "You're such a Boy Scout."
"I try."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her hair smelled like rain and sweat and something floral—maybe her shampoo, maybe something else. Mainframe closed his eyes and breathed it in.
"You know," she said, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad I met you."
"Even though I'm on the wrong side of the war?"
"We're not at war right now." She tilted her head up to look at him. "Right now, we're just two people in a safe house."
"And what happens when the war starts again?"
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "We'll figure that out when we get there."
They sat in silence, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of Lifeline's voice on the phone. The world outside was still dark, still dangerous.
But here, in this moment, they were alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Lifeline reappeared in the doorway. "So. We've got a problem."
Zarana groaned. "Of course we do."
"The news is spreading faster than we thought. The Pentagon is denying everything, but the press is already running with it. And Cobra—" He paused, his face grim. "Cobra is already moving. They're sending everything they've got. Payback for the leak."
"How long do we have?"
"Twelve hours. Maybe less."
Mainframe stood up. "Then we need to move."
"Agreed." Lifeline looked at Zarana. "Can you travel?"
"I can travel."
"Good. Because we've got a helicopter waiting at a landing pad six blocks from here. And after that—"
"After that," Mainframe said, "we go on the offensive."
Zarana grinned—that sharp, wolfish grin that meant trouble. "Now you're speaking my language."
They gathered what little they had. Lifeline grabbed his medical bag. Mainframe grabbed his laptop. Zarana grabbed her knife, her gun, and a jacket that didn't belong to her.
And then they walked out into the darkness, ready for whatever came next.
The sun was starting to rise.