Crash Into Pieces (The Haylie Black Series Book 2)

by Christopher Kerns

  Haylie cleared her throat, pointed up at the screens on the far wall. Agents Wilcox and Hernandez gave her their full attention, along with the few other new government officials—all wearing matching charcoal suits—who had come in for the update. The monitors displayed a collection of data from hacker message boards: single messages, user profiles, and a few open threads.

  “We built a script pinging entry-level hacker forums for posting patterns,” Haylie explained. “We matched newer posts on subject matter that lines up to the latest string of hacks to a full catalog of older posts.”

  Agent Hernandez was the first to speak up. “I don’t get it.”

  “Sorry,” Haylie said, looking over to Mary. “It’s simple, really.”

  “This had better be legal,” Agent Wilcox said, eying the suits standing around her. “My instructions were clear in that area.”

  “It’s fine,” Haylie said. “Mary, do you want to tell them?”

  “No, dear,” Mary said with a smile. “You go ahead. You’re the one who ended up finding the language patterns that—”

  “Could one of you please just tell us what the hell is going on here?” Agent Wilcox said with a raised voice. “In English?”

  Haylie nodded. “Here’s the deal. We can tell the Endling is new at this based on what he does once he’s inside each system. So we looked for posts on hacker boards that asked about some of his recent exploits. We then used natural language processing—”

  “English,” Hernandez repeated.

  “We think we found a bunch of posts from him from over the past few years. And not just a high number, but long posts. He goes on and on in these write-ups—he writes four or five paragraphs when others are writing quick one or two sentence blurbs. We matched his communication patterns with older messages on the boards from all different accounts, assuming he created a new one every few months. His newer accounts were pretty well locked down, but with those early accounts—when he was just getting started—we figured he’d be more likely to have let his guard down without even knowing it.”

  Agent Wilcox nodded. “So, you’ve got him?”

  “Yes and no,” Haylie said. “I ran language pattern checks across a majority of the posts for the last eight months, and these six accounts were a match for length, word choice, and punctuation. We’ve used the script to identify his current account, but we can’t get a location from him. He’s smarter now, using the Tor network to mask his location.”

  “I don’t see anything here,” Agent Wilcox said. “Why did you bring us in here?”

  “Well, we might have him,” Haylie said.

  “What are you talking about?” Agent Hernandez jumped in. “Details, please?”

  Haylie eyed the collection of NSA brass as she chose her next words carefully. “We can’t get a location on him, but we know his user account. If the NSA happened to have a platform—like you’re rumored to have—where you can target malicious ad banners at users, then with admin access to these forums, we’ll be able to take over his machine.”

  “Ad banners?” Agent Hernandez asked. “Why would the NSA have anything like that?”

  “There was a news story recently,” Haylie said. “Vector told me about it—all about a malvertising platform that’s out in the wild. People were guessing the NSA was behind it.”

  “I’m not in the ad business,” Agent Wilcox said, doing a quick check of the company around her. “If I were, I’d get paid a lot more. And, besides, that would be—”

  “Illegal, I know,” Haylie said. She turned back to a confused Agent Hernandez. “Malvertising takes over a website’s ad banner network. It serves up viruses to users through those ads, attacking you from a site that you trust. Users don’t even see it happening. If the NSA does have one of these platforms, now would be a good time to use it.”

  “Roar-4.” Mary’s voice echoed through the room as all heads turned her way. “The NSA’s platform is called Roar-4. It downloads a Trojan to the user’s machine and uses a known vulnerability called ‘drive-by downloading,’ where we can trigger his machine to execute files without alerting him with even as much as a pop-up.”

  Hernandez stared at Mary as the room fell silent. “How do you—”

  “This isn’t the first time the NSA has asked for my help, isn’t that right, Agent Wilcox?”

  Agent Wilcox sat back in her chair, her hands folded over her lap.

  “What can it access?” Haylie asked.

  Mary opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off.

  “It monitors all keystrokes,” Agent Wilcox said, softly. “Gives us access to the webcam, audio, and screencasting capabilities. It has its own API—once it’s fully installed, we can just send it commands and ask for data back.”

  Haylie considered the implications. “Can you install it here?” She pointed up at the screen. “On any of these hacking forums?”

  Agent Wilcox stared at Haylie in silence.

  “The thing Agent Wilcox doesn’t want to say,” Mary said, “is that Roar-4 is already on those hacking forums. And thousands of other sites across the internet.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Haylie said, pushing back from the desk.

  But—that’s criminal. The people on these sites haven’t done anything wrong. There are no warrants, no judge or jury.

  Agent Wilcox nodded in agreement. “The Roar-4 project has been active for the past year or so. The number of active installs is classified.”

  “So if we can get this virus on his machine,” Agent Hernandez asked Wilcox. “We should be able to track him down, right?”

  “We just need his user ID,” Agent Wilcox said.

  Mary scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it over to a waiting analyst. The analyst turned to her machine and, typing in the forum’s user identification number with a few keystrokes, brought up a new window on the main screen. She cycled through a few command line instructions as the room waited and watched.

  A few seconds later, a video feed went live, rendering slowly, showing the edges and corners of a darkened room. Haylie could discern the outlines of distant light bulbs in the background, all strung down like a grapevine, illuminating part of a wall and a light switch. Grays and blacks filled the remainder of the frame, except for the man at the center. Poorly lit by only his LCD monitor, his pale white skin made him look like a ghost floating in the darkness. He leaned in, eyes flicking left and right across the camera, his wavy, gelled hair combed back. His expression was lifeless as he mouthed words to himself, blinking in bursts.

  Haylie stared into his eyes, watching every movement.

  Hello, Endling.

  She heard the squeal of a chair pulling back as Agent Hernandez stood and took a few steps towards the screen. He pointed up to at the image.

  “Can … Can he see us?” Hernandez stammered. “Does he know we’re watching?”

  “Don’t worry,” Mary said. “He has no idea what’s going on. Completely clueless.”

  “Any matches with the facial recognition database?” Agent Wilcox asked the NSA analyst. “Any location data?”

  “No matching mug shot in our system,” the analyst replied. “Looks like this is his first rodeo.”

  “We can’t get his location via IP address,” Mary said. “He’s masking that. But we can check his hard drive. Browsing history, documents.” She yelled over to the NSA analyst. “Let’s grab everything we can.”

  The analyst nodded, typing away at the keyboard. A progress bar appeared, showing a slow crawl copying every file over to the NSA’s local servers. As soon as the job pinged ‘complete,’ the analyst dove in.

  “Here we go,” the analyst said, scrolling through a list of documents. “Spreadsheets. Applications. Music files. Lists and notes. Address book. A few—”

  “Hold it right there,” Haylie yelled, pointing at the screen. “The notes application. Bring that up.”

  The analyst stopped and double-clicking into folder, scrolling through a list
of to-dos, notes labeled ‘random thoughts,’ ‘blog post ideas,’ ‘coffee shops.’

  “There!” Haylie said. “Coffee shops. That’s it.”

  The list appeared on the screen as the analyst looked back to her.

  Ground Trooth

  Caffeine Palace

  Coffee Nation XL

  Boystown Coffee

  The list went on and on.

  Mary looked up from her keyboard at a search result list. “These are all in the downtown Chicago area. I’m guessing he uses those—”

  “For his attacks,” Haylie said. “He’s using a different location for each new exploit. Never two hacks from the same place. That’s what I would do, anyway.”

  “If I was going to start searching,” Mary said. “I’d start here. Work my way down the list.”

  “Let’s get on a plane,” Agent Wilcox said. “We’re heading to Chicago. Ms. Black—you’re coming with us. I want you on the ground.”

  Haylie stepped back. What?

  “Mary has been running me through all the help you’ve been providing,” Wilcox said. She pointed up the screen. “Told me how none of this would have been possible without your input.”

  Haylie’s eyes fell down on Mary, who gave her a smile. The motion from the video looming over them showed the Endling scratching his chin and mouthing words they couldn’t hear. He leaned in towards them with dead eyes.

  “When we find this guy,” Agent Wilcox said. “We’re going to need someone there to help guide our interrogation. Ask him the right questions.”

  “Why do we need to go?” Haylie said. “Don’t you have agents up there?”

  “We see our investigations through,” Wilcox shot back. “And it’s going to be faster for me to jump on a plane than spend eight hours walking a bunch of Yankees through the details. Trust me, I wish that wasn’t the case. Besides—this isn’t a sure thing yet; we still have work to do once we land, to actually find him.”

  “I think Mary should go,” Haylie said. “She’s—”

  “Mary stays here,” Wilcox said with authority. She turned to the rest of the room. “We’re wasting time. C’mon people, let’s go get this guy.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wirstrom’s Pub

  Stockholm

  October 30th, 12:32PM

  The mid-afternoon crowd was a mix of young locals and wide-eyed tourists, all beginning to slow down a bit after a day of walking the hills of Stockholm’s Old City. Caesar sat in the back of a pitch-black pub—carved out of a wall somewhere at the tail end of a sloped alley, waiting.

  He stirred his ice water with his straw, keeping his eyes glued to the door. He flipped his phone over on the table, checking the time.

  Fifteen minutes late. No—sixteen. When should I start to get worried?

  He snatched the crumpled English-language newspaper off the bench and held it up close to his eyes, trying to make out the headline in the darkness.

  HACKER CELLS

  RAIDED IN MINNEAPOLIS

  “Hacker cells,” Caesar whispered under his breath. “That’s a new one. What does that even mean?”

  He brought up his phone and checked the status of Haylie’s ankle bracelet, something that had become his new version of social media over the past few weeks. Just to make sure that light was still blinking. The location honed in on a complex just northwest of downtown San Antonio.

  Hmm … Maybe she’s on a day trip?

  He laid his phone down and slid the oil from the newsprint between his fingers. The past few days hadn’t been any better than the ones before: shaking off suspicious looks at the border when they presented their fake passports, Phillip getting spooked at the hotel by a man sitting in the corner of the lobby for more than an hour. It was the little things that scared him these days. And there were little things everywhere.

  Momentum—that’s all we need. Once we get that under our belts, and Hancock is out of the picture, we can get back to doing what we’re good at.

  The door cracked open, spilling white light across Caesar’s view. Caesar rubbed his eyes and as his vision returned, Sean appeared at the rail in front of him.

  “You’re late,” Caesar said, sliding down the bench to give Sean some room. “Where are the others? I almost ordered for everyone, but wasn’t sure if it was too late for coffee.”

  Sean slid in, not saying a word, and motioned over to the waiter. He ordered a beer and picked up the newspaper, staring through the headlines and tossing it back on the bar.

  “I’ve got a new plan,” Caesar said. “After Eagle is all said and done, we head for someplace nice. The Caymans—a place where there’s enough civilization to stay online, but far enough away from all of this. Give the team that break we’ve been talking about, they deserve it.”

  “They’re gone,” Sean muttered, staring back at his own reflection through the mirror behind the bar.

  Caesar waited for Sean to elaborate, but got nothing. The bartender slid Sean’s beer in front of him and glided away to the other side of the bar.

  “What do you mean?” Caesar asked, looking down at the newspaper. “This Minneapolis thing? It’s nothing—probably just some script kiddies, the feds just want to get some good headlines in before—”

  “Not Minneapolis,” Sean said, raising his voice and throwing the newspaper back at Caesar. “I don’t care about that. I’m talking about Phillip and Margo.”

  Caesar looked down at the faded wood of the bar and ran his finger across the water beading on the surface. He knew this would happen—just didn’t know when. All he could manage was a single word.

  “How?”

  “How?” Sean spat back. “I’ll tell you how, they just left. It was that simple. They walked away, said they’d had enough. And I’ll tell you the truth: I was tempted to follow them out the door.”

  Caesar’s heart sank. He felt the walls begin to ratchet slowly in towards him, the light fading, the darkness winning. His eyes darted frantically around the room, looking for something to focus on, but seeing only black. If they were gone, Sean could be next. And he knew he couldn’t do this alone.

  Did he get to them—Hancock? Is he on the inside now? If he got to them then he can get to Sean. He can get to me.

  “Where do you think they…” Caesar stuttered, trying to keep the conversation going, but coming up blank with what to say next.

  “We need to figure out what we’re doing here, man,” Sean said. “You picked a fight with a U.S. senator and you’re losing. Our team is getting whittled away—that’s exactly what he wants. You never should have hacked those records.”

  “I’m going to take care of it,” Caesar shot back. “The whole thing. I’m on it. I told the team that, I told them every time they asked.”

  “Yeah, well maybe they got tired of asking.”

  “Nobody said this was going to be easy. We just need to make it through this stretch.”

  Caesar stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired—his hair beginning to show flashes of gray. Bags under his eyes. He didn’t used to look this tired.

  “You’re not going to leave, too, are you?” Caesar muttered.

  “You think I’d be sitting here if I was? I believe in what we’re doing—I believe it’s right. I don’t want to do anything else with my life now that I’ve seen this side of things. We’ll get there—it’s just you and me now. We’re going to see this through, and you’re right, it’s clear sailing on the other side. I can see it; it’s close.”

  “We have the Project code,” Caesar said. “We can do whatever we want, whenever we want.”

  Sean looked back, a look of fear growing in his eyes.

  “I’m not going to jail,” Caesar said. “No way. I can’t do it—I won’t do it. Doesn’t matter what I have to do.”

  “Don’t get crazy, man,” Sean said. “We said we were going to keep this clean, and that hasn’t changed.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Caesar said, “pulling this off wi
th just the two of us. We’ll be working on this thing nonstop until it’s done.”

  Nodding, Sean took a sip. “Losing the team doesn’t help, but it won’t be impossible. It’ll just be complicated.”

  “You know what they say?” Caesar said. “A complicated thing is just—”

  “Shut up,” Sean said. “Nobody says that. You’re the only person in the world who says that.” He drained the last of his drink and stood with a clap of his hands, amping himself up like he was about to jump into a brawl. “We’ve got work to do. The first thing, just to be safe, is to get the hell out of Stockholm.”

  >>>>>

  Caffeine Palace

  Chicago, IL

  October 30th, 8:52AM

  The grinding and pounding shook through Anthony’s feet, traveling like a tidal wave across the uneven hardwood floors, all the way back into his far corner. The barista smiled and laughed with what must have been a regular customer across the counter, flipping switches on the espresso machine as the steam flowed up her face. Anthony watched them, wondering what on earth they could be so happy about.

  Nobody is that happy. Not on the inside.

  Anthony turned back to his laptop. He had nestled himself at the short end of a corner couch, facing an old tube television that was pushed against the wall, now repurposed as a chunky end table. He winced at the salsa music blaring out of the speaker directly above him as he fought to keep his concentration.

  He gazed back towards the front of the coffee shop, to the bright white glow of the sunlight visible through the glass of the front façade. Between him and there, he saw a group of three young men at the table across from the barista—a mix of hoodies, knit caps, and baseball hats. One had a PowerPoint presentation up on his screen; Anthony could just make out the words “business plan” and “new app marketplace.” He watched as the men leaned in across the table with excited eyes and optimism.

  Not that long ago, Anthony had been one of them—his heart full of what the future might hold. His days and nights spent writing code and designing apps that would change the world—at least, his world.