Ghost in the Wires: My Adventures as the World’s Most Wanted Hacker

What the fuck is going on?
My thoughts started churning. 
What
if—what if the chopper is looking for
me? I felt my palms start to sweat and
my heart begin to pound. Anxiety was running through my veins.
I ran into the courtyard of an apartment complex, where I hoped some
tall trees would block me from view of the chopper. I tossed my package in
the bushes and started running full bore, ending my cell phone call as I
pounded along. Once again my daily workouts on the StairMaster were
paying off.
As I ran, I calculated an escape route: get to the alley, turn left, then run
like hell for two blocks, across 50th Street and into the business district.
I figured they had ground support on the way, and at any moment I’d
begin to hear the yowling wail of police car sirens.
I turned into the alley. I ran on the left side of the alley, next to the
apartment complexes that would provide good cover.
Fiftieth Street just ahead. Heavy traffic.
I was going on pure adrenaline.
I ran into the street, dodging between cars to get across.
Damn! Almost hit—close call.
I ran into a Walgreen’s pharmacy, now feeling waves of nausea. My
heart was pounding, sweat was running down my face.
Then out of the drugstore again and into another alley. No helicopter—
what a relief! But I kept going. Jogging toward University Avenue.
Feeling safer at last, I ducked into a store, and placed another cell phone
call.
It wasn’t five minutes before I heard the sound of the helicopter getting
louder and louder and louder.
It flew until it was right over the store, then hovered there. I felt like Dr.
Richard Kimble in 
The Fugitive
. My stomach was churning again, my
anxiety rapidly returning. I needed to escape.
Out the store through the back entrance. Run a couple blocks, duck into
another store.
Every time I turned on my cell phone and placed a call, the damned
helicopter would reappear. Son of a bitch!
I turned off the phone and ran.

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With the phone off, the helicopter wasn’t following me anymore. I knew
then. No question. They were tracking me by my cell phone transmissions.
I stopped under a tree and leaned against its solid trunk to catch my
breath again. People walking past looked at me with suspicion written all
over their faces.
After a few minutes with still no helicopter, I began to calm down.
I found a pay phone and called my dad. “Go to the pay phone at
Ralph’s,” I told him, naming the supermarket near his apartment. Again my
curious, uncanny memory for phone numbers came in handy.
When I reached him, I told him the story about the helicopter chase. I
longed for his sympathy and support, his understanding.
What I got was something else:
“Kevin, if you think somebody was chasing you in a helicopter, you
really need help.”

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