Dark Web (DARC Ops Book 2) (10 page)

“Whoa,” said Megan, laughing.

“
Building
,” Carly said again. Shit. . . .

“Freudian slip much? Why don’t you tell us how you
really
feel.”

Carly shook her head, embarrassed. “No, no. Building and implementing corporate websites. Boring stuff.” Just like that, it almost slipped out. She wasn’t used to hiding a secret life. It had been a few years since that burden was necessary.

“We knew it,” said Taylor. “Once a hacker, always a hacker. You always say that’s where the money is.”

Carly wanted to deny it, but it was true. Big mouth. She
had
always said that. And then she thought of her interview with the journalist in Salt Lake City, how she’d used that exact phrase.

She was an absolute fucking idiot.

Good thing the journalist wasn’t trying to dig up a story about the email server scandal.

Fucking Christ. . . .

Carly focused back on her work—a screen full of gibberish. This was her client’s data pack, several files of encrypted text that would turn into work instructions once she cracked their little code. It was like a qualifications test. If she couldn’t even read the instructions, how could she carry out their hack?

Carly reached for her duffle bag and pulled out a portable hard drive along with its cables, plugging it into the wall and into her laptop, before glancing over to her bandmates on the adjacent bed. They were watching TV, a suspenseful-sounding crime show about a Los Angeles forensics team. Their lives would certainly be a little more entertaining if they knew the details of Carly’s new, secret job. They could turn off their show and watch the real-life suspense transpiring on the bed next to theirs.

But maybe it wasn’t that exciting.

TV shows and movies liked to hype it up. Even just the idea of it was usually more exciting that the actual, often mundane process.

Truth be told, ninety percent of hacking time was usually spent in the tedious doldrums of hair-pulling ennui. There was always so much waiting. Waiting for some screen to freeze or unfreeze. Watching the slow crawl of status bars. Sometimes she’d have to manually type in an almost biblical length of code.

It was probably best that Megan and Taylor—and the rest of the world—stick to their crime shows.

When their show had ended and the lights were all dark except for Carly’s glowing laptop screen, the real mystery had finally been solved. The code had been cracked. The instructions read.

She was qualified.

Carly was to hack into a highly secured server, steal some files, and do it all without leaving a trace. A typical smash and grab—except the smash needed some refining. The server was air-gapped, which means it was physically cut off from the internet, literal physical space separating the ultra-sensitive information from the rest of the hacker-infested internet.

It was one of the more extreme defense strategies. And it was certainly effective. But all that meant for an artisan like Carly was that she’d have a chance to get creative. In the past, she’d used a more old school, physical approach. She could tamper with their newest software or hardware as it was being developed in a different, less secure location. She’d go down the supply chain and attack unsuspecting and usually defenseless third-party manufacturers, imbedding their product with something extra. It was like a preset, a ready-made Trojan horse. Once someone brought it inside the air gap, into the soft and mushy innards of the hive, all that was left to do was to activate it. Such elaborate setups, however, would often require months, if not years of planning. Which sadly comes with the territory for air-gap hacking.

Another lengthy albeit effective method was to target someone on the inside. Get to know them and their habits, their vices, and then compromise them personally. Voila, she’d have her own personal mole. Each case had to be handled differently, of course, as everyone has their own specific dirt to be dug up. But whether it was some secret crime or infidelity, or evidence of a taboo sexual appetite, there was always dirt to be harvested. Always. Especially when it came to computer people, who were natural compartmentalizers.

Carly included.

Just look at her in this motel room, innocent little Cscape building her corporate websites, working so earnestly. Who was it for again? DeBlasio Solutions? From Delaware?

Her real client had no name. Just a voice, and an almost repulsive-sounding one at that. Her target was also, fortunately, nameless. She didn’t want to know anything about them or what they did. Simple strings of characters were sufficient for identification purposes. In this case, she was targeting something called “vf97e8x83.” And she had been targeting it for the last two hours with no luck. She didn’t even have a starting point.

Air-gap operations were notoriously slow to get started, the initial difficult learning curve slowly leveling off once an exploit or two had been identified. But for now, for the initial probing, the introduction, was like walking around an old New England farmhouse by candlelight on a moonless night. Already she had bumped into a wall or two, or thirty. Her thoughts wandered, daydreaming about how much faster she used to be. She shrugged off the thought, only to have its message emerge later as a real-life worry. A lack of confidence that, if left unchecked, would eat away at her creativity, chewing productivity down to a nub.

Could she even do this shit anymore? She’d made a personal choice not to, when she’d dropped out of it after swearing off this type of hacking. Years later she’d still maintained that it was a personal choice, that she
could
but
wouldn’t
. But as time wore on, it became harder and harder to believe that her inactivity was still the result of some active, ongoing decision. Even at a shitty motel in West Wendover, with one foot already in the door, the worry was there.

Had things progressed too far without her? Had it all left her behind? Instantaneous obsolescence was the trademark of the internet age, leaving Carly to feel as out of touch as UC Denver’s computer science curriculum.

No, it couldn’t have been that bad.

She could do this.

She could
still
do this. And would
do this.

The rust would no doubt exacerbate the typically slow start. But she’d have to shake it off in a hurry. Her band depended on it.

Feeling a renewed wave of momentum wash over her, Carly reached for her laptop, compelling herself to get back to work. And just as she was about to type the beginning of a code, her mattress suddenly buzzed with the vibration of her phone.

It wasn’t just an unwelcome interruption. It was a random call at three in the morning. What good could come from that?

She grabbed the phone, hoping to see a friendly name.

It was a private call.

Fuck.

It was a lose-lose situation. Answering the call would be a loss for obvious reasons. And not answering the call would most likely produce another set of problems, a whole slew of anxious wondering that would hijack her already-strained concentration.

But maybe it was her client. The man in the shadows. He might have some new information. A 3-a.m. call wouldn’t be too shocking for someone who’d just hired a hacker. For hackers and the people they deal with, overnight was usually prime time. The later the better.

“Fuck it,” she muttered.

Fuck it. Just answer and deal with it.

She took the phone into the bathroom, shut the door, and against her better judgment, answered the call.

“Carly?”

The voice didn’t seem to register. It sounded breathy. Overweight. Sleepy.

“It’s me. It’s Dan Hendricks.”

The name also didn’t register.

“From Mr. Johnson’s office,” he said, slurring slightly.

“What?”

“Well, not
currently
from his office. But . . . we worked together. Remember me? Dan?”

“Dan?” she said mysteriously. “Ohhh,
Dan
. Right. Okay.” She felt the memories sliding back. They had become separated and compartmentalized in such a way that simple name recall had taken minutes. Unwanted flashbacks, however, were instantaneous, like waiting in line at the grocery store and hearing an old song, or the smell of a certain cologne while walking down the aisle of a plane, or—

“Dan Hendricks. Danny. We were on his team of aides.”

Of course, Danny. She had even somewhat liked Danny. It was a somewhat nice flashback.

But so fucking late. What the fuck?

“I hope it’s not too late,” he said, sounding like he’d just drunk a case of beer. “I’m in Prague right now, so, uh, the time. . . .”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Sorry, um . . . ” there was a pause, and then the sound of him taking a deep breath. “I guess you know why I’m calling, huh?” His voice had changed. Become more somber.

“No. . . . Is everything okay?”

“You haven’t heard the news? About Joan?”

“What’s wrong?”

“She uh . . . she passed away.”

“Oh, geez.” Carly pictured the smile of her colleague. They’d only met a few times, just like she and Dan, at various conferences.

“Yeah,” he said glumly.

It was sad news, certainly. But the call was still confusing. “That’s terrible,” she said, feeling a little guilty about not feeling worse, although it was certainly alarming in a different way. “I never heard anything. I’ve been on the road for weeks.”

“I don’t know why, but, I found myself worried about you. I just had to call. Sorry this is so out of the blue and everything.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks for, um, letting me know.”

“Carly, uh. . . .” His voice became even quieter. “They say it was suicide, but. . . .”

“But what?”

“Well. . . . It’s, like, suspicious.”

Now the call made sense. Carly opened a browser window on her laptop and began searching for any news stories on the topic.

“You know what I mean?” he said. “I think it has something to do with, you know, what’s going on. She was subpoenaed two days ago to appear at court. The Feds were gonna force her into testifying.”

Carly’s search for news was fruitless. There were no recent sad stories about Joan McIntyre.

“Did you know about that?” Dan asked.

Carly came across a news article about Joan’s upcoming testimony, what she may or may not disclose, and how damaging it would be for Bryce Johnson. “Yeah,” she said weakly. “I just heard about it. . . .”

“Forgive me for asking, but . . . have
you
been subpoenaed?”

“No,” she said, pushing the laptop aside and stretching her legs out. “Of course not. Why would they?”

“Okay, well it just made me think of you,” Dan continued. “And, just . . . I just wanted to make sure you’re okay and that you’re with people.”

“With people? What do you mean?” Carly gripped the phone a little tighter. “What happened to her? Why is it suspicious?”

“It was ruled self-strangulation,” he said, sighing again. “With an electrical cord.”

Carly still had the mental image of Joan’s smile, only now the smile had changed to a pale grimace.

“Where are you right now?” he asked.

“I’m . . . I’m on the road right now.”

“Where?”

The voice in her head started up again, screaming at her to hang up. Hang up the fucking—

“Are you on vacation?” he asked.

“Listen, Danny. . . . Thanks for calling, but I gotta go.”

He tried to say something else, but it was cut off by her ending the call. Carly sat for a moment, almost shaking, thinking of how utterly bizarre the whole thing was. And then she tried to not think about it, instead racing over the door to check the deadbolt for the third time that night.

“
W
e got something
.”

The voice startled Tansy awake, his eyes squinting against the harsh light pouring through the open door into his once-dark room. He clutched the side of the bed, still unsure about what room he was in and why someone had just busted into it. And who the hell—

“We got a hit, Tansy. Time to get up.” It was Jackson. An excited Jackson, tapping his foot against the tile floor.

“What?” Tansy leaned up on his elbows, still squinting. “What time is it?”

“You’re in The Silo. Time doesn’t exist here.”

That sounded accurate. He certainly felt disoriented.

“Just ask one of the guys; they’ve been waiting to sleep for weeks.”

Tansy had been chasing sleep even before flying out to Vegas. The night after DEFCON had only compounded the problem. And then the early morning, and the long drive through in the desert. And now this. Whatever the hell was going on at The Silo, that was more important than Tansy’s sleep.

“Leave the light off,” Tansy said. He patted around the floor for his shoes in the dark. He was still fully clothed, having meant to take only a quick nap. After sliding on a pair of sneakers and walking stiffly out of the room, he was ready to get back to whatever work Jackson’s crew had just drummed up.

“There’s been a point of contact,” said Jackson. “Do you know anyone in West Wendover?”

Tansy rubbed at his still-tired eyes. “I’m sorry, where?”

“It’s right here in Nevada. On the Utah border along the interstate.”

“What happened?”

Jackson clicked a few buttons on a small remote control, dimming the room lights while projecting someone’s work screen onto the wall.

“We caught a data exchange that matched the Sagebrush signature. We can’t tell who it’s from, exactly. But we’re keeping an eye on the West Wendover side of things.”

Tansy found an empty chair and collapsed into it. “Like what? What’s happening there?”

“Someone’s poking and prodding around the same database as the worm. Bureau of Land Management. Nice coincidence, huh?”

“Should we set a trap?” Tansy asked. How skilled could a hacker from West Wendover be, anyway? “It’s probably worth a shot. We can watch them work, see what they’re after, and then plant some files that might interest them.” He was already planning a “honey-pot” tactic, drawing the hacker toward a trap file like an ant to poisoned bait. The hacker would unknowingly download a file secretly loaded with trackers and time bombs.

“I don’t know,” Jackson replied. “That might give our presence away. For now, I’m just happy to hide in the shadows. There’s a certain advantage in that.”

“I know, but we can’t wait in the shadows all day.” Was the team’s avoidance of any direct action the reason why it had taken them so long to identify the hacker?

“I know,” Jackson sat and slumped a little in his chair.

“Besides, if we’re caught, we can just hide ourselves all over again. It’s not that hard.”

Jackson was still quiet, his eyes looking up in thought. He then held his head back, stretching, rolling it from shoulder to shoulder. “Well,” he finally said. “I guess you’re here for a reason.”

“Yeah, so let’s get on with it,” Tansy rubbed his hands together, warming them up for work. “Where can I start?” He looked around at the various workstations, most of them still occupied regardless of whatever time of day or night it was.

He was eventually set up in Jackson’s own semi-private corner workspace. There, sitting in front of maybe the best machine in the whole compound, Tansy got down to business. First he checked the server’s own defense software, its capabilities, what kind of logs they created for each visit, and if they had recorded anything suspicious. He opened up the most recently created folder, which he hoped contained information on the hacker’s visit—what kind of activity, what type of connection, what kind of—

His screen suddenly went to black.

What the hell?

Tansy stared into the void, expecting his screen to flicker back on.

Any moment now would be great.

It had never happened before, his machine shutting down while just reading through a server’s log files. Maybe Jackson’s prized setup wasn’t so great after all.

“Jackson,” he said, turning around. “Um. . . .”

Tansy didn’t have to say another word. The confusion had already spread across the room.

“What did you do?” he heard Jackson saying to someone.

“Nothing,” that someone said.

“What happened?!”

“Nothing!”

There was another wave of scrambling. More movement. More chair legs scraping along the ground.

“I’m taking us offline,” said Jackson. “Jimmy, where are you?”

The confusion only heightened, with coders now running around every which way, mumbling, swearing. Through all the commotion, Tansy could see that everyone’s screen had gone as blank as his. Blank screens. Blank faces.

“Jimmy, hit the switch.”

Someone, maybe Jimmy, ran out of the room.

“Alright, everyone,” said Jackson. “Let’s take five.”

* * *

T
he outside air
was a nice change, the night having brought some relief to the otherwise unbearable heat. Tansy was lying on the brittle plank boards of the ranch house’s back deck, his head propped up on his folded hands. He stared out at the moonlit communications dish, thinking, hoping, worrying that he wasn’t the one who had caused the shutdown. Jackson had propped him up elaborately in his introduction speech, how he was a badass hacker, best in the world, someone who would take care of business. He’d been sent from the nation’s capital. And by Jackson, DARC Ops’ esteemed leader. He wasn’t supposed to blow up the whole compound with his carelessness.

But was it really carelessness? What bothered him most about the shutdown was that he still had no idea how it had been caused. He’d followed the usual safeguards, downloading by proxy, working through several barricades—which were hardly even necessary for what he was doing. It had been a completely routine, low-risk move. And strictly procedural.

So what the fuck had gone wrong?

Tansy’s self-flagellation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the pebbly ground. He spotted a shape in the darkness, approaching. A short, slender outline against the dark slopes of mountains.

“Is that you?” Mira asked.

“I guess.”

“What’s wrong?” She climbed onto the deck. “Homesick already?”

“We’re having some technical difficulties. I think I blew up the servers.”

“You what?” She sat next to him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know
what
I did, to be honest.” Tansy propped himself up by his elbows. “What were you doing? Hiking?”

“Just going for a walk,” she said. “I had to give my eyes a break from staring at a screen.”

“What’s he got you working on?”

“Croatian. I’m translating a bunch of tapes, transmissions to and from a US ambassador.”

“Sound like he’s up to no good?”

“Yeah. A lot of no good. There’s about a hundred hours of it.”

“Hmm.” Tansy didn’t really know what else to say. He went for a joke, instead. “Your new job sounds kinda like your old one.”

Mira shot him a hard look.

“Sorry. Too soon?”

“No, I guess it
is
similar. Except now I like my boss,” Mira said with a smile.

She did, indeed. Their attraction was palpable. They seemed happy, and they were quickly becoming a power couple of Washington’s cybersecurity community. They’d arrive arm in arm at all the banquets and soirées, similar to their first public outing at the Embassy Row Ball. Only now, instead of ruthless thugs and their traps, they just had to save each other from boring conversations, or from someone wanting to hear “their story” for the thousandth time.

“So how are you guys doing? Jackson seems happier than I can remember him ever being before.”

“Aww. Does he? That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, he really does. He used to have a lot of . . . ups and downs. But now he’s just. . . . He’s all good. You know?”

“Yeah, I know. It
is
all good. I just can’t wait to get back home, though.” She laughed quietly. “This place is driving me crazy.”

“Me, too,” came a muffled voice from inside the house.

The door behind them suddenly creaked open.

“Sorry about this,” Jackson said, stepping out on the deck. “It’s pretty embarrassing.”

“
I’m
embarrassed,” said Tansy. “I think I was the one to cause the meltdown.”

“Everyone’s blaming themselves in there.
You
don’t have to take any—”

“It happened right as I downloaded a report from the Bureau of Land Management’s server. The very second.”

“That’s a logic fallacy. You know better than that, Tansy.”

“What?”

“Correlation is not causation.”

“Well, it’s a gut feeling,” said Tansy. “That’s more important.”

Mira stood up, sighing as she brushed some dust off her pants.

“Well, you just try to relax,” said Jackson. “Don’t let yourself get frustrated. Maybe get back to that nap that I interrupted.”

It was a tempting idea. Tansy felt like he could drift away at any moment.

“Or go for a walk,” said Mira, walking toward the door. “That’s what works for me.”

“We’ll find out what happened,” Jackson said, following Mira. “It’s probably nothing. Chin up.” Together, they stepped inside the house, no doubt returning immediately to the missile silo basement.

Alone on the deck, Tansy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, lying there for a moment before rolling over onto his side. His mind was similarly restless, replaying his actions step by step until the shutdown. But after all the refection, it still made no sense.

Maybe it wasn’t his fault. It could have been something ridiculously unrelated, like a missile silo rat that had crawled up and chewed through the wrong cable. For as clean as the place looked, Tansy was almost certain there would be a few resident rats capable of the task. It made more sense than the idea that
he’d
caused the shutdown.

That is, if the hacker hadn’t infected the log files, which would have had the basic effect of honey-potting the honey-potter. It was a tactic Tansy himself had used, back in the day. Back when he’d worked alongside Carly. An older-style technique, but one that she knew nonetheless, and one she’d used in her own deceptively simple but brilliant way.

One that he’d never seen anyone else use. Not in the same was as she had.

Crap.

Tansy reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He needed directions to West Wendover.