“Or it never properly copied.”
She shook her head. “No, he said he double-checked.”
“Maybe he was wrong?”
She eyed Penn. “He’s a computer expert. Do you really think he could be wrong about something as simple as whether or not some files had been copied?”
Penn shrugged. “Hey, he was nervous, made a mistake, and the data either didn’t get copied, or it somehow got deleted. Maybe he was exposed to a magnet or something.”
“No, the techs said the device was deliberately zero-filled. If it were a magnet, it wouldn’t be completely uniform.”
“So we’re back to some mystery person getting in here between the time he walked out the door for his hot date with you”—she gave him a look—“and me arriving ten minutes later.”
She frowned. “I can’t see any other option.”
Penn sighed. “Me neither, if you discount the possibility he’s lying, which I don’t.” He leaned in closer. “I think he’s still got the hots for this Melanie chick, and has transferred his feelings to you. I think he wants to impress you with his manliness, then impress his manliness upon you.”
“You’re a pig.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“I’d as soon go out with Clay before I’d go out with you.”
“Oh, ‘Clay’ is it?” His eyes narrowed and he tapped his chin. “I think you like this guy.”
Graf growled. “You’re impossible. Can you be professional for once in your life?”
“That’s not a denial. How could you possibly be attracted to a man that, well, big?”
Graf surprised herself with the vehemence of her response. “What kind of Neanderthal are you? Who cares if he’s overweight? Does that make him any less of a human being? And your wife is black! How would you like it if people discriminated against you guys because of that? Discrimination is discrimination, whether it’s racial, sexual, cultural, or physical. Clay—Hummel—is a very nice, very lonely man, who deserves happiness, and we used that against him, and forgive me if I don’t feel good about it.” Her head spun, glaring at the room of NSA staff that had stopped what they were doing to watch the tirade. “Back to work!”
The room resumed, and Penn leaned in. “Sorry, I was just joking around. You’re right. It was wrong. I was wrong.”
Graf glanced up at him and grunted. “Sometimes you’re an asshole.”
“Hey, have you and my wife been talking?”
Graf growled then punched him gently on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. We need to figure out if someone else was in this house. Maybe some neighbors have some cameras.”
16
Alta Mesa Memorial Park Cemetery
Palo Alto, California
Present Day
Franklin Temple climbed into the rear of the limousine, the emotions inside buried deep. The paparazzi hadn’t left him alone, despite his office’s request for privacy. People loved to see those more successful than them suffer, delighting in the misery of those like him. If it weren’t true, then there would be no market for the photos, and the paparazzi wouldn’t bother.
It disgusted him.
There were times he felt Western civilization deserved to crumble into the annals of history, and this moment was one of those. If people truly did want to see the photos of a grieving father burying his seven-year-old daughter, then they were disgusting pigs that deserved whatever happened to them. This obsession with celebrity was destroying the West, and this hatred of success, as if he had somehow cheated or stolen from others to achieve what he had, was insanity.
He had worked his ass off, creating his first company when he was twelve years old, selling it at fifteen for over ten million dollars. He was now personally worth billions through hard work and sacrifice. He donated hundreds of millions to charity, yet did it quietly. He paid his people generously, treated them well, and his domestic staff all had good salaries, health coverage, generous paid vacations, and pensions.
He was a good person.
And he was part of the one percent that was vilified by morons who couldn’t grasp the concept that most of their jobs and those of their parents, existed due to people like him. They couldn’t understand that corporate America, the large corporations like his, needed suppliers. Those suppliers were often medium and small businesses, even the mom and pop shops that these Occupy protesters championed.
Did they not understand that every day his company ordered thousands of doughnuts, thousands of muffins, thousands of pounds of fruit and vegetables for smoothies and juicing junkies? These came from local farms, from small businesses that landed the contract when his company was small, and grew along with him. Big business fueled mid-sized which in turn fueled the small. Wipe out big business, and the economy would crumble.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
His driver put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, scattering the photographers. He turned his head and smiled as two large black SUVs, owned by his security team, blocked the road behind him, preventing the vermin from following. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, sighing. The window separating him from his driver hummed closed, giving him the privacy he so desperately needed right now.
His daughter’s laughing face was seared on the back of his eyelids, her smile inescapable since the moment she had died, the only image to ever replace it cruelly that of her dying moments.
Why didn’t I insist on being with her?
She had died alone while he had played on a computer.
That wasn’t fair.
He was trying to save her life in the only way he knew how, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling she had died, wondering where her daddy was.
His own doctors had examined her and the autopsy results, confirming the initial diagnosis, and also confirming that she probably would have survived had she received prompt attention when they arrived.
The ransomware attack had killed her.
There was no doubt of that anymore.
His phone rang, automatically paired with the car’s Bluetooth, restricted to the rear cabin. He glanced at the display, the caller ID indicating it was Tanya Davis. She had been one of the few permitted at the funeral, and was likely in a vehicle behind him. She had taken a separate car, insisting he needed his privacy, though she would be the only person welcome with him at this moment.
And for her to call him at this time, meant she had something important that couldn’t wait.
He reached up and pressed a button on the roof, taking the call. “Yes, Tanya?”
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt. But the specialist you wanted has arrived. He has suggested you meet somewhere other than one of your properties.”
A sneer at the prospects of what this meeting meant, threatened to mar his face. “When?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now.”
17
Bureau 121
North Korean Cyberwarfare Agency
Classified Location
Two Years Ago
“I have it.”
Colonel Park Ji-Sung sat forward in his chair, his phone pressed hard against his ear. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
Park leaned back, a smile spreading across his face. Agent K was his man, his mole within the mighty American’s National Security Agency apparatus, and after years of grooming, it was finally paying off.
In a way he could never have imagined.
The ToolKit!
It was an impossible dream. Never could they have hoped to gain access to the rumored set of tools accumulated by the NSA. Yes, agencies across the world used the vulnerabilities in browsers and operating systems to try and steal or monitor data, but only the Americans had the resources to discover those that hadn’t yet been acknowledged, at least to the extent they had been thought to.
He had never intended to use Agent K for such an operation, in fact, he had
expected he might not be useful for several more years, but they had caught a lucky break.
And now they had the ToolKit.
“When will we have it?”
“You already do. I uploaded it to one of our secure servers as soon as I could. Check your secure email.”
Park tapped at his keyboard and entered a ridiculously complex password.
And smiled.
He clicked on the link then began scrolling through the thousands of files. “It will take us months to go through all of this.”
“Years, I think, to fully understand it all.”
“You have done a great service for your country.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, what is your status?”
“The Americans have no idea. I say we let things play out for now. As far as those investigating are concerned, they think the data is contained, and at this moment, have no idea there has been a breach. I think I can still be of use here.”
“Very well. The moment you think otherwise, execute your extraction plan. We can’t risk you getting caught.”
“Understood.”
18
Los Altos Hills, California
Present Day
Franklin Temple moved to the far corner of his limo as the door opened. Tanya Davis climbed in, followed by a man who exuded masculine confidence. He was solid, well-kempt in an impeccable suit, and his chiseled face was emotionless.
Just as he was.
“Mr. Temple, this is Mr. Simmons.”
Simmons reached out and shook Temple’s hand. “Sir, it’s an honor.”
Temple nodded, the man’s voice deep, his manner military. He wasn’t surprised. He had requested his security chief find someone who could deal with the problem, and his chief was ex-military. It made sense that he’d bring in someone he knew. “You’re aware of the situation?”
“Yes, sir. Your daughter was murdered by those responsible for the ransomware attack earlier this week, and you would like them brought to justice.”
Murdered. Good. He understands.
“Yes.”
“I just need to know what manner of justice you mean.”
Temple kept the smile from his face. This man wanted to know what his Rules of Engagement were. What limitations under which he was operating. But what if his desires went further than this man was willing to go?
Then you’ll find someone else.
“They’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.”
“Understood. I have a team that will do the wetwork, plus a tech team. Your security chief and I have already worked out the particulars on our fee, and it’s my understanding that all of our expenses will be covered, and there are no limits to those expenses.”
“Correct.”
“Then, sir, I suggest you let me do my job.”
“I want to be kept informed every step of the way.”
“If you wish.”
“I’ve had a team set up offsite that are investigating the hacks. They are some of the finest cybersecurity specialists in the world. You will want to coordinate with them.”
“With all due respect, sir, the fewer who know I’m involved, the better.”
“Agreed. Miss Davis will be your liaison with them. When they discover anything, she will feed the information to you, and vice versa. If you discover some piece of intel that could help, let her know, she’ll pass it on to the team.” He leaned forward. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”
He nodded. “My team has dealt with problems in the past.”
“And you have no problem dealing with whoever is at the other end of this?”
“As long as they aren’t children, and aren’t Americans, then no. If they are, then you will be provided with their identities and proof of their crimes, and they will be delivered to the authorities, involuntarily repatriated if necessary.”
“So you have limits.”
Simmons stared at him. “Of course. We’re not assassins for hire. We’re problem solvers. We kill bad people, and only bad people. If you wanted us to eliminate a business rival, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But that’s not the case here. These hackers have been operating with impunity for too long. It’s time they were taken down. Permanently.”
Temple allowed a smile to form. “I think, Mr. Simmons, that we are on the exact same page.” He extended his hand. “I don’t think we shall meet again.”
19
Agent K’s Residence
Two Years Ago
“You have the sample?”
“Yes. Very impressive. How did you get it?”
Agent K smiled at the screen. Dealing with amateurs was amusing at times, and because of it, dangerous. Just because someone was successful at cybercrime, didn’t mean they were wise in the ways of the trade. The world of espionage was dangerous, and his world involved guns and garrotes, brass knuckles and knives, not bits and bytes and chunks of illicit code. These people were in over their heads, but they had money, which was all he cared about.
He had hit the mother lode, and he intended to cash in, securing a future always uncertain under the Dear Leader. He could be recalled to the homeland at any moment, but now that he had stumbled upon one of the most valuable chunks of ones and zeroes in the world, none of that mattered anymore.
He had found the ToolKit.
He tapped away at his keyboard. “Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not. How do you want to do this?”
“Twenty-five thousand Bitcoins. Half now, half when I deliver the rest of the files.”
“Just a second.”
He stared at his other screen, his Bitcoin account displayed. It jumped by 12,500 coins. The column showing what that was in US Dollars leaped. Over three million. He leaned closer to his keyboard. “Received. Stand by.” He tapped away, the data rapidly transferring from an encrypted server on the Dark Web to his contact’s own server hidden in the illicit cloud. “Transfer complete.”
“One moment while we verify.”
His knee bounced rapidly and his finger tapped on the palmrest of his ergonomic keyboard.
The Bitcoin account soared again, and he flopped back in his chair.
“A pleasure doing business with you.”
The display went dead before he could reply.
He stared at the US Dollar total, his jaw dropping as the realization of what had just occurred set in.
Now the worrying ends.
The doorbell rang.
20
Penn Residence
Argonne Hills, Maryland
Two Years Ago
“Oh, hi, Janine, come on in!”
Janine Graf smiled at Grace Penn as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She sniffed. “My God, Grace, that smells good. What is it?”
“Some good ol’ Creole cooking. My grandma’s recipe. Now please tell me you have time to stick around and try some.”
Graf followed her partner’s wife into the kitchen, her mouth watering as she searched for an excuse not to. She hated interrupting family life, and though her partner had no children, Grace’s prominent bulge indicated that status was about to change. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense. You’re my husband’s partner. You’re family.”
Graf smiled. It felt good to hear those words. Her own family was on the other side of the country, and she rarely saw them. And she was chronically single. Few men were willing to put up with a woman who could kick their ass, and was rarely home. She was married to her job, as Penn had been, which was why she was surprised when he had returned from New Orleans a year ago with Grace in tow.
According to him, his annual pilgrimage to the great city had taken place every year since Katrina, interrupted only once during the outbreak a few years ago where the containment failure had threatened the entire planet. The city had bounced back once again, and Penn’s annual trips had resumed. Little had she known he had been going down to see a woman.
&n
bsp; Grace was fantastic. Everything she imagined Penn would be attracted to, and they certainly seemed happy. They had been married shortly thereafter, Graf the best “man,” and now there was a bun in the oven.
The perfect family.
Graf leaned over a pot of something wonderful and inhaled. “Okay, there should be a law against something that smells that good. What do you put in it?”
“I think it’s fentanyl. The damned stuff is addictive.”
Graf chuckled at Penn as he rounded the corner. “Whatever it is, she’s a genius.”
“Don’t I know it.” Penn gave his wife a quick kiss then smiled at his partner. “What brings you here?”
She gestured toward the stove. “Your wife’s cooking.”
Penn sat on one of the stools lining the breakfast bar, and Graf did the same.
“Actually, I have news.”
Penn’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
Grace paused. “Should I leave?”
Graf shook her head. “No, it’s okay.” She turned back to Penn. “The case has been dropped. He’s been released.”
Penn’s eyes shot wide. “Are you kidding me!” He flicked his hand toward her. “Well, you called it. What was the reasoning?”
“Not worth the embarrassment to the agency. He’s being allowed to resign from his contracting agency rather than be fired, and he won’t be allowed to work on any government contracts for the rest of his life, but, essentially, he’s a free man.”
Penn sighed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. The bastard’s guilty, and we’re just letting him go.”
Graf grunted. “It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Retribution - A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller Book #7 Page 6