The Off-Ramp

Al had it all mapped out.

One more job. Clean, quick, no blood. Then Costa Rica. A quiet house near the jungle with his girlfriend Britney, a mango tree in the yard, no more burner phones or aliases. He'd run cons since he was sixteen. It had been glamorous for about five minutes. Now he was thirty-seven and exhausted.

The target was Chase Hamilton, a semi-retired hedge fund shark with a known appetite for collectible watches and very little sense of digital security. Al's plan was simple- Britney would get close, plant a malware-laced USB in Hamilton's home network, and Al would siphon the crypto wallet codes the guy idiotically stored on his home PC.

They’d done this kind of job three times before. Nothing dramatic. Nobody noticed until weeks later. By then, the couple would be sipping cocktails under palm trees.

Britney played her part flawlessly. She met Hamilton at a charity auction in midtown, dressed in just the right shade of subtle wealth — sleek black dress, pearl earrings, understated smile. They flirted, had drinks, and by the end of the week, she was in his penthouse pretending to admire his Audemars Piguet while slipping the USB into his MacBook.

Text from Britney- “Done. Leaving in 10.”

Al watched the status bar fill from his laptop in a motel two blocks away. The code was downloading Hamilton's entire system into an encrypted cloud folder. At 96%, the screen froze.

Then — BLIP.

Everything shut down. The laptop powered off on its own.

Al stared.

A red dot appeared on his motel wall. He ducked a second before the silenced shot punched through the drywall. He didn’t think — just grabbed the laptop and his bug-out bag, kicked out the window, and landed hard on the fire escape. Someone yelled from the alley below. Two more shots rang out.

Al dropped, rolled, and sprinted.

Two hours later, in a cramped bathroom stall in the back of a diner, Al finally got a text from Britney.

“I’m okay. Don’t contact me. Meet spot 3, 2AM.”

Spot 3 was a derelict train station in Long Island, long since shut down but still on the map if you knew where to look.

He burned his clothes, swapped SIMs, and hitched three rides before making it there. Britney was already waiting.

She looked off — too calm, too composed. Al had seen her cry after less. She didn’t look at him when she spoke.

“He knew,” she said.

“What?”

“Hamilton. He knew from the start. Or at least suspected. The guy’s not an idiot, Al. He let me in. I think he wanted to catch us in the act.”

“Who tipped him?”

“I don’t know. But he had surveillance gear all over the place. And he’s got people.”

Al ran a hand through his hair. “Alright. So we lie low, disappear like we said.”

Britney didn’t answer.

He stared at her. “You’re not coming.”

She shook her head. “He offered me a deal.”

“You’re joking.”

“I took it. It was either that or we both end up in pieces somewhere.”

He took a step back like she’d hit him. “What deal?”

“You walk away. Tonight. No money. No Costa Rica. You disappear. I keep my life.”

“That’s your exit plan?”

She finally looked at him. Her voice was steady, but her eyes shimmered.

“I just wanted it to stop, Al. All of it. The fake names, the burner phones, the hiding. I thought I could ride it out, but I’m tired. This was the only off-ramp I had.”

Al left the train station alone.

That should’ve been the end of it. Except he didn’t disappear. He couldn’t.

Maybe it was betrayal. Maybe ego. Maybe just unfinished business. Whatever it was, it pulled him back to New York, to a friend in the underground scene who owed him favors. He learned that Hamilton had a shadow network — ex-military types, discreet contracts. Quiet cleanups.

And Britney? She’d vanished. Off-grid. Protected, probably, but not imprisoned. Hamilton was smart. She was leverage.

Al changed his name, again. Found work in construction by day, studied crypto at night. He was patient. Time passed. He let himself disappear from everyone’s radar.

A year later, Hamilton got sloppy.

He bought a rare Patek Philippe at a public auction, smiling for cameras like he hadn’t buried people alive. A local blog noted his new security detail — less discreet this time, more ego. His name started popping up in financial lawsuits. Rumors said someone inside his operation flipped.

That’s when Al made his move.

He knew Hamilton's new address. He knew the make and model of every car in the driveway. He knew the window of time when the guards changed shifts. He didn’t want revenge. He wanted closure. And Britney.

He hit the house on a Wednesday, dressed as a catering contractor. The back door had a blind spot — he was inside in ninety seconds. The network was new, but not smart. He bypassed it.

He found the room where the crypto was stored. It wasn’t on a laptop anymore — it was on a cold wallet in a biometric safe.

He smiled.

Amateurs.

He rigged the lock. It took forty minutes.

And when he opened it, the wallet was there.

So was a phone, ringing.

He picked it up without thinking.

“Hi, Al.”

Britney's voice.

“You’re getting predictable,” she said.

He didn’t speak.

“Hamilton's gone. Has been for months. You missed him.”

“Where are you?”

“Far away. I told you to disappear. But I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I left the safe unlocked.”

“It wasn’t unlocked.”

“You needed to feel like you cracked it.”

He stared at the cold wallet. “What is this?”

“Closure,” she said. “Take it. Go. Don’t come looking for me again.”

The line went dead.

Al left the house with the wallet.

He didn’t try to track her down. For once, he accepted the plan didn’t go his way.

But in a way, it still did.

He bought a one-way ticket to Lima. Not Costa Rica, but close enough.

And in a small cafe outside the city, he opened the wallet.

It held just under $8 million in coin.

Taped to the inside was a note in Britney's handwriting.

"Don’t be an idiot this time.”