Arch Enemy (27 page)

M
organ jogged down the Zeta entrance hall, responding to Bloch's 911. Shepard, Kirby, and O'Neal sat around the conference table. Leaning against the far wall was Peter Conley. They weren't quite the picture of urgency he expected to find. Kirby was his usual stiff self, texting on his phone and taking notes on a file folder. O'Neal was biting her nails, the spreadsheets on her computer reflected on her black-framed glasses. Shepard had his feet up on the table and looked like he was playing a game on his phone. “What's going on? Where's the fire?”

The door to Bloch's office opened as if in response. She walked out onto the staircase, but not alone. With her was the stolid Smith and another man, of about sixty, with a full head of white hair, and the shape and bearing of a military man.

“This is General Alan Strickland,” said Bloch. “He's here to oversee our operations.”

Morgan knew him by reputation. Four-star general. Commanded a cavalry regiment in Desert Shield and Desert Storm, served as Deputy Commanding General in Operation Enduring Freedom. His official uniform was plastered with countless awards and decorations.

And he was, it seemed, one of the people pulling the strings of Zeta Division and its umbrella program, Project Aegis.

“So,” said Morgan. “The powers that be show themselves.”

“Dan Morgan.” Strickland approached, as he reached the landing, offering a hand. “I've heard so much about you. And there's a lot to hear.”

Morgan shook his hand. He couldn't get a read on the man. He was more personable than either Bloch or Smith, which Morgan found far more dangerous.

Shepard swung his legs off the table and got to his feet. “Gather round, gather round!” he called, like a royal herald. Strickland took his seat at the head of the table across from the big screen, a space usually reserved for either Bloch or Smith, when the latter was present. They flanked the general instead. Morgan pulled out a chair and sat at a distance from the table. All eyes were on Shepard.

“I've just confirmed that our worm is active. It's just that we're not the ones using it. We have a new asset inside Acevedo who got us intel that shows it's being used to extract information and monitor Acevedo's operations—everything we meant to use it for. And I'll have you know it's working perfectly.”

“Except for someone else,” O'Neal deadpanned, eyes locked on her screen.

“Regardless,” continued Shepard, “it works, which can only mean one thing.”

“The Legion is going after Acevedo,” said Morgan.

“It fits the profile,” said Conley. “Big, corrupt corporation with close ties to the government. They'd be a prime target for hackers.”

“I say let them,” said Morgan. “Someone else wants to do our job for us? I don't see why we should interfere.”

General Strickland broke in. “The Acevedo investigation is extremely sensitive. These people who are targeting them are supposed to be anti-secrecy freaks. Their modus operandi is to go public with everything they find.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “I don't see how anyone would be worried unless they had something to hide.”

Strickland's eye caught Morgan's. “Would you have everything there is to know about this operation laid bare to the public at large?” Yes, the man had more depth than he was letting on.

“Critical as that is, it's not why I called you in,” said Bloch. “Our asset has given us new access to the Acevedo networks. We've made a breakthrough.”

“The Acevedo Board of Directors is meeting with their top executives in two days,” said Shepard. “Yours truly has designed a rootkit that, once installed in the Acevedo wireless network, will infect all computers that are connected to that network. In one day, we gain access not only to their servers and official data, but the private communications of every single individual that logs on to that network.”

“How would that be different than access to the servers?” Strickland asked.

O'Neal broke in with her faltering voice. “Personal communications will be more likely to show or hint at illegal activity, which will not be recorded on the servers. Probably.”

Strickland raised his eyebrows. “That would be quite the coup for Zeta.”

“What's my role?” Morgan broke in.

“I want you to command tactical support,” said Bloch.

“What do we need tactical for?”

“Dominic Watson was killed for his cooperation with us,” said Bloch. “I'm not about to let the same thing happen to our new asset. I already have a twenty-four-hour protective detail on her. I don't want her targeted in our most sensitive operation.”

A
ndrea Nyhan opened the door to the twenty-first floor of the Acevedo building from the stairwell, sweaty and out of breath. No more elevators, never again. She had manufactured a reason to be on the floor that day—a virus scare on one of the assistants' computers. The call came a full hour before, giving her more than enough time to do what she had to do—except cut shorter by the long march upstairs.

“You really oughtn't be so superstitious about these things, Andrea dear.”

The snag was that, given the importance of the day's meeting, they decided to call up two people.

She didn't like a single thing about this plan. She didn't like that she was committing a crime. She didn't like that she was sabotaging her employers. She didn't like that Brainard could catch her if he was paying any attention to the goings-on. She didn't like that some unknown terrorist organization, which happened to have killed her friend, was watching the servers and would likely detect exactly what she was doing.

And she didn't like that Violet was on her ass because she was not competent enough to do anything on her own. So she stood behind Andrea as she worked, alternating between asking what she was doing and offering inane suggestions. Meanwhile, Andrea had to pretend not to know what she was doing, because even Violet would be able to tell that what she intended to do wasn't what she was supposed to do.

She tried suggesting that Violet check another computer or consult with some of the staff, but after a number of unsuccessful attempts, Andrea decided on a more direct approach.

“Violet, would you shut the hell up and let me do my job?”

“Well, how rude!”

That was enough to get her to wander off looking for someone to tell. Good. Andrea's reputation didn't matter anymore, and she felt rather good about leaving these people behind thinking she was a bitch.

Violet's absence gave Andrea the opening she was looking for.

She opened the network settings for the floor wireless and accessed the router through the terminal. She set up the proxy connection according to Bloch's instructions, routing it through the program she had supplied.

People were trickling in as she worked, high executives in pricey tailored outfits and shoes worth two or three times her weekly salary.

She had so forgotten about the communicator in her ear that she nearly jumped when a voice, Diana Bloch's, said, “Report in, Nyhan.”

She checked that she was alone. “Almost done.”

Board members were coming out of the elevator by twos and threes now. The meeting was about to start, and she needed to get gone. She ran the firewall bypass executable, and that was it.

“It's done.”

“Testing. Stand by.”

The last of the board must have arrived, because they were closing the frosted glass doors to the conference room.

“We're good to go,” Bloch said. “Get out of there.”

Andrea went for the door to the stairwell, leaving Violet behind. She had a long and anxious climb down ahead of her.

She pulled the door open, and as she crossed the threshold the lights cut out. The elevators dinged, both at the same time, and men with guns spilled out into the office.

“T
here are men here,” said Andrea Nyhan over the communicator. “They have guns.”

Morgan, in his Oldsmobile across the street from the steel and glass Acevedo building, sat up in his seat. Conley, at his side, was already checking his gun. “Come again?”

“Andrea, this is important,” said Bloch. “What's going on?”

“The lights just went out and a group of men came onto the floor through the elevators. Both, at the same time.”

Morgan and Conley exchanged a look that said everything they needed to know. Both opened their car doors at the same time.

“Send in tactical!” Morgan said. “Cougar and I are mobile.”

“Tactical, stand by to move in.”

Morgan and Conley ran through the lobby door and flashed their fake badges at the welcome desk, leaping over the turnstiles.

“National Security Emergency!”

They were gone before the receptionists could react, halfway across the lobby floor, toward the stairs. No elevators—they had learned that lesson.

 

Andrea pushed the door open further so that she could see what was going on by the light coming in from the windows.

“Nyhan,” Bloch asked. “What's your position?”

“At the stairwell door.”

“How many men are there?”

“I didn't get a good count, but I think eight or nine. They're all dressed in black, and they have guns, sort of like Uzis. A couple of them were carrying bags, too. Do you think they might be explosives?”

“I don't know. Andrea, our people are coming to help. But we need you in there to be our eyes and ears for a little longer, okay?”

She put her back against the concrete wall of the stairwell. Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and she was sweating. She took a few deep breaths. “Okay,” she said. “All right.” She opened the door again, just a crack, so that she could look through. “They have everyone who was on the floor in the conference room now. They're saying something, but I can't hear.”

“Could you move in closer?”

Andrea closed her eyes, trying to hold on to her courage. “Okay.” She slipped inside the office, crouching behind a desk, moving closer to the conference room. On reaching the frosted barrier, she crouched, touching her ear to the glass.

“Put these around your necks,” said a man's voice. “Do not be alarmed. We only want to take a photograph. We are making a political point. We mean you no harm.”

Andrea crawled to the door that led into the conference room, which was ajar, and looked through.

“They're nooses!” Andrea whispered. “Each member of the Board of Directors is wearing a noose!”

M
organ burst in through the stairwell door in time to hear the shattering of the mirrored windows that bordered one side of the conference room. Andrea Nyhan, on all fours by the conference room door, stared at him with terrified eyes.

Morgan motioned for her to leave, and she quickly obliged, slinking off into the stairwell, mouthing
thank you
as she disappeared behind the door. With Conley close behind, Morgan crept to where Andrea had been and looked inside. All the board members were lined up against the window, which now opened into gray sky, snow fluttering in. Each had a rope dangling from his or her neck, hands restrained behind their backs; twenty-two captives in a row.

With uncanny coordination, the armed men pushed each hostage over the edge into the open air in quick succession. They screamed, and each of their screams came to an abrupt end as their rope was drawn taut.

Screams—the office staff, all huddled in the far corner.

Morgan turned to Conley. “Here's how we play this. We overturn the desks here for cover, leaving them unguarded. Meanwhile—”

“Morgan,” Conley broke in. “We can't take them. Too many, too well-trained, too heavily armed. We're not prepared for this. Not even the tac team is.”

“We're the only ones—”

“And we'll be dead, too, and no good to anyone. We trust each other, right? Well, trust me on this. This is a losing battle.”

The armed men were standing at the edge of the window, looking down at the city below like they owned it.
Bastards
. It would be so easy to open fire. He'd be sure to take down two or three—

One turned to look at the hostages and saw him. He yelled to the others, and eight men spun around, Daewoo K1 submachine guns locked and loaded.

“Oh shit!”

Morgan and Conley ran and jumped over an office desk as all of the attackers opened fire at the same time. The walls of the conference room shattered in a torrent of broken glass.

“I'm going to call this one,” Morgan shouted as they huddled under the cover of the desk. “You were right!”

They made for the stairwell, staying low until they had cleared the heavy fire-resistant door. Morgan struggled to keep up as his longer-legged partner took four steps at a stride.

“We need to intercept them downstairs!” Morgan said. “Shepard, any word on the police response?”

Sound of a keyboard clattering. “Nine one one has been flooded with calls,” said Shepard. “They're getting reports from all around the city. Explosions, shooters, all sorts of things.”

Morgan's heart sank. “Are they simultaneous attacks? Hitting several targets at once?”

“No,” said Shepard. “I'm looking at Twitter and Facebook now. The Acevedo thing is the only one there with pictures and real reports. People at the other sites are saying that it's a hoax.”

“Diversionary tactics,” said Morgan. “To keep responders away from here. Looks like we're all there is. Is tactical at the ready?”

“In the van,” said Bishop.

“Keep the motor running,” said Morgan. “We'll cut the shooters off downstairs.”