Encrypted: An Action-Packed Techno-Thriller

by Carolyn McCray

  Zach got it. Here was a completely different ball game.

  “Then what do we do?” he asked.

  “We?” Quirk said backing up. “We don’t do anything. This is all you, in all your hotness glory.”

  Zach frowned. His hotness or lack thereof had very little to do with convincing Ronnie to commit to an acknowledged less-than-perfect entry.

  He crouched beside her, putting his hand on her knee.

  “Hey.” Who knew if she couldn’t hear him, or just chose not to? “Ronnie, darlin’, we’ve got to get this party started.”

  The slight shake of the head she gave him was better than nothing.

  “Ronnie. Look at me.”

  She just shook her head again. Gently, he reached out and tilted her chin up.

  “Babe, you’ve got to pull the trigger.”

  Her eyes refocused from the cyber world to this one. “But if I make the breach, and—”

  “We,” Zach corrected. “When we make the breach, we could set off the alarms.”

  Worry seemed to weigh down her eyelids. “If we set off an alarm. Now? We’ll never have enough time.”

  “No. No we won’t,” Zach agreed.

  Ronnie scanned his face, seeming to wait for him to reassure her. But how could he? Zach was used to holding people’s lives in his hand. Perhaps not all of them all at once, but he knew the indecision that could tear at you. Do you shoot now, or wait? Will your inaction or action cause another’s death? There was no getting around it. Only getting through it.

  “If we delay much longer, though, we will definitely be found.”

  He cupped her cheek as she slowly nodded. Zach leaned in. Her courage and vulnerability were an intoxicating mixture. Before he could close the distance, a smile tugged on her lips.

  “Not here, either,” she whispered.

  Sure, disappointment stung, but at least Ronnie was back to herself.

  * * *

  Francois stood at the cold, steel gate. Just beyond the mesh were some of the world’s greatest works of art. Pristine. Provocative. Protected. But no more. Now many of them would enter into the realm of the hallowed.

  The paintings glistened in the low light. Francois could almost imagine them whispering to each other the secrets of the past.

  What had it felt like to take brush to canvas knowing your work would not just be displayed for generations, but physically secure for generations to come? Francois paused. Perhaps he did. The wounds on his arms throbbed, reminding him of his duty.

  So many years he thought himself mad. To be trapped with the knowledge of the apocalypse looming. To know that angels existed, but unable to prove their form. Now he was blessed; his doubt had evaporated. This was a time when good and evil stalked the earth, playing out their war through men such as he and Lino.

  Francois glanced at the trio behind him. Good souls. Confused, and many times resistant souls, but good, nonetheless. For all their help, though, they still did not believe. They attempted to explain away the miracles dancing before their eyes with scientific this or mathematical that. Could they truly see this through to the end without faith? Without the faith that burned in his chest?

  For little did they know, the worst was yet to come.

  CHAPTER 23

  Metropolitan Museum of Art

  7:10 a.m., EST

  Quirk watched the security screen as the gallery’s gate rattled up along its tracks. So far, so good. Next to him, Ronnie fidgeted with a dozen different values. He wanted to tell her, honey, it is going to blow the alarm or not, but he kept silent. She looked to be in a punch-now, ask-questions-later mood.

  For once, the dice rolled in their favor, and the gate went up without a hitch, a red flashing light, or people shooting at them.

  He picked up the satchel with what remained of their bag of tricks when Ronnie’s hand flew up.

  “Get back!” she yelled.

  No one questioned her odd order. They all scrambled back from the open door.

  Quirk scanned all the security feeds. Damn, but one of the graphs was fluctuating from green up into the yellowish orange range. A guard noticed, and began studying the variable.

  Temperature.

  “Hold your breath,” Ronnie whispered, sucking in one of her own. Quirk gulped down some air and waited.

  Ever so slowly, the colorful graph flickered into the orange, then back down to a canary yellow, then finally settled in a lovely, light forest green.

  “Let it out slowly,” she instructed.

  Quirk kept his nose pinched as he exhaled air milliliter by milliliter. The gauge went into a concerning chartreuse then morphed back to that refreshing mint color. The guard got bored and went back to watching “Lost” reruns.

  Zach scowled. “I didn’t think this room had temperature sensors.”

  “Yeah,” Ronnie answered, “Neither did we.”

  Those dumb rotating defenses, Quirk thought. Okay, they weren’t dumb, they were entirely too sophisticated for their own good. They forced the group to drop their core body temperature to seventy-two degrees, be able to move without causing the air to stir, and create no pressure on the floor.

  Or, at least that is what an average art thief would need to do. You know, ones without the mad hacking skills. Ronnie was already working on a compensating algorithm. She was feeding data back to the system that compensated for their added heat.

  “Francois, take a step forward,” Ronnie asked.

  “Hold on,” Quirk interrupted. “Shouldn’t Zach go first? He is the hottest.”

  His boss frowned, “Quirk, enough.”

  “No,” Quirk hurried on. “I mean, literally, he is the hottest.”

  He showed Ronnie the heat scan. Zach registered nine eight point nine. A good three tenths of a degree warmer than any of them.

  “See?” Quirk challenged. “Scientific proof that he’s smoking hot.”

  Ronnie’s lips drew down, but she nodded to the FBI agent. “He’s right. Your heat signature will challenge my counterprogramming the most.”

  They hung back as Zach inched forward. “Am I supposed to do anything?” the FBI agent asked.

  “Nope,” Quirk answered. “Just work your natural hottie-self.”

  * * *

  Zach became acutely aware that all eyes were on him. He was pretty damn sure that his temperature was going up under the scrutiny.

  “We’ve got a cool lime going on,” Quirk stated, looking relieved.

  He guessed that was a good thing as Ronnie instructed Francois to join him, but after a few feet, Ronnie pulled them back.

  “You are just too hot, dude,” Quirk stated.

  That had definitely never been a problem before now.

  Ronnie agreed, “Not only are you warmer, but you radiate your heat further, comingling with anyone else.”

  Before the world’s future hung in the balance, Zach had some distinct ideas about how to comingle heat, but now it just presented a roadblock.

  “We’ve got to go with ‘plan D,’ ” Ronnie stated.

  “I didn’t even know we had a ‘plan C,’ ” Zach admitted.

  Ronnie’s cheeks flushed a bit. “Yeah, that was kind of “we hope our luck doesn’t run out.’ ”

  Clearly, that had been a pipe dream.

  “So, what next?” he asked.

  “We don’t have time to run a full hack on the temperature sensors. Those are spanking brand new, with all the latest anti-tampering software. The best I can do is run interference.”

  “But I can’t go in,” Zach clarified.

  “Correct.” Ronnie said, looking up. “It also means that we can’t use the torches to cut down the paintings.”

  Crap. He hadn’t even thought of that. Ronnie truly was running circles around him. “Then, how are we going to get them down?”

  “I’ve got a few ideas, but they are going to take some time,” Ronnie explained. “Which means that we won’t have time to get the paintings from the other collections. Unles
s…”

  “Unless?” he asked. Not liking the sound of it.

  “You and Francois go to the other exhibits.”

  “No,” Zach stated flatly. “We are not splitting up.

  “As we know, not all exhibits have the same defenses. The chances that the other, more minor exhibits have all these bells and whistles is slim,” Ronnie hurried on, “so you and Francois could gather the other paintings while we figure out how to deal with the bulk of these.”

  “No,” Zach emphasized.

  “Zach,” Ronnie sighed. “I get it. Trust me. I do not want you out of my sight, either, but there’s just no other way to get all this done in the time we have. You’ve got to go.”

  “No,” Zach repeated. He did not go through all of this hell to lose her. Even for half a second.

  * * *

  Ronnie grabbed Zach’s hand. God, how she loved his determination and fierce desire to be at her side. Unfortunately, it forced her to speak some harsh truths. Truths she knew might hurt his feelings, but these truths needed to be spoken.

  Ugh. How she hated being a grownup!

  “Zach, if you stay, what are you going to do?” His eyes scanned her features. Begging her not to go where she needed to go. “You can’t go in the room. So, what are you going to do while our time whittles down?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  That was an improvement over the curt “nos” he had been giving her.

  “Like Quirk would say, you’ve got to get your full FBI on.”

  Zach’s eyes followed her gaze as her assistant nodded vigorously in agreement.

  He looked back at her. “I am hot-footing it back here if there is even a whiff of trouble.”

  Ronnie squeezed his hand. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  His features softened as he entwined his fingers in hers.

  “Um?” Quirk stated. “Are we going to rob this museum, or not?”

  And just like that, Zach was back to being a Special Agent demigod. He dropped her hand and picked up both acetylene torches. “Since you can’t use yours?”

  “Go for it. We’ve got to play it cool. Literally.” Ronnie turned to Francois. “We just need you to tell us which paintings we need to grab.”

  The old man looked startled, as if he didn’t understand why in the world she would ask him such a question.

  She coaxed Francois along. “We have the list of painters. Now we need which of the paintings we need to burn.”

  “How would I know such a thing?”

  Dear God. Now was not the time for the Frenchman’s mind to go offline. “But your carvings, and your time within the Hidden Hand…”

  Francois’ eyes looked crystal clear as he spoke. “My dear, the angels have not yet told me.”

  Ronnie blinked. Now they not only needed to get one painting from each artist, but all the paintings from that artist. How long would that take? And could they even be sure to find the right painting with the right symbol?

  “So we grab all the paintings from the artist on the list?” Zach asked.

  “I guess,” Ronnie said, glancing over her shoulder at the room full of the masterworks. That just quadrupled the number of paintings they had to secure.

  Zach seemed unshaken by the news. “We’re off then.”

  With that said, he guided Francois around the corner, angling toward the African artwork exhibit. Would he look back? Would she break and ask him to stay?

  “Again,” Quirk nagged. “The whole world depends on our expediency thing.”

  Ronnie turned back to the European gallery. “Kind of how we might have known about the heat sensors if you hadn’t been making gooey eyes at the pilot?”

  “Touché.”

  She might have taken more satisfaction in besting Quirk at his own game if she had any clear idea of how they were going to get all the paintings that they needed off the wall without increasing the heat in the room. With about five hours lead time she could have found the source code for the heat sensors, but they were down to about fifteen minutes before her loop would start to fray.

  Quirk must have come to the same conclusion. “We’ve got a few toys, he said, indicating the duffel bag filled with their “beta” projects. However, none seemed suited for the task.

  “I am thinking that we flash-freeze the metal?” she offered. “Making it more brittle and easier to break?”

  “Great idea,” Quirk said, and then chuckled. “Of course, that would require being able to flash-freeze the metal. And of course, that would lower the temperature of the room, throwing us into the blue on their sensors.”

  Damn it, her assistant was right. Every scenario she posed in her head was equally improbable. She took a moment to settle her mind, glancing around the room at the masterpieces. Ronnie had been so stressed out she didn’t even realize that one of her favorite Monet works was right in front of her—Water Lilies. A painting she not only loved but desperately needed to burn if they were going to save the world.

  It turned out that stealing some of the most famous paintings in the world was hard. Who knew?

  * * *

  Lino strode through the door. How convenient that the heretics and betrayers had broken into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One of his men held a computing device, tracing the illustrious hackers’ cyber footsteps. This man was, of course, no match for the whore’s skills, but they needed to only get so far upon her work. From there, Lino had other plans.

  He liked the large echoing chamber they entered. It smelled of musk and pine. To think, once the plague ran its course all places such as this would be the Hidden Hand’s. This indulgent notion that the great masters should be availed to the public would cease. Great beauty would be reserved for great men.

  His team of four quickly crossed through the docking bay and headed down a side hallway. Lino had limited his team to be numbered four, slipping in under the hacker’s shadow.

  Rapidly, they made their way to the security station. A large, numeric keypad blocked their entry. No matter. God’s grace once again shined down upon them. Long entrenched in the world of art and commerce, the Hidden Hand had many fingers.

  One of his men typed in the current access code. Once the door opened, Lino’s team burst into the room, swiftly dispatching the guards. Even the one who had offered up the security code. He choked and gagged at Lino’s feet. Clutching at Lino’s pant leg, asking with his eyes, Why?

  The answer was simple. Lino tired of betrayers. If this man could so easily be coerced to betray his employer, what did that say for his devotion to the Hidden Hand? One of Lino’s men moved to snap the man’s neck, but that would not do. No, this man must suffer in equal measure to his fickle morals.

  Lino leaned in and whispered, “It may hearken you to know that your family will soon join you.”

  The guard’s eyes dilated and his fingers clawed at Lino’s clothes, but nothing would shake his decision.

  The long season of betrayal was coming to a swift end.

  * * *

  Amanda hit the “Refresh” key. Again. Nothing happened. Why wasn’t the CIA data updating? She looked over to Devlin, who seemed to be having the same problem.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  “I think the better question is, “What did you do?”

  Henderson glanced over. “What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep breath. Well, as deep a breath as she could with pneumonia rattling around in her lungs. Amanda could feel herself becoming shrill. It was one thing to be called a Chicken Little. It was quite another to act like one.

  “The CIA data stream seems to have been cut off.”

  “Or someone is hogging it again,” Devlin countered.

  Before she could retort, Henderson put up a blotchy hand. “Or what if it wasn’t someone here doing the cutting off?”

  To think that the CIA had a Hidden Hand mole? Exactly how organized were these people? Had they infected Langley as efficiently as they had infected Plum Island?


  “I’m going to contact my superiors,” Devlin said as he rose creakily.

  “You do that,” Henderson said, getting back to work.

  Amanda stared at the frozen screen. She had been gutting it out. Working on faith that somehow her work could change the course of the disease. That somehow she could isolate vaccinated populations in order to find the cure. But if the CIA was compromised, even if she did somehow pull the rabbit out of the hat, who in the world could actually retrieve the vaccine?

  She looked up to find Henderson watching her. He had never seemed quite so grandfatherly as he did right now.

  “You can’t stop being Chicken Little now, Rolph,” the director said, and then went back to work.

  It wasn’t exactly the most rousing pep talk in history. However, it was exactly what she needed to hear.

  Closing out the frozen screen, Amanda focused on the data they had already collected. There had to be enough information there. There just had to be.

  CHAPTER 24

  Metropolitan Museum of Art

  7:35 a.m., EST

  Quirk groaned as his box cutter snapped off. Again. The stupid painting, a Degas, if he wasn’t mistaking his ballerina painters, refused to be freed from its frame. Museums had taken to attaching the canvas to thick metal plates, thereby preventing someone like Quirk from cutting the painting out of the frame. Like he said. Stupid.

  Unlike Zach and Francois. They hit the old painting lottery. The other display halls were rotating through much lighter defenses. A little goading from Ronnie’s algorithm added to having two acetylene torches and the boys were literally cutting through their grocery list. But he and Ronnie?

  They had tried everything to lift the paintings from their moorings—to no avail.

  “Be careful not to work up a sweat,” Ronnie said from the other side of the room as she worked to free a Giorgione.