Bounty

by Michael Byrnes

  Cc: Jonas Anderson

  Subject: Protection for Sen. Barbara Ascher

  Gentlemen,

  This is to advise you that our office has arranged to transport Senator Barbara Ascher and her family to Washington, D.C., where the Capitol Police will provide protective watch, the details of which will remain confidential for security purposes. Secret Service has also agreed to assist.

  Thank you.

  Supervisory Special Agent Carla Serrano

  FBI Boston

  One Center Plaza, Suite 600

  Boston, MA 02108

  Phone: (617) 555-8000

  Fax: (617) 555-8567

  @FBIBoston | Email Alerts | FBI.​gov/​boston

  # 30.01

  @ Manhattan

  When Walter, Knight, and Novak emerged from the conference room, Operation CLICKKILL’s cyberanalysts were crowded around Connie’s desk, ogling a clear plastic tote that had just been sent up from the mailroom. Connie was poking at the contents heaped inside it, as if she were stoking hot coals. None of the compact manila envelopes had been opened yet; nor did they have to be for Novak to recognize what they were, because the packaging was an exact match to the picture Borg had sent to his BlackBerry.

  “Special delivery,” Connie said to Walter.

  “Well, well, well,” Walter said. “Don’t be shy, folks. Dig in.” He plucked out an envelope and peeled it open. Everyone else followed suit.

  Inside each insulated envelope: one soft-enamel, dime-sized scales-of-justice lapel pin. No correspondence. No receipt.

  Novak examined the adhesive shipping label on the front face of the envelope. It bore the recipient’s address, of course—one of Federal Plaza’s private P.O. boxes, specified by the team for each two-dollar pledge fee—as well as the postage bar codes and the sender’s address, both of which readily explained the speedy delivery time. Borg’s pin had shipped from the same address.

  Walter stared at the envelope. “Jersey City? You’ve got to be kidding me. I was expecting Moscow or Pyongyang.”

  Connie plugged the address into Google Maps and clicked on the satellite-view option. Her screen showed an aerial shot of a nondescript rectangular warehouse of cinder blocks and steel that covered a few acres, just west of the piers along the Hudson River and the big port cranes that plucked containers off cargo ships. She zoomed down to street view and read the sign hanging over the building’s main entrance: ECHELON FULFILLMENT AND WAREHOUSING, INC.

  “If Echelon is processing orders for Bounty4Justice,” Novak said, “that means someone’s funding them for shipping and handling.”

  “It also means someone is sending them a huge supply of these pins,” Knight added.

  “You could fit plenty of servers inside that building, too,” Walter said, eyeing the image of the warehouse. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get a twofer.”

  One of the analysts, a scrawny newbie named Chip with a vampire’s complexion, attempted to stick the pin in his sweater vest, but Knight gave him laser eyes, saying, “Don’t even think about it, kid. We don’t glorify the enemy inside these walls.”

  Chip frowned and slipped the pin back into its envelope.

  “Before everyone gets too excited,” Knight told the team, “let’s run everything through the postal inspector. If that checks out, we get a warrant and send a team to take a tour of the facility.”

  # 30.02

  “I’m on my way to the chief’s office,” Tim told Novak as they headed out from Cyber Command. “We’ve got a conference call with headquarters in fifteen minutes, and we’ll be hearing the game plan. She’s also bugging me for an updated report. So you owe me some paperwork, Deputy.” He gave Novak a fatherly pat on the back. “We’re gettin’ there. Time to turn up the heat.”

  They parted ways, and Novak went to settle in at his utilitarian workstation: three bland sound partitions hemming an immaculate gray Corian desktop and a high-tech black swivel chair, sparsely equipped with a landline phone, which he never used, and a sleek computer terminal, which he overused.

  As he waited for his PC to boot up, he rolled his chair across the aisle to the window and peered down at the street, to the halls of justice and the undulating sea of white masks that completely filled Foley Square in between them and was now spilling out onto the walkways. Nexus was making an impressive showing, not just here but in major cities throughout Europe and Asia, as well. The uprising was well under way.

  To the self-styled freedom fighters, the Internet was a Shangri-la where censorship had no place and all were equal in the face of the beneficent modern god that was the collective human conscious. The Internet was the last great vestige of freedom and expression that transcended government and law. He wondered, however, if each person behind those masks truly believed that Bounty4Justice deserved its place in the pantheon. Lost in the crusade against censorship was a true accounting of the dark underbelly of the digital world. Should the predators and thieves and bandits and pirates and deviants really be allowed to roam free and express themselves at will, without penalty? Novak had his own answer to that question. The line between expression and action was all too permeable in this ever-shifting new frontier, and if these protestors had seen the disturbing things he’d seen out there in the darknet, surely they would have a change of heart.

  He rolled back to his desk, brought up his Web browser, and logged on to Nexus’s Facebook page. The banner featured an ominous figure dressed in spy gear and a spooky white volto mask, half in shadow—male or female was anyone’s guess—with one finger pressed thoughtfully to the chin, as if mulling some sinister plot. The stylized letters that spelled out the credo beside the picture read:

  WE ARE THE VOICE.

  WE ARE THE WEB.

  WE ARE THE REVOLUTION.

  THE CYBER SPRING HAS BEGUN.

  JOIN US.

  Alongside the credo was a picture box titled FREEDOM FIGHTERS, with tiled side-by-side portraits of Edward Snowden, Julian Assange, and Chelsea Manning. Beside the holy trinity was a fourth entry: the Bounty4Justice pseudo-ink-stamp logo.

  Could Bounty4Justice be Nexus’s creation? The modus operandi certainly fit. Or were the Internet freedom fighters simply rallying behind it because it resonated with their cause? He thought back to what Borg had told him at Digital Vault: “Even Nexus can’t figure out what makes Bounty4Justice tick. They say it’s the digital version of the Gordian knot. You know, like the ultimate puzzle.”

  He texted Borg:

  Hi Christine,

  I’m still thinking Nexus might be running B4J. Ur thoughts?

  RN

  She got back to him immediately:

  2 many moving parts & you’d see it on the IRC boards—it’s how all the Anons communicate. & hackers r catty+paranoid. Not exactly a “collective”—every one of them wants to “own” the Web.

  Think GOD COMPLEX.

  C

  It would take more than a lone wolf to run it, right? Who r u thinking?

  If I had to guess, it’s the wonks with the BEST tech: the ones who listen in on all our calls.

  NSA?

  Can’t say. We know what happens to critics!!!

  Borg was right on one point, thought Novak. Engineering Bounty4Justice was a quantum leap from cloning credit cards, stealing online identities, or hijacking a website or Facebook page or Twitter account for kicks. Corrupting credit card networks, building an anonymous digital bridge from the darknet to the commercial Web, and churning out text messages that traced back to nothing but random proxies? Maybe this fucking website was the ultimate puzzle—an honest-to-goodness Gordian knot, for which no conventional solutions applied.

  All of this digital wizardry required incredible programming skills and inside knowledge of networks and backdoor exploits that couldn’t simply be bought in a neat turnkey package out on the darknet. His hunch was that there indeed was a “collective” behind this conspiracy, but one that was synchronized and coherent—not focused on one-upmanship. Maybe the
smart money was on a state-run intelligence agency. Though he wasn’t about to go along with Borg on pointing fingers at the NSA.

  Then again, Fort Meade had yet to throw its hat in the ring, even with a dead congressman on the Bounty4Justice trophy wall. For sure, the white hats had to be combing every string of the website’s coding, hunting for an open door or window. Right? Hell, the rumor was that they’d already found ways to slip through the tiniest cracks in Tor, which hackers swore was uncrackable. Could it be that the NSA had finally been outsmarted and outgunned? What then? That possibility scared the hell out of Novak, because the Internet was the lifeline of contemporary commerce and culture, the very fabric of society and national security.

  He closed the browser and reined in his paranoia. He clicked open his email in-box and hundreds of new messages poured in, mostly from the task force, whose updates seemed to be growing faster than Bounty4Justice’s hit list. Plenty had happened since Lombardi had had his head blown apart three days ago, but an hour later, Novak had separated the wheat from the chaff and composed a preliminary draft of the EC. Next, he logged on to bounty4justice.com and clicked the tab for its analytics page, which allowed users to create customized tables that summarized target data. There he sorted the U.S. targets—currently sixty-two living and five dead—by name, rank, alleged offense, current bounty, and status (ACTIVE, PENDING, DEACTIVATED, or DECEASED), then pasted the HTML data set into an Excel spreadsheet. He added a column that matched each target to his or her assigned FBI field office and corresponding lead investigator.

  His phone pinged an incoming call from Michaels. He took it, and she told him about Bateman’s resurrection. He couldn’t help but smile. “You mean to tell me that slippery bastard survived the blast?”

  “We know he was a certified scuba diver,” Michaels said. “He spent lots of his free time in the islands, moving his money around in the banks and going on diving expeditions. You can read all about it on his profile page on Bounty4Justice. Whatever the case, he somehow managed to jump overboard and swim away, undetected. He’d have needed a respirator to pull that off. Probably some fins, too. I’m sure he figured it was his last opportunity to run.”

  “I’ll have Tim put in a request to add him to the Most Wanted list,” Novak said. “Let’s see if we can’t get him back before someone else takes a crack at him. I’m glad you called, by the way. I was thinking about you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  He told her about the pin distributor in Jersey City.

  “What about all these new targets, Roman?” she asked. “There’s got to be over a dozen of them in our area. Lord knows how many more across the country. If someone got to Congressman Krosby, then nobody on that list will be safe. How in hell is anybody supposed to watch over all of them, especially when everyone is a suspect?”

  “Tim thinks headquarters will only have us getting involved in the high-profile targets and they’ll let the state and local police handle the criminal side of things for everyone else. For now, our focus will be on the website. That’s why it’s important that we attack it from every angle we can. I’ve got to stick close by for whatever happens in Jersey City. But we also need to chase down another lead in Dallas.” He explained what it was. “I’m told you have a knack for wringing confessions out of bad guys.”

  “What can I say. It’s a gift.”

  “Think you can handle Dallas?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “I need you there tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’ll shuffle things around and make it happen.”

  Novak outlined his strategy, and she thought the logic was sound, straightforward. They rang off, and he went back to his spreadsheet to restore Alan Bateman to the hunting range, changing his status from DECEASED to ACTIVE. He felt a small tingle of satisfaction, realizing that, if only for this moment, he finally knew something that the all-seeing, all-knowing website had yet to discover.

  As he put the finishing touches on his task force advisory report, Captain Agner called with a promising update.

  “Last night,” Agner told him, “Mileto and Rooney got a solid lead on Lombardi’s shooter. I mean really solid. Got a video of a guy getting into a car at a parking garage near Ground Zero maybe fifteen, twenty minutes after Lombardi was shot. And you can see him putting a guitar case in the trunk. Our lab enhanced the images and got a clear make on the plates. Turns out the car’s registered to an Avis rental agency in Lynchburg, Virginia, which seems a long way to come for a small-time band audition.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “You bet it does, buddy. But that’s just the start of it. We called Avis first thing this morning and had them email over a copy of the rental agreement. The guy paid in cash. But he needed a credit card and driver’s license to release the vehicle. His name’s David Furlong. And there’s no Furlong listed in the visitors’ sign-in book for those band auditions on Monday morning.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Ready for the best part?”

  “Hit me.”

  “Furlong is ex-military. A marine sniper.”

  TARGET REACTIVATION NOTIFICATION

  TARGET: ALAN BATEMAN, scam artist, USA

  BOUNTY: $632,604 ‹‹REINSTATED››

  http://​www.​bounty4justice.​com/​ALAN.​BATEMAN

  As per section 17 of our user agreement, all claims must be validated by proof of death.

  Thank you for your patronage.

  # 31.01

  @ Virginia

  Friday, 10/27/2017

  04:47:06 EDT

  Situated in a rural town a half hour south of Lynchburg, it was the type of setting that rendered the element of surprise useless: a small, single-story house circa 1950 plunked down in the center of twenty or so neglected acres that, in better times, had churned out bushels of corn and potatoes. Other than some old beech and hickory trees near the dwelling that provided summer shade, and a Chevy pickup parked beneath them in the gravel driveway, the approach from every side was nothing but open, flat ground. Under ordinary circumstances, Commander Danny Whitcomb would have considered a clear perimeter with virtually zero risk of civilian interference ideal…but the man holed up inside the house was no ordinary fugitive.

  Whitcomb and his hostage rescue team had been dispatched here to apprehend a decorated former marine sharpshooter, trained in the art of stealth and killing, who could be lurking in the distant tree line or hunkered down in the overgrown grass and weeds, invisible, waiting for the raid squad to set off booby traps in the home’s doors and windows. Hell, the entire property could be pocked with mines or rigged to explode with the breach of a trip wire. The initiative could change hands in an instant, with the same open ground turned into a shooting gallery for the ace sniper.

  In light of these very real possibilities, Whitcomb had arranged for air support from Quantico’s Tactical Helicopter Unit, plus an armored personnel carrier with six men to be used on the approach to the dwelling and four armored Humvees carrying four men each to surround the property. Overkill? Maybe. But better to be safe. The intel they had on this guy was no joke.

  Whitcomb’s walkie-talkie squawked on low volume: “Alpha One, this is Delta Four. We’re two clicks away, on approach. Over.”

  “Roger that, Delta Four.” He gazed out over the dark eastern horizon and saw the Bell 407’s red and green navigation lights closing in. “Circle over the house and keep an eye out in case he runs. Over.”

  “Affirmative. Ready when you are, Commander. Over.”

  Whitcomb blessed himself to summon the good graces of the ultimate commander, then signaled for the vehicles to move in.

  Three of the black Humvees fanned out into the moonlit fields, lights off, before taking up fixed positions to the north, east, and west at roughly a hundred yards from the house. In seconds, the commandos alighted from the vehicles and targeted the house with their MP5 submachine guns.

  Whitcomb took cover behind the fourth Humvee and peered through his n
ight vision binoculars, scanning the perimeter for any surprises. So far, it was all clear.

  The flat-black personnel carrier plodded slowly along the gravel drive toward the house; it looked like the sort of armored car that picks up cash from a bank, except that its heavy front grille had been fitted with a formidable battering ram. The whumping sound of rotor blades intensified as the chopper swooped in low and fast, its floodlights snapping on to douse the house in brilliant light, turbulent rotor wash whipping up roof shingles and the tall grass below. At the same time, the behemoth armored carrier accelerated, its fat front tires crushing the porch’s wood stair treads, and drove its ramming bar straight through the house’s front door, effortlessly splintering wood and twisting metal.

  Anticipating shots or an explosion, Whitcomb braced himself, his neck muscles clamping tight. But nothing happened. He waited ten seconds more, then instructed the driver through his earpiece: “All right, Bobby. Back it up, and let’s get some gas in there.”

  The carrier shifted into reverse and pulled back, bringing down the rest of the doorway and a section of the porch overhang. The turret on its roof swiveled slightly, and its short twin barrels angled down at the rough opening. The left barrel thwumped, and a projectile shot cleanly through the smashed doorway to disappear somewhere deep inside. The right barrel thwumped, and a second canister breached the opening, ricocheted off a coat stand, and spun into the front sitting room. In seconds, tear gas filled the house and came churning out the hole where the door used to be and crawled along the overhang before whipping about in the chopper’s downdraft.

  Whitcomb scanned the front of the structure through the binoculars. “Let’s give it a couple minutes, fellas, see if he reacts,” he said through his earpiece.

  Less than twenty seconds went by. Then the first report came through: “Commander, Sykes here. I see movement inside. North end. Yeah…the back door just opened.”

  The activity was out of Whitcomb’s view. “Let’s get some sights on him. Is he armed?”