Radicals, page 3
Darragh, the other tech, looked up at Jay, then over at Jeanie, his eyes nervous and maybe a little scared.
“What do we need to hear?” Jay said as he sat down with Yemin alongside.
Jeanie cleared her throat. “We were running analyses, as you asked, when Darragh put his earbuds into the wrong laptop.”
Jay glanced at him.
“I didn’t want to disturb anyone with my music. I wasn’t watching Netflix or anything.” Darragh’s voice was as timid as his appearance.
“I’m sure Jeanie appreciates that,” Jay said. “What happened when you plugged in?”
Darragh handed him the earbuds. He took one and gave the other to Yemin, pressed his finger in the empty ear but had to breathe through the feeling of being out of balance.
A tinny, metallic voice ended a word, then there was silence. Some kind of whoosh, like a robot inhaling, then the voice spoke again. Your time is over. Our time is now. We will break their chains. We will laugh as you burn and dance on the ashes of your empire. Another pause, the same whoosh, then repeat.
Jay took the earbud out, calmly set it on the table, and thanked the techs for alerting him. “We need to go to Dalworth. This is a terrorist threat.”
Yemin sighed and nodded.
This wasn’t some bullshit Nigerian prince scam. Something was starting. Jay didn’t know what, but he knew it was about to get much worse. This was an intent to attack. This was someone who wanted to kill them.
Jay blinked right, left, left—
Stop it, he thought, closing his eyes. Just stop.
5
Oscar Forlán sat behind his desk, scrolling through data trends on his laptop, his right ear throbbing slightly after spending the last two hours with a phone pressed between his shoulder and head. His clients were worried, and rightfully so: the hack of a small community clinic in west Baltimore had spread through two dozen other clinics within the Hopkins medical system. If these hackers could find their way inside one of the largest medical systems in the state, each client was convinced they would be next.
As founder and CEO of Amaru Cyber Storage, he knew it was incumbent on him to assure each client—from the small organic market in Virginia Beach to the Fortune 500 used-car dealership with locations in twelve states—that he and his entire staff were closely monitoring the situation and, no, there was not a chance they would be affected.
Still, he couldn’t blame them for being concerned. Data breaches and identity theft were running rampant these days, as everything was online. No one could be bothered to create unique passwords for each account so one password that generally contained a pet’s name or a birthdate spanned everything from Hulu to bank accounts to mortgage records. Any hacker worth their salt could access and own an account through a simple dictionary attack, and generally in less time than it took to spell the word dictionary. Which is why Forlán impressed upon his clients the need to use multi-word phrases with a combination of upper- and lower-case letters and frequent symbol substitutions. It was a pain for the client to keep track of, he understood, but it also ensured their safety, which had helped Forlán’s business double in size every two years for the last decade and change. Forlán thought that was a testament to his character—especially as most new clients came as referrals from existing clients—proof that he was not only thoughtful and thorough, but also ethical.
Seven years earlier, Amaru Cyber had been offered the opportunity to take on a large portion of Philip Morris’s storage and security needs. The company had been facing yet more backlash and was looking to bolster its image in the Richmond community. Two of Forlán’s market advisors insisted this client could quadruple the size of their company and make them millionaires many times over. Forlán had a moral issue with Philip Morris—not necessarily with smoking, because that was a personal choice he wouldn’t impede, but because of the constant lying and deception employed by its PR staff and its practice of targeting young users. At the same time, he knew some of his clients had business practices that dipped below his own high moral ground.
But for all of his advisors’ bullet points and spreadsheets, Forlán kept asking the same questions: Why? Why do we need to quadruple? Why do we need more money? Why does our stock price need to go up even more? We can provide our clients with consistent, reliable, personal service and give our employees living wages and health benefits and the assurance that, even if they aren’t doing something explicitly positive, they aren’t hurting anyone. They could feel good about where their money came from.
What difference would it make to anyone other than me if I had millions of dollars more? he’d asked one advisor. What could I possibly buy that would make my life so much better than it is now?
And so they turned down the contract. By that Christmas, they’d signed on four new midsize clients, hired ten new employees, and given everyone a four-thousand-dollar bonus. Their stock price ended up higher than the advisors had predicted during their Philip Morris pitch.
Forlán’s phone buzzed. He took a deep breath before answering.
“Mister Forlán,” his assistant Megan said, “Mister Taiari is on line two for you.”
“I’ll take it in here.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“A maté would be wonderful. No sugar, extra strong.”
“Long day?” She let out a short laugh.
“Nothing I didn’t expect, and nothing we can’t provide.”
The smile was audible in her voice. “I’ll bring in the tea. Anything else?”
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. “Yes. We’ll keep monitoring everything, but reach out to people. Let them know our assistance is available to anyone who needs it.”
“Done and done,” she said.
Forlán thanked her and checked his phone.
We good for tonight?
His lips curled in a slight smile. He texted back, We’ve been ready for years.
Hasta la lucha.
Mátalo, Forlán texted. Kill it.
He set his phone down, then picked up the office line. “Monsieur Taiari, bonjour,” he said. “Comment ça va?”
6
ASAC Dalworth removed the earbuds and placed them on the laptop, now sitting on his desk beside a few photos of Annie and their kids and grandchildren. Framed commendations hung on the walls, as well as photos of Dalworth with old, white men—dignitaries, heads of other offices. He sank into his leather chair, knitted his fingers together, and took a deep breath.
“That’s scary,” Dalworth said.
“We need to figure out who’s doing this and where they’re going to hit next,” Jay replied. “Headquarters of an insurance company? Hopkins Hospital?”
“You’re doubting yourself,” Dalworth said to Jay after a moment. Jay pressed his palms against his eyes and exhaled.
Yemin jumped in for him. “Agent Brodsky and I have been going back and forth on this and there’s something we can’t quite square.”
“I can’t square why my son insists on eating tofu bacon,” Dalworth said, “but he still does it.”
“It’s just,” Jay started to say, then changed direction. “The IP addresses tracking back to known enemies, the tokens left at the scene, the ominous recording. All of it feels like a threat—a warning—but that one image keeps popping up. Why would ISIS, Boko Haram, or North Korea reference a B-movie from the Fifties? And without any kind of explicit demand?”
“The question we need to answer isn’t why, but when and where.” He stood and held out his hand. End of conversation. “Thank you in advance, gentlemen.”
Jay and Yemin shook his hand and turned to leave when Dalworth called Jay’s name. Yemin went into the hallway.
“You sure you can handle this?” Dalworth asked.
“I’m fine. I promise.”
He looked at Jay a long minute. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind with your sister, plus hearing that you’re using Bureau resources—again—for personal matters—”
“I’m fine. Sir. I told you before.”
“I get that you want to know, and that not knowing eats at you. If you’re not up to this, just say so. You can always step back. I’ll give Yemin lead and you can pick up the next one when you’re feeling better.”
“This is my case. I’ll work it till it’s finished.”
“Is there anything else I need to know about?”
Jay swallowed, shoved his hands inside his pockets to keep them still, and kept Dalworth’s level stare.
“I’m fine, sir.”
Dalworth appraised him a moment longer before nodding.
Jay left the office and caught up with Yemin, walking most of the way down the hallway in silence.
Finally, Yemin let out a loud sigh. “You have any idea where to start with this?”
“Yeah,” Jay lied.
7
The moon hung low over the rocky edge of the mountains, illuminating the street while casting pallid light on them. Cicadas, crickets, and frogs filled the night. Bright spots reflected off watching eyes in the darkness of the trees. There was rustling in shrubbery near the ground.
“Wasn’t there a target that’s not in Deliverance country?” the fat man said.
The point man hushed him. “I said no talking. It’s too quiet. Someone could hear.”
“There’s no one out here to hear.”
“How many times do we have to say this?” the short man said.
The fat man grumbled to himself as he stepped over a large rock in the lot. They’d parked next to the small strip mall—or what passed for a strip mall in Pentress, West Virginia, which was three conjoined stores on the side of a one-lane road with a liquor store across the street. Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf howled, its voice echoing through the night. He thought it was actually kind of cool, until a second wolf answered.
The target was a small office that housed Patrick & Sons Insurance Company, nestled between a gas station/bait shop and a nail salon. Dwight Patrick, proprietor of the company, made his living offering mining companies coverage, often undercutting other local companies, sometimes far enough that it was to his own detriment just so he could get more business. But the recent fracking boom meant he could afford to do it, because he’d amassed such a client list that he became the de facto insurance provider for new employees and companies, slowly suffocating the competition. And once there were few options remaining, he could not only raise rates but begin to amend the policies, filling them with loopholes and conditional language that curried favor with the company providing the insurance. May and could became his two favorite words, even above the names of his children. But what moved him to the top of their list was the fallout from a worksite accident two years ago.
As renewable energy became more feasible, a local mining outfit started to cut corners in order to save money, pushing off renovations and avoiding safety checks that would surely shut them down.
When one faulty machine threw a spark in a mine with no exhaust fans, it turned into scores of dead miners with hundreds more injured. The mining outfit was clearly at fault, but since Dwight Patrick had inserted his two favorite words into every policy, it helped his provider decline almost all the claims, saving them upward of two million dollars—and giving him some sort of perceived privileged status—on the backs of dead miners.
The short man crouched before the front door and unzipped a leather case, pulling out two thin pieces of metal and sliding them inside the lock. A minute of manipulation, then the short, hard click. He went inside and the fat one slipped in behind him, leaving the strongest member outside as lookout.
When he left the station twenty minutes ago, Deputy Sheriff Robert Sweeney knew with one hundred percent certainty that he could make it home without having to stop. But that was twenty minutes ago. Right now, guiding his Crown Vic around the winding Monongalia County back roads that were barely a car wide, he could feel that last coffee swishing back and forth in his bladder. Were he in his personal car, he’d have no problem pulling over and watering the daisies. But whipping it out beside his county-issue vehicle felt wrong. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t passed another car in ten miles. The principle remained. He could hear his wife chiding him, saying if he didn’t want to piss his uniform, he shouldn’t have moved all the way out here with the cows and coyotes. She wasn’t really a city girl—no one could mistake Morgantown for a thriving metropolis—but all the sky got to be a bit much for her sometimes. He liked it out here, though, where the air was clean and he needed binoculars to see the nearest neighbor.
He hit a pothole and the car shuddered. He squeezed his muscles tight, barely keeping it all in. That pretty much sealed it. He figured it’d be better to hope no one drove by than to walk into his house with piss-soaked trousers. He pulled over on a ridge a couple hundred feet before a valley, stepped out into the air, and unzipped. As he stood there, a wolf howled in the distance. He loved the sound of that, the freedom of it, especially when a second wolf answered.
Once finished, he zipped up and stepped back to his Crown Vic. Then a flash caught the corner of his eye. He paused and squinted. It looked like it came from one of the cluster of stores below, but they were all dark, save the liquor store across the street with its dim security lighting. He glanced up, thought maybe it was the moon’s reflection or a passing airplane. Then he saw it again in the center window. Dwight Patrick’s place. He flipped the lock off his holster and set off on foot.
While the fat man paced circles between the roughly upholstered chairs ringing the linoleum sitting area, the short man booted up Patrick’s computer and got to work.
He was halfway through the installation when he heard a grunt outside. Everyone froze.
“Everything okay out there?”
A thin whisper from across the room. “Dunno.”
He clicked off his Maglite and turned off the monitor, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. A couple seconds later, a shadow passed by the front window.
Shit, he thought.
In a loud whisper he thought wouldn’t be heard outside, he said, “Get ready.”
The man leaned on the corner like he was waiting for a girlfriend to meet him, his rear foot kicked up and resting against the cedar-shingled wall, thumbs slung in his belt loops. Deputy Sheriff Sweeney crouched down and took a wide, loping arc, staying below the patches of shrubbery until he got to the rear of the building. He crept along the wall to the corner, then paused and listened. Insects thrumming, communicating in clicks and snaps. Wild animals rustling, searching for food. He wagered a peek around the corner and saw the man, still against the wall in his pose. Sweeney figured the distance to be about twenty feet, which meant if he moved quickly and quietly, or if the man was slow, he could reach the man before he’d be able to signal for help. It was a gamble, sure, but standing here and waiting was the other option, and that wasn’t no kind of option. He touched the handle of his service weapon by reflex, then moved.
The man barely had time to look up as Sweeney drove his shoulder into the man’s stomach. He grunted hard and hit the ground, gasping for breath like a fish yanked from the water.
“You’re going to be okay. Your air will come back,” Sweeney said in a hard whisper. “How many are inside?”
The man formed some sort of word. Sweeney wasn’t sure he really heard it, hoped not, for the man’s sake. He leaned closer, told the man he was going to need to repeat that. The man cleared his throat, swallowed.
“Fuck you, pig,” he spit.
“That’s what I thought you said.” Sweeney leaned back, saw the moonlight glint off the man’s smile, then buried his fist in the man’s face. His head snapped back and to the side and he quickly went dark.
Sweeney pulled himself to his feet, unholstered his weapon, and stepped over to the door, gently testing it. Unlocked. He turned the knob quiet as a stolen breath and eased the door open. No sound. He hunkered down to make less of a target of himself, then slid through the crack into the office.
Darkness hung heavy, no movement or shapes looming in the corner. The office faced north, and so the moonlight couldn’t get in. No streetlights in this area either. He made a mental note to suggest that to the community association, see if they could write it off as citizen safety and get a tax benefit. In the small office off to the side, a computer fan hummed. He took two steps in that direction when a yell erupted, a bear’s roar. A mass of black rushed at him, a giant tackled him. A bright-white spark as his head hit something metal, then nothing.
“Christ, don’t kill him!” The short man yanked at the fat man’s arm, dragging him back. “The hell is wrong with you?”
“I was taking care of it.” He shook his hand off, looked down at the man slumped beneath him. “Oh, shit.”
“Shit what?” the short man said. “Shit. What.”
The fat man pointed at the patch on the unconscious man’s shoulder. “Cop.”
The short man crouched beside the body, pressed his finger against the underside of his chin a few seconds. “He’ll live.” He stood up and returned to the computer, flipped on the monitor.
Perfect timing. Install complete. He ejected the thumb drive, slipped it into his pocket, and went into the sitting area. He pointed at the sheriff, and said to the fat man, “Pick him up and lay him on the chairs. No need for him to have a stiff neck to go with the migraine.”
When they exited the insurance office, he saw the other member of the group propping himself up on the side of the building, his face split open.
“Pig sucker-punched me,” he said.
The short man crouched down. “That wasn’t a sucker-punch. This is,” he said as he slapped his fist against the other man’s cheek. When the man howled in pain, the short man quieted it with a cupped hand. He leaned in close. “You weren’t paying attention and almost cost us the mission. If we’re going to do this, we need one hundred percent commitment. This is too important.”
