Dark Web (DARC Ops Book 2)

by Jamie Garrett

  “Tansy, welcome to The Silo,” he said with a smile, not sounding at all like a rancher. He wore a tight pink golf shirt with designer jeans. And cowboy boots? It was a confusing juxtaposition, but one that seemed to match the mysteriousness of the ranch. Who better to answer the door of a telecommunications ranch than a preppy cowboy?

  “What’s with the beard?” asked Tansy. “It took you just two weeks for that?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Just trying to look the part.”

  “In that golf shirt? Popped collar, even?”

  Jackson rolled his eyes. “What’s with the car?” He stepped onto the porch to meet Tansy, giving his hand a hard shake.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Jackson made a soured face. “It’s so . . . red. So much for staying low-key.”

  “The red makes it faster,” Tansy grinned. “Faster means staying off the radar.” He noticed someone sneaking out of the doorway behind Jackson, a flash of color in a yellow sundress: Mira.

  “You could’ve fooled me,” said Jackson. “You’re only three hours—”

  Mira had wrapped her arm around his waist, catching him midsentence. “Hey, Tansy,” she said with a smile. “Nice car.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Nice color,” Mira looked up at Jackson mischievously.

  “Right? I’m trying to convince Jackson to get you one just like it.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Jackson struggled playfully out of Mira’s grip. “Especially with the kind of salary she’s making.”

  Mira pushed him even further away.

  “So, like I was saying,” Jackson said, looking back at Tansy “You’re late.”

  Tansy shrugged and then looked away at the ranch property.

  “I saw that roadblock on 318,” said Mira.

  “It’s still all over the news,” said Jackson.

  Tansy smirked when he saw the communications dish. “What a beast. . . . What are you doing watching the news?”

  “Surface-level recon.”

  “Did they show the MRAPs?”

  “No. They never do. Kinda sends a bad message.”

  “So what else did the news tell you?” asked Tansy. “Did they elaborate on the story yet, or do they just keep talking about active shooters?”

  Jackson smiled. “You need to stop doing charity work for the news. We need you working here.”

  “Hey, I just got the ball rolling. Put a little pressure on the FBI to release their narrative.”

  “Yeah, sure. Just don’t get us in trouble.”

  “How’s the team, by the way? You make it seem like they’re incompetent or something.”

  “They’re not incompetent,” said Jackson. “They just need better direction. Better than what I can come up with. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.”

  “Yep,” said Mira. “Me neither. And we didn’t even stop in Vegas.”

  “Trust me,” Jackson told her. “With DEFCON going on there, you don’t even want to set foot in Vegas. Not even for a night.”

  “Pssh,” said Mira. “I’m sure I’d like it more than living in a basement for almost two weeks.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Tansy. “I knew I’d get the real story from Mira. How bad is it? Honestly.”

  “The worst part is the house itself.” She turned to look at it, shuddered, and then looked back to Tansy. “But I guess that doesn’t really matter. I’m either in the basement, working; or out back, hiking. There’s some hot springs at the end of the foot trail.”

  “Isn’t it a little too hot for that? I couldn’t even imagine. . . .” It made Tansy sweat just thinking about hot springs. Even in the shade of the covered porch, the heat was just a few degrees away from unbearable.

  “It’s a lot better at night,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m sure it is,” said Tansy as he tried not to give Jackson the “lucky you” look.

  Jackson looked almost embarrassed for a moment, turning his now heated eyes at Mira before turning away awkwardly. “Okay, uh, anyway. . . . Want a beer?” Before Tansy could answer, he pointed to the Quonset hut. “Park your car first.”

  Tansy turned around. The door of the Quonset hut had been opened sometime during their conversation, revealing several high-end vehicles parked inside.

  “Gotta keep a low profile,” said Jackson.

  That was Tansy’s clue to hurry up and hide his obnoxiously red car.

  He moved from a dreary seventies-era living room to an even danker and darker kitchen, the whole time wondering when the house would finally reveal its true identity, when it would cast aside the camouflage of normalcy and present its real self as a DARC Ops hacking hideaway. So far, the main level was just as run-down as the exterior, maybe even a little more so. The window sills were black with dust. The well-worn carpet had been spotted with accidents from various bygone eras, stains on top of stains, all of them different shades of disgusting. Everything about the place, even its damage, looked dated and preserved. Mira even walked around the place like it was a museum, or a crime scene, being so careful not to touch anything—especially the furniture. Or the glassware in the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” she asked when Tansy grabbed a water glass from the cupboard.

  Tansy inspected the ancient glassware for a half second, just long enough to feel the urge to let it fall and smash into the sink. As he placed it down instead, he heard the plastic ticking sound of a light switch flipping on and off.

  It made no effect on the dim, natural lighting, but Jackson was still flicking the switch as if Tansy needed further evidence that the structure wasn’t suitable to house human life. “Thought you wanted a beer, anyways,” he said, finally moving off the switch and leaning against the door frame.

  “I do. I’m just thirsty.”

  “The water doesn’t run up here.”

  “Nothing works on the surface,” said Mira, heading toward a cobwebby exterior door. “Just the windows and doors. And even that’s a stretch.” She opened the kitchen door. “Anyone want any fresh pomegranates?”

  “No thanks, Dear,” said Jackson, sounding astonishingly domesticated. After Mira had left the kitchen and disappeared into the sunny rear of the property, Jackson turned to Tansy, “Easy on the pomegranates. They’re fine, but, after days and days. . . .”

  “Don’t burn out on the pomegranates,” said Tansy. “Check.”

  Jackson guided Tansy through a door in the kitchen, down a short flight of stairs, and through a narrow hallway lit by a single naked bulb. At the end of the hall was a freshly painted door. It looked heavy and secure, and distinctly out of place. And then Tansy watched Jackson as he pressed a few buttons on a keypad next to the door handle—which was definitely not a standard feature of an old derelict ranch house. “Seven triple-nine, three eight sixty,” he said while typing. “Got it?”

  After a heavy click, Jackson opened the door to another set of stairs. This time they were steep and spiraled. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

  “Yeah. How far down does it go?”

  “Far.”

  Far indeed. They kept spiraling round and round with no end in sight.

  “It almost gives me the creeps a little bit, thinking about that nuclear warhead.” Jackson slapped his palm against the stairwell wall as he descended. “It used to sit right behind this. A few feet away, just waiting for someone to push a button and end the world.”

  Tansy kept silent as the soles of his sneakers slapped against each metal step. He felt a quiet, almost solemn mood creep over him at Jackson’s word. The weight of it. . . . Even the air smelled musty, like history.

  “Can you imagine what it was like for those guys,” asked Jackson, “having to walk up and down this shit every day? I’ve only been here for ten days and my knees are shot.”

  It seemed to have taken at least a dozen rotations before they arrived at another door. It was similar to the first. Heavy, secure, and with a keypad.

  “Go ahead,” he told Tansy a
s he moved out of the way. “It’s your turn. You’ve gotta learn it.”

  Tansy squared up to the keypad, and then paused for a moment to remember the combination.

  “You forget it already?”

  Maybe. But he tried anyway.

  7-9-9-9-3-8-6-0

  The heavy clicking sound meant he hadn’t forgotten.

  “Nice memory,” said Jackson.

  “Just with numbers.”

  The clicking sound also meant that he could push the door open and finally enter the hack room, an entirely different environment than the rest of the house. No stains, no weird smells. It was a large room with clean and sterile lighting, walls that were freshly painted white, a floor of epoxy paint, and a lot of wires everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling were four projectors, each pointing to a different blank, white wall. Clusters of workstations sat with state-of-the art computer equipment, and at each station, a resident nerd. They stopped working when Tansy walked in, each of them turning his head away from one of the many monitors that dotted their desks.

  “Gentlemen,” said Jackson, “meet Tansy, our guest of honor. As some of you might know, he was part of the original seven, a forefather of hactivism, way back when you were all still learning how to type in elementary school.”

  Tansy couldn’t help but roll his eyes at all the smoke Jackson had just blown his way. “Come on, Jackson,” he said with a wince. “Take it easy.”

  No one needed to hear his accolades. Especially him. But Jackson kept telling the story, enjoying putting his friend on the spot. He went on and on about Tansy’s double role in the military, his fighting on the front lines as well as the corrupt back channels of the US military.

  “And then he went professional,” said Jackson, grinning. “Some of his ‘official’ exploits include breaking into CNN, Goldman Sachs, and NASA. Most recently, he hacked into Osprey, which used to be the world’s most heavily fortified air-gapped server. Maybe he’ll tell us a bit about that.” He glanced at Tansy, his eyebrows raised.

  But Tansy just shrugged. “It’s not that exciting.”

  “Well, how do you like that?” Jackson said, turning back to his audience. “I told you he’s modest. That’s something else you guys could learn off this guy. Maybe if you ask him later, politely, he might give you some hints about Osprey, or anything else.” Jackson looked at Tansy one last time, checking in, before realizing that he should wrap things up. “Anyway, he’s also done a lot of other stuff that I won’t mention, most of it for a good cause. And now he’s here, from our home office in Washington. And we’re thankful, because that means we can probably get out of here a month early.”

  The hackers laughed politely, optimistically. Then they exchanged a quick greeting with Tansy before turning back to their screens. Even as hackers go, they weren’t exactly a sociable bunch, which was just fine with Tansy. He was far too tired for any more speeches.

  “We keep everyone pretty busy here,” said Jackson, as if reading Tansy’s mind. “For their benefit. The sooner we can get this all sorted out, the better. Because then we can finally pack up and leave this fucking place.”

  “Yeah. Leave and get some sunlight.”

  “Some what?” Jackson said, chuckling.

  “Just something that’s outside,” said Tansy, trying to read someone’s scribbled note on a dry-erase board. “So what’s the story so far?” He read down a short list of topics, all of them crossed out but one. “What do we know about that worm?”

  “We found it in a federal database, The Bureau of Land Management, where they keep their tax information. Most likely sent from elements inside the Sagebrush Militia.” Jackson motioned for Tansy to follow him into a hallway. He spoke softly as they walked out of the room. “All we know is that it’s not theirs. They bought it from somewhere.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “No. Doesn’t seem like it.”

  They were now in a lounge room with TVs and plush furniture, an R&R space for the tired and overworked hacking team. Jackson was first to slide onto a sofa, kicking his feet up on a coffee table. Tansy followed suit, enjoying the feeling of sitting in something other than a car seat.

  “If it’s someone we know,” said Jackson, “then they’ve intentionally created a weak worm. Which, I guess, is a possibility.”

  “Why? They made it weak for us specifically?”

  “It could be a message.”

  “Was there anything imbedded? Any actual messages?”

  “No,” said Jackson, inspecting some smudge on the sleeve of his golf shirt. “Nothing that obvious.”

  “Okay. Well what if it’s not a message, and it’s just from a shitty architect?” asked Tansy. “We know they have someone over there in the militia. Someone who at least knows the rudiments.”

  Jackson pursed his lips together, considering it. “Possible,” he finally said.

  “Well, what’s not possible about it?”

  “It’s not a shitty worm.”

  “I thought you said it was,” said Tansy.

  “I said it was weak. There’s a difference.”

  “Not in my book.”

  Jackson chuckled. “Your book,” he said mockingly. “It’s too black and white.”

  “Black and white gets the job done, Jackson. How long have you guys been out here now?”

  “Too black and white. Too simple. That’s the problem with you marines.”

  “You wanna know what the problem with you is?”

  Jackson smiled, waiting.

  “You forgot to get me that fucking beer.” Tansy laughed. “Awful fucking host. How’s that for black and white?”

  Jackson chuckled all the way to the fridge in the corner of the room. He grabbed two bottles and returned to the sofa, handing one to Tansy. “Listen,” he said, “this Sagebrush guy . . . he’s probably only good enough to find and hire other hackers, and to watch what they do. At least to make sure they’re actually doing something with his money. So we just gotta keep looking. Keep an eye out for who it is. That’s what we’re doing here.”

  Tansy eased back in the sofa and took a swig of beer.

  “What about you?” Jackson asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Have you been looking? How goes trying to track down some old friends?”

  “I already told you,” said Tansy.

  “Yeah. That was hours ago.”

  “I’m still on it. Still waiting for some call-backs.”

  Jackson started tapping his beer with his fingertips.

  Tansy sighed. “Well, that’s the thing about tracking. It takes awhile.”

  “Do you have any leads, though? Any suspicions?”

  Tansy thought back to the conversations he’d had over the last week, the friends he’d reconnected with, the memories he’d reawakened. The time he had spent with The Collective had been one of the happiest and most productive periods of his life, and the relationships he’d made went deep, rivaling those he’d made in the marines, even.

  “No,” he said. “Not for the people I’ve spoken with. They’d have no reason to lie to me about that.”

  He occasionally worked for law enforcement, sure. But Tansy wasn’t a narc. He had enough respect in the community that it went unquestioned.

  “How many people have you spoken with?” asked Jackson.

  “Mostly everyone,” Tansy cleared his throat. Jackson was looking over his shoulder, looking around for someone. Or maybe to check if they were sufficiently alone. Tansy braced for some uncomfortable question to be lobbed his way like a grenade.

  “Have you talked to Carly?”

  Tansy tried to hide the impact, how her name hit him like a .60 caliber round. But he couldn’t stop the initial flinch at the sound of her name, no matter how much time had gone by or how “settled” he thought it had been.

  “Or,” said Jackson, looking like he’d just sensed the tension he had created, “are you still not talking?”

  Tansy could only give a rambl
ing answer. “I can’t let that get in the way, whether or not it’s uncomfortable for us to talk. Or whatever it is. I was always cool with her, so I don’t know.”

  It was Carly who had stopped communicating. Not Tansy. Out of nowhere, she’d pulled the plug on their relationship. On something that seemed to have just been getting started.

  “Anyway,” said Tansy. “The last I heard was that she was retired.”

  “Retired?” Jackson asked, a disbelieving expression distorting his face.

  “I hacked into one of those job banks and found her resume. I guess she’s a marketer now? She builds websites for some little marketing outfit in Fort Collins.”

  “That can’t be right,” said Jackson. “I obviously don’t know her as well as you, but I mean. . . . Come on.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s gotta be some kind of front,” said Jackson. That was always what he suspected first.

  Tansy just nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Is that even retiring, though? Going from hacking to web programming?”

  Tansy nodded again. “Yes. Most definitely.”

  “Hmm,” said Jackson. “Then I wonder what she’s doing in her spare time.”

  9

  Carly

  They took turns driving, and crying, all the way to the Nevada border. The Dotties were booked to play a show at the border town of West Wendover, a tourist trap dotted with casinos. That night’s venue was a faux biker bar lined with slot machines and video poker. A stopover for vacationers headed for something better in Vegas or California, most of them in their fifties and half drunk by 2 p.m. Not exactly The Dotties’ usual crowd.

  They dropped off whatever gear they could on stage with whatever energy they could muster. The substance-filled late night in the salt flats, coupled with the blow of getting punked out of their product, was the perfect motivation for them to abandon their shit-show of a tour. And it was pretty much the only topic they’d discussed on their otherwise silent departure of Utah.

  Utah, where shitty bands go to die.