by Tim Washburn
“Why? What do you think is happening?” Peyton asks, her anger with Eric now on extra-low simmer.
“Peyton, remember me telling you about that book I read recently? The one where it proves people have already hacked into our power grids?”
Peyton nods. “I remember. How could I not? That’s all you talked about for several days.”
Eric takes a sip from his wineglass. “I talked about it because the book scared the hell out of me. Anyway, I think someone hacked our power grids and maybe even those jets.”
“But who?” Allison asks.
Eric shrugs. “Who knows? Probably the damn Russians. It looks like they’ve hacked everything else in this country.”
“What would Russia have to gain?” Allison asks. “They’d have to know that we’d respond in kind. Hacking an election is much different than cutting off power to millions of people.”
“I don’t know,” Eric says, “but you make a good point.” Eric braces his left hand against the arm of the sofa and groans as he pushes to his feet. “Maybe it’s not the Russians. Maybe it’s a terrorist group.” Eric bends to the left, trying to stretch his right side. “Regardless of who it was, we’re screwed.”
“Speaking of that,” Allison says, “my offer still stands. You two can stay with me. There’s no telling when Jordan’s going to come home. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t like the idea of me being in this house all by myself after your story about the shoot-out at Target.”
“Let’s see what tomorrow brings,” Peyton says.
Eric walks over to the front door and steps out onto the porch.
Allison looks at Peyton. “I’m serious. I’m terrified to stay here alone.”
“What are we going to do for food and water?”
“What were you going to do at your mom’s house?”
Peyton shrugs. “We haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Your mother lives alone. How much food is she going to have on hand?”
“Good point. But after everything I saw today, I don’t know if we’ll be safe anywhere in this city.”
“You’re a hell of a lot safer inside this house than you would be traipsing all across the country,” Allison says.
Eric comes back inside and closes the front door. “Looks like the fire’s almost out.”
“Does it look like we’ll be able to salvage anything?” Peyton asks.
“Uh, no,” Eric says. “It’s all gone. I bet the Singletons are going to be pissed.”
“Did they drive on their trip up north?” Allison asks.
“Yes,” Peyton says.
“Judging by the clogged roads, it’s going to be a while before they return.”
“You’re probably right.” Eric runs his hands across the top of his head, massaging his skull. “I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”
Peyton stands. “Me, too.”
Eric looks at Allison. “Do you have any weapons in the house?”
“Jordan has a shotgun that he uses to go bird hunting. Why?”
“Might be best if we get it out and load it up, just in case.”
CHAPTER 75
Somewhere near Boston
Hassan leans back in his chair, removes his glasses, and rubs his eyes. When he enjoys the work Hassan can go long stretches and never notice if his eyes are bothering him. Not so, today. In addition to blurry vision, he can feel a wicked headache coming on. And he hasn’t had one of those in months. For the last two hours Hassan has been cherry-picking the least lethal targets to attack, although he doesn’t know how much difference there is between two deaths or twenty. Dead is dead.
After cleaning the lenses with the tail of his T-shirt, Hassan puts his glasses back on and opens the chat program on his screen. Unfortunately, Nazeri has been on his computer since ending his phone call and Jermar hasn’t had a chance to apply his hacking skills. Nazeri has access to everything Hassan and his team do, except the chat program, and he appears to be taking great pleasure sowing death and carnage among the American people. Hassan closes the chat window without sending a message, knowing what Jermar’s answer would be. Standing, he walks into the break room and grabs a bottle of water, thinking about Nazeri. They’re running out of time.
Opening one of the drawers, he pulls out a bottle of ibuprofen and pops three pills and washes them down as his tired brain continues to churn. His mind drifts from Nazeri to his own predicament. If I can get out, where do I go? Hassan has lived in the Boston area since his arrival in the United States, but he hasn’t had a lot of free time nor a real desire to do much exploring. Would it be better if we all left together? Hassan thinks about that for a moment. They’d be much easier to find as a group. And if one gets caught it could spell doom for the rest. But that spurs another thought. How much energy would Nazeri devote to finding us? Hassan realizes that’s the one answer he needs yet he has no idea how to obtain it. He looks up as Yuusef steps into the break room.
Yuusef hurries over and whispers, “You saw the gun. What are we going to do?”
Hassan scans the ceiling, looking for cameras. He doesn’t see anything obvious, but the ones they found in their sleeping quarters were well hidden. And a microphone can be placed almost anywhere. “Go back to your computer,” Hassan whispers.
Yuusef’s facial features scrunch in anger. “Why?”
Hassan points to his ear and then the ceiling.
Yuusef nods. He grabs a drink and heads back to his computer. Hassan waits a moment then follows. At his computer, he pulls up a chat window and stares at the names, trying to decide whom to include in this conversation. He clicks on Yuusef’s name only and types: How well do you know the city?
Hassan watches Yuusef read the message and sees a confused look wash across his face. Hassan types: Need place to hide. When Hassan looks up he sees Yuusef nod.
Yuusef’s message pops up on Hassan’s screen seconds later. Know city well. When do we leave?
Tonight, Hassan types. When Nazeri sleeps. Hassan pauses then types: How much effort will he devote to finding us? Hassan sends the message and waits.
The telephone rings and the loud clanging startles everyone in the room. Nazeri stands, tucks the pistol behind his back, and walks across the room to answer. Hassan coughs to get Jermar’s attention. When he looks up, Hassan nods toward Nazeri’s computer.
Jermar nods and begins to type.
Yuusef’s reply pops up on Hassan’s screen: We must burrow deep.
Hassan silently curses in his native tongue. He’s surprised a moment later when Nazeri hangs up the phone and strides out of the room. Usually Nazeri’s conversations last much longer. Hassan jumps up from his chair and hurries around to Jermar’s side of the table and whispers, “Any luck?”
“My program was running in the background while Nazeri was using his computer,” Jermar whispers. “I’m in but everything on his hard drive is encrypted.”
“I can crack it,” Sheezal says, joining the conversation.
His willingness to help lessens Hassan’s distrust of him. And, more important, Sheezal is a wizard at opening encrypted files.
“Can you copy it to the cloud?” Sheezal asks.
“Working on that now,” Jermar answers.
Sheezal turns to Hassan. “We need to escape as soon as possible if we wish to remain alive.”
“I concur,” Hassan whispers. “We leave when Nazeri sleeps.”
“If he sleeps,” Sheezal says. “If not, we need another pla—”
Their conversation is interrupted when Nazeri returns. “Plotting, are we?” he asks, looking at Hassan. Nazeri smiles. Seconds later three additional men enter the room, all heavily armed with pistols at their waists and rifles slung over their shoulders.
Nazeri smugly crosses his arms. “Hassan, did you really believe turning on the water in the restroom would mask your words?”
Hassan sags and has to grab Jermar’s chair to keep from sinking to his knees.
Nazeri switches his gaze to Raahim. “Raahim,
I can assure you there are no more phones in the building. And,” Nazeri says, turning his gaze back to Hassan, “yes, I do plan on sleeping. I cannot say the same for you.”
Hassan, stunned at this sudden turn of events, shuffles to Nazeri’s vacant chair and sits.
“Oh, one more thing,” Nazeri says, holding up a finger. “Jermar, I know you’re very clever, but you are wasting time copying my hard drive. There is nothing on it. I store everything on a private server in the cloud.”
Jermar’s shoulders sag and he takes his hands off the keyboard and leans back in his chair.
“I am now implementing a new set of rules,” Nazeri says. “One: If these three men ask you to do something, you do it. And two: If you attempt to escape you will be shot. Any questions?” Nazeri pauses and looks gleefully around the room. “Good. Gentlemen, let’s move to target 1-A before I bid you good night.” Nazeri nudges Hassan out of his seat and sits as the three armed men take up positions around the room.
CHAPTER 76
Attica
Captain Scott Butler takes off his helmet and wipes the sweat from his brow. With the power still off and all the fans silent, it’s hotter than hell inside the prison, and combined with the adrenaline coursing through his system, Butler is sweating like a whore in church. He puts his helmet back on and refastens the straps. The floors are awash with fresh blood as he orders his men to move out. It’s early morning now, and they still have much work to do.
As they creep deeper into cellblock D, Butler makes a radio call to Lieutenant Gary Clark, who’s running the show over in cellblock C. “Gary, keep your eyes open. Watch the choke points.”
“I am on it, sir,” Clark replies. “Sir, you didn’t say during our earlier discussion, but did any prisoners survive the ambush attempt?”
“No, they did not,” Butler radios back. “We’re now facing some of the most diabolical, evil men on the planet, Gary. Do not hesitate. Have your finger on the trigger at all times and shoot to kill.”
“Yes . . . yes, sir.”
Butler hears the fear in Clark’s voice yet he doesn’t say anything to dissuade it. A little fear will help to keep Clark focused. And, to tell the truth, Butler’s dealing with his own fears. It’s hard not to when you’re surrounded by dead bodies and you know that the next man you encounter will kill you without compunction. A few moments later, Butler startles when he hears gunfire from the other side of the prison. Rather than short bursts, it’s continuous bombardment and Butler wonders if his men on that side have encountered another ambush attempt.
When the gunfire slows to a few sporadic shots Butler triggers his radio. “Butler to Clark.” He waits a moment for Clark to respond. And waits. “Butler to Clark, over,” he tries again. A tingle of dread slithers down his spine. “Men,” he shouts, “hold your positions.”
“Captain,” an anxious voice says over the radio, “this is Sergeant Tyler Fields. Lieutenant Clark is injured.”
“How badly, Sergeant Fields?” Butler asks.
“Bad, sir. He was stabbed in the neck.”
Butler’s shoulders sag. He takes a deep breath and triggers the radio. “Put pressure on the wound and get him to an ambulance. Any other injuries?”
“Yes, sir,” Fields replies. “We’re trying to sort it out now, sir.”
“Roger. Status of the prisoners?”
“Dead, sir.”
“How many, Sergeant Fields?”
“A bunch, Captain. They hit us when we entered the chow hall.”
“‘A bunch’ doesn’t tell me much, Sergeant.”
“Stand by, sir.”
Butler looks around at his men and says, “Move out, men. Remember my instructions.” Butler’s brain clicks through the list of personnel on the other side of the prison. Lieutenant Marvin Maxwell, a social studies teacher, is with that group, but he’s a tad skittish and that’s the last thing Butler needs at the moment. His mind continues to run through the list. He clicks his radio and says, “Sergeant Vasquez, you are in command.” Hugo Vasquez is an Erie County sheriff’s deputy.
“Roger, sir,” Vasquez replies. “Inmate body count is twenty-seven, sir.”
A moment later, there’s another voice on the radio. “Maxwell to Butler, over.”
Butler sighs. He clicks the transmit button and says, “Lieutenant Maxwell, now is not the time. Vasquez has command. Roger the twenty-seven, Sergeant.”
“But, sir,” Maxwell whines over the radio.
Butler is exhausted, hungry, and angry. “That’s a direct fucking order, Lieutenant. Butler out.” He clicks the handset back in place and follows his men as they move deeper into D-Block. Finding no living people, it doesn’t take them long to clear the empty cellblock. Now it’s time to clear the tunnels. They return to the entrance inside cellblock D and make their way toward Times Square.
Butler removes the prison radio from his belt and puts it to his lips. He’ll be announcing their location but he wants to give Lydia Darnell a heads-up. “Officer Darnell, almost to you.”
“Roger, Captain,” Darnell radios back. “Visitors at three o’clock.”
Butler pulls up a mental map of the prison. The three o’clock position would put prisoners in the tunnel from cellblock B. “Stay sharp,” Butler tells his men. “Bogies to your right when we clear the tunnel.” He quickens his pace and moves to the point.
A few moments later they’re approaching the intersection of the four corridors and Times Square. Butler holds up a hand and everyone comes to a stop. Moving into the center of the group, Butler whispers directions. Unsure if there are other prisoners in the adjoining tunnels, he orders squads three and four to clear those while squads one and two swing into the tunnel to cellblock B. “Hard and fast,” Butler tells his men. After positioning a rear guard, Butler orders the men to move out.
The four squads fan out at once. The eight members of squads one and two hit B tunnel hard and fast, firing as the group of prisoners attempt to push forward. Butler edges out and starts picking off the prisoners at the back of the pack. The door to the guard booth swings open and Butler gets his first look at Corrections Officer Lydia Darnell as she steps out, the shotgun tucked tight to her shoulder. She fires two rounds at the group of inmates and walks forward, mowing down any inmates left standing. Within fifteen seconds, it’s over.
“Cease fire,” Butler shouts. Smoke and the acrid smell of spent gunpowder linger in the air. Butler orders a body count then turns to Darnell and offers his hand.
Darnell bypasses his outstretched hand and leans in for a hug. “Thank you, Captain Butler.”
“You’re welcome.” He looks at the shotgun in her hands. “Payback?”
Darnell nods. “I lost some good friends today.”
“I know you did. Hopefully this is almost over.”
“Thirty-nine inmates dead, Captain,” Lieutenant Fred Parker shouts.
Butler does the math in his head. If the count is right they’ve whittled the number of remaining inmates down to somewhere around thirty. At this pace, there’s a good chance they’ll be able to leave this godforsaken place before daylight. His thoughts are interrupted by a radio call from Sergeant Vasquez.
Butler clicks the transmit button. “Butler here. Go, Vasquez.”
“Sir,” Vasquez says, “we have a hostage situation at the infirmary.”
Butler mutters a string of curse words. “Roger, on my way.” He looks at Darnell. “Most of the prison staff is at the school with the other prisoners.”
Darnell shakes her head. “Uh-uh. I’m going with you.”
“Works for me.” Butler turns to his men. “Freddy, with me. For everyone else, Sergeant Gibbs is now in command. We’re almost home, men. We still have around thirty prisoners to find. I’m betting a good number of those inmates are inside the infirmary, but be careful as you clear the rest of the prison. Good work, men.”
As the men move out by squads, Butler glances at Darnell and says, “You better grab some more ammo for th
at scattergun of yours.”
CHAPTER 77
Fort George C. Meade, Fort Meade, Maryland
Hank Goodnight is working the phones as Natalie, Paige, and the crew continue to work on unraveling the malware. Natalie has the NSA scouring for any scrap of information, but Hank is taking it a step further by contacting his sources at a little-known agency inside the Justice Department called the National Security Analysis Center (NSAC). Started shortly after 9/11, the agency was originally tasked with keeping tabs on foreign nationals. But the agency’s role has expanded over the years and they now have access to over 130 databases and over two billion records. Of those records, half are unique to the agency and can’t be found in other government databases. Able to access every intelligence database in the U.S. government, the agency also has access to law enforcement data and can access many commercial companies that collect data on American residents. In comparison, the NSA is limited to intercepting only domestic electronic communications while the NSAC has no such limits. It’s Big Bother personified.
It doesn’t feel like an inside job to Hank, but he’s covering all the bases. It would be much faster and easier if he had a name, however, for now, he’s having them search for any mention of the ongoing cyber attack and he’s having them compile backgrounds on known hackers both inside and outside the United States. That last part of his request will likely be a bust because most hackers never reveal their true identities and he’ll end up with a bunch of screen names with little attribution. But it feels good to be doing something.
Hank leans back in the chair and runs a hand across his face, feeling the stubble. It’s been a long, long day. He pushes wearily to his feet. “I think I’m going to find somewhere to stretch out for a bit.”
Paige looks up from her computer. “Oh, is this the sleeping part you were talking about?”
Hank shrugs. “I suppose. You’re a big girl and I figure you’ll sleep when you want to sleep.”
“I’m too wound up anyway,” Paige says.
“Hank, there’s a couch in my office,” Natalie says.
“Which is where?” Hank asks, looking around.