Thankfully.
The last thing he needed was to be arrested. He’d lose his security clearance, and his job.
And his future.
What future?
He had returned to his car and gone home, tears streaming down his face, donuts stuffing his mouth, as he felt more alone than ever.
He hadn’t heard from Melanie for days, and his messages had gone unanswered. He needed her. Desperately. But there appeared to be only one way to get her back.
And that was to fight.
And that very security clearance he had been so afraid of losing earlier in the week, was exactly how he could get her back.
He had full access to the entire ToolKit, a list of all the vulnerabilities the NSA had at its disposal. Thousands of ways to access every operating system and network imaginable, many known to the companies responsible, but too many not. Even fully patched systems were vulnerable in some cases.
And he had it all in the palm of his hand.
Literally.
He squeezed the memory stick, sweat beading on his forehead. He knew exactly how to get it out of the building. Security was designed to keep people out, to keep weapons and bombs out, but at the end of the day, when the rush of workers was leaving, security was designed to keep people moving, and the higher the security clearance you had, and the longer you had worked there, the quicker you were processed.
He pulled the tiny microSD card from the USB adapter, reducing the size of what he had to smuggle out of the building to something the size of an M&M, yet thinner. He opened his desk drawer, pulling out a roll of Scotch tape, unused in his entire time here, and tore off a piece. He taped the memory card to the back of his watch, then inhaled deeply.
Let’s do this.
He wiped his forehead dry with a handkerchief, then rose, struggling to stick to his regular routine as much as he could, the very act of thinking about it making it difficult to remember what he normally did by instinct. He merged with the masses, waiting for an elevator, then piled on amid several frowns and muttered grumblings as he struggled to squeeze his large frame on board, praying the doors would actually close.
They did.
Moments later, he was on the ground floor, the lines of personnel splitting into various tiers as those who needed closer scrutiny joined lines that would hold them up for some time, and others, like himself, that merely swiped their passes, subject to random searches. In his entire time there, he had been taken aside on only a handful of occasions. The chances of today being one of them were slim to none.
Yet today would be the day, the way your luck is.
“Sir, I’ll get you to step aside, please.”
He nearly peed, the color draining from his face as he turned.
But the guard wasn’t talking to him, he was addressing the person behind him.
And now, thanks to his overreaction, he appeared as guilty as sin.
He grinned at the man behind him. “Lucky you.”
The man chuckled. “The one day I’m in a hurry.”
“Isn’t that the way it always is.” Hummel grabbed his briefcase off the scanner and headed for the doors then the parking lot, not breathing easy until he cleared the front gates.
And as he headed for home, he began to shake all over, the crime he had just committed unforgivable.
But entirely necessary if he were to prove to Melanie that he was a man worth loving.
10
Temple Technologies Corporate Head Office
Mountain View, California
Present Day
Franklin Temple regarded the man sitting in front of him, his assistant Tanya Davis taking notes in the corner. Nothing he had heard in the past fifteen minutes had any substance. It was all the standard lines designed to make it sound like one was doing something, when in reality, little to nothing was getting accomplished.
He was being handled in the same way he handled impatient shareholders.
“Mr. Hughes, all you’ve told me is that you’re looking into it, as I fully expect you would be, that you sympathize with my situation, as I fully expect you would, and that you can’t discuss the specifics of the investigation, which I fully expect you couldn’t. What you don’t seem to be grasping is that I have an extremely high security clearance due to the Department of Defense contracts we have, and have resources that can be used to help in this situation. Don’t treat me like your average citizen. I am not.”
“Of course, Mr. Temple, I realize who you are, and the fact you and your company have been of great help to our nation. That’s why I’m here. If we were treating you like anything less than you are, I can assure you I wouldn’t have been sent. It’s just that, as I’m sure you’re aware, just because you have a high security clearance, doesn’t mean you get clearance to everything. You only have access to what you need to know.”
Temple dropped his head slightly, staring at Hughes. “You’re suggesting I don’t need to know?”
“As a father and a victim, you need to know when we have something concrete, as in when we make an arrest. But, and I say this with all due respect, sir, you don’t need to know the specifics of our investigation. Rest assured that we are following all leads diligently, and are doing everything in our power, in cooperation with our allies, to identify who exactly is behind this unprecedented attack. I have been instructed to tell you, from the White House itself, that when we do have a name—or names—that we will inform you before it is made public.”
Temple exhaled slowly and loudly, steepling his fingers in front of his chin as he rested his elbows on the arms of his leather chair. “I suppose I should have expected as much.” This was a waste of his time. This man might as well have been an intern, though it wasn’t his fault. He had his orders, and he was following them. It was his superiors who were to blame for this brush off, and eventually he’d find a way to make them pay, but not today. He had higher priorities. He rose, extending a hand across his desk. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Hughes.”
Hughes leaped from his chair, shaking the hand. “I wish I could have told you more, sir.” He lowered his voice slightly. “And as a father, I just want to say, I understand completely your desire to be more involved. If it were my child…” He shook his head. “Well, I would be doing the same.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hughes.” Temple motioned toward Davis. “Please show Mr. Hughes out.” He sat back in his chair and spun toward the window, staring out at the city below him as Davis showed the government lackey to the elevators, his chest growing tighter with each passing moment.
He wasn’t sure why he was upset more now than half an hour ago. What had he expected? A complete, detailed update on the progress? A list of suspects delivered to him with a smile? Of course not. Yet he had at least expected the courtesy of a senior level bureaucrat to deliver the brush off, not some low-level paper-pusher.
What was clear to him now, was that no one in the government gave a damn about the fact his daughter had died because of this, and they were taking this as seriously as any other attack upon the nation’s cyber infrastructure—not seriously enough. If the government truly cared, they would make certain that these attacks weren’t possible. Shut down things like Bitcoin where it was too easy for criminals to hide their money, force machines that had access to the internet to have the latest security patches installed along with anti-virus software.
These things were technically possible, yet the will to enforce them didn’t exist, and apparently the death of his daughter wasn’t enough to provide that will.
He had to take matters into his own hands.
It would be up to him to find out who was behind this, as he had no faith whatsoever in the government delivering.
The door opened and Davis returned. “So, what do you think?”
Temple frowned. “I think it’s exactly as we expected.”
Davis nodded, sitting in the chair vacated by the bureaucrat. “Agreed. So what do you want to do?”
�
�Put a team together. I want every inch of the Internet and Dark Web monitored. Somebody knows something.” He sighed, staring at the photo sitting on the corner of his desk of his wife and daughter, the frame a bright white with colorful seashells painstakingly glued in place by his daughter last summer. He reached out and touched her face as tears welled. “I want whoever is behind this dead.”
11
Clayton Hummel Residence
Annapolis, Maryland
Two Years Ago
“I did it.”
It was a simple message, the first Clayton Hummel had sent to Melanie in three days. He sat, staring at his screen for hours, waiting for her to logon. Four excruciating hours. He had stolen the data, smuggled it out of NSA headquarters, and wasn’t sure what to do with it now that his triumph had been achieved. He now had all the proof he needed to show that he was everything he said he was, that everything he had said was the truth, yet as he sat there thinking about what he had done, he realized there was nothing he could really do with it.
He couldn’t upload it to the Internet. That would be the end of him. They would somehow catch him, and his life would be over. He’d be tossed in prison, the key thrown away. And his annoyance at those goading him had passed. He didn’t care what those people thought anymore, he only cared about what Melanie thought.
The question was, would this theft be enough proof to her that he was a “man,” and worthy of her affections, without having to put it to use?
He prayed it was, because right now he was so terrified, he was absolutely certain he wouldn’t have the courage to go any further with this.
His machine beeped and his heart skipped.
“Did what?”
“I got it. The proof.”
“What proof?”
“Of everything I said. EVERYTHING.”
A smiley face appeared. “I knew you could do it! Did you shove it down those assholes’ throats?”
His chest ached and his shoulders slumped. “No. I can’t do that. That could put our country at risk.”
Her response had him smiling, breathing a sigh of relief. “Good! I wouldn’t want you to do that. But how do you feel?”
His smiled spread. “Terrified. Relieved. Kinda proud of myself.”
“Do you feel like a man?”
He grinned. “Thor’s got nothing on me.”
Another smiley face. “I’m so happy you did this.”
“I did it for you.”
“No, you did it for yourself. You did it to stand up for yourself for the first time in years. I really think this could be a turning point for you…and for us.”
His eyes narrowed at the last few words. “What do you mean?”
“I’m in DC. I want to meet you.”
His chest tightened as panic set in. He closed his eyes then reached forward, positioning his fingers on the bumps of the F and J keys. “I’d like that.”
12
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Present Day
“What do you mean we knew about this?”
Chris Leroux frowned at his boss, Leif Morrison, as they sat in the Director’s office. “A few months ago, a hacker group claimed to have the ToolKit and offered it for sale. They wanted a million Bitcoins for it.”
Morrison cursed. “And someone bought it then did this?”
Leroux shook his head. “No, there were no bidders. It was a ridiculous amount, equivalent to over one hundred million dollars at the time. Frankly, nobody believed them. Neither did we. They gave a sample, but it was all known vulnerabilities. It was as if they didn’t really know what they had, so they just released the letter ‘A’ for example. After a week or so it was taken down, and that was the end of it.”
“Until now.”
“Yes.”
Morrison sighed. “Do we know who this group is?”
“Not much. They’re believed to be Russian backed, but have also been linked to the Chinese and Iranians. We believe they’re a small group of highly skilled black hatters for hire. They call themselves the Shadow Collective.”
“Lovely. And are they behind this ransomware attack? Or does someone else have this ToolKit as well?”
Leroux grunted. “That’s the problem with this whole thing. If there was a leak at the NSA, who knows how many people this guy sold it to. Dozens might have it. And that failed auction might not have failed at all. They might have been contacted privately by any number of people who bought it without an exclusivity clause. We just don’t know.”
“Well, our country came under attack by foreign forces, which makes this at least partially our jurisdiction. I’m not going to just have us sit back and wait for the NSA to try and figure out just how exceptional their screw-up was. These morons actually allowed the data to leave the building. Who the hell does that?”
Leroux shrugged. “In their defense, they couldn’t put fake data on the network for him to copy. He knew the ToolKit too well to fall for that. They had to let him copy the information and smuggle it out, though I would have just arrested him the moment he boarded the elevator. They got greedy. They actually were hoping he’d upload it to the Internet so he could show it off to their dummy accounts. That way the charges would be juicier.”
“Didn’t exactly work out for our country, did it?”
Leroux grunted. “No.”
“So, what’s your recommendation?”
“We need to know what really happened to that data.”
“And how do we do that?”
“I think somebody has to pay a visit to Mr. Hummel.”
Morrison nodded. “Have anyone in mind?”
Leroux grinned. “Dylan is in-country and has a valid Homeland cover.”
Morrison grunted. “He’s not going to be happy if we interrupt his time with Lee Fang.”
Leroux rolled his eyes. “With the number of times he’s interrupted me and Sher—” Morrison’s eyebrows rose and Leroux stopped. “Umm, nothing.”
Morrison laughed. “Ahh, to be young again.” He pointed at the door. “Go, get your revenge.”
Leroux rose with a smile. “Yes, sir!”
13
Chart House Restaurant
Annapolis, Maryland
Two Years Ago
Clayton Hummel had chosen this restaurant specifically because the tables in the booths could be moved. Too often in his life, he had gone into a restaurant to find he couldn’t fit in the booth, the table bolted to the floor. It was embarrassing and humiliating, to say the least. It was why he usually asked for a table if he wasn’t sure, never wanting to repeat the humiliation of entering an Outback in Niagara Falls with his sister’s family, to leave moments later, battling tears, when he discovered there were no tables, and the booths were too tight.
Now he would scour for photos of any new restaurant online before going, making certain there were either tables, or that those in the booths weren’t bolted to the floor.
And this restaurant had been pre-vetted by him, this his go-to place for when any family came to town. It was upscale without being pretentious, perfect for a nice sit-down dinner with family or friends, or in this case, with the woman he loved.
He checked his watch.
Ninety minutes late.
He had eaten all the bread at the table, downed half a dozen glasses of water refilled by the increasingly sympathetic staff, and it was clear he had been stood up.
Something that he had no experience with.
At first, he had been worried, though now he was beyond that.
He knew.
He knew she wasn’t coming.
But how long was he supposed to wait before he slunk out of here, humiliated?
An hour ago.
His phone vibrated.
I’m so sorry, my love. I thought I was ready for this, but I’m not.
His heart ached and his eyes burned. He shoved the table away, squirming out of the booth, rushing for the door as he struggled to keep hims
elf together. His waiter opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut, thinking better of it, about the only thing to have gone right tonight.
Yet it didn’t matter.
He would never be back.
He could never return to where he had faced yet another humiliation.
He was done with women.
He was done with it all.
He would never be happy, and because he was such a coward, his only escape would be death.
Tonight he was getting extra bacon on his pizza.
And deleting his social media accounts.
NSA Special Agent Janine Graf pressed her phone tighter against her ear. “He’s leaving now. Do you have it?”
“Not yet.”
Graf frowned at the response from her partner, Donald Penn, as she watched their target, Clayton Hummel, rush from the restaurant and shuffle down the street toward his car. She did feel slightly sorry for him. After all, she had used him, had made him fall in love with her, and had now shattered his heart. She knew from their long conversations over the past several months, exactly how fragile he was.
It was her job to know.
Thousands of people had been screened before this operation began, and dozens like Hummel had been targeted because they not only had access to sensitive data, but were vulnerable in some way. Some were closet homosexuals still terrified to admit their status to the world, some were gamblers with massive debts they had no hope of paying, and some were lost souls, like Hummel, alone and desperate for love.
He had been assigned to her.
As part of his contract, his online activities were subject to monitoring, therefore finding his digital haunts had been easy. She and her partner had taken over several accounts among the many thousands set up by the NSA for just such operations, giving them instant credibility brand new accounts couldn’t.
Men like Hummel were smart, and a new account with no history might make him suspicious. But Melanie Driscoll had been online for years, regularly played World of Warcraft, and her profile only needed some tweaking to fit Hummel’s interests.
Retribution - A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller Book #7 Page 4