Fading into the Night
Table of Contents
Title Page
Fading Into the Night (Cyber Division, #1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
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Fading into the Night
Cyber Division, Book 1
By Vannetta Chapman
Fading into the Night Cyber Division, Book 1 by Vannetta Chapman
FADING INTO THE NIGHT
Copyright © 2019 by Vannetta Chapman. This title is available as an e-book.
Visit www.vannettachapman.com.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Requests for information should be addressed to:
VannettaChapman (at) gmail (dot) com
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the author, nor does the author vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Tranquility Press Interior design: Henscratches.com
First printing, 2019
ASIN: B07ZQP7631
Dedicated to
My Readers
While this novella is set against the real backdrop of Shipshewana, the characters as well as the community are fictional. There is no intended resemblance between the characters in this book and any real members of the Amish community. As with any work of fiction, I’ve taken license in some areas of research as a means of creating the necessary circumstances for my characters. My research was thorough; however, it would be impossible to be completely accurate in details and descriptions, since each and every community differs. Therefore, any inaccuracies in the Amish lifestyles portrayed in this book are completely due to fictional license.
“Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” 2 Peter 1:5-8
“Technology is, of course, a double edged sword.
Fire can cook our food but also burn us.”
~Jason Silva
Prologue
NORA BROOKS STARED at her boss across his desk. She’d been called in to the Virginia office for a briefing. She’d guessed it was about Dash, a cyber terrorist she’d personally been chasing for much too long. She knew that he was active again, knew something was about to hit, but she had no idea it would be this big.
“So we know where he is.”
“We don’t. We know where he was.”
She waved away his reservations. “Send me. I’ll find him.”
“Nora, I want you to listen to me.”
Jason Anderson was fifty-two years old, with gray short-cropped hair, a don’t-waste-my-time demeanor, and a scar that ran from the outside of his left eye to his jaw. He’d never told her how the injury occurred, but she’d heard the rumors. They only caused her to respect him more.
He pinched the skin at the base of his throat and gestured toward the chair. When she’d sat—on the edge because she didn’t plan on being there long—he steepled his fingers and cleared his throat.
“The perpetrator you call Dash...”
“It’s his signature.”
“He’s contacted over twenty small municipalities.”
“How small?”
“Ranging from under five hundred to a couple thousand.”
“And he’s demanding the same ransom amount as before?”
“He is.” Jason waited for her to put it together.
“They don’t have cyber insurance, and they won’t have the funds to pay the ransom.”
“Exactly.”
“So what does he want?”
“He wants to force our hand. Our best guess? He’s behind the bill for the government to provide cyber insurance to every municipality in America.”
“You think Dash is the driving force for pending federal legislation?”
“Nearly two hundred companies are now providing cyber insurance domestically. He could be working for any one or even a combination of them.”
“And their motive—”
“Is money. It’s always money. US cyber premiums have topped $2 billion. If this legislation goes through, that amount will be a drop in the bucket.”
Nora heard a pounding in her ears as her heart rate accelerated. If she’d caught him last time, they wouldn’t be dealing with this now. She didn’t blame herself. The man was slippery as an eel, but she had vowed that she would stop him before he managed to strike again.
“What is he threatening to do?”
“The usual—compromise the water supply, bring down the grid, and get this...” He pulled a sheet of paper out from the stack on his desk and repositioned his glasses. “Pay the ransom or chaos will explode in little towns across America.”
“He has a bomb?”
“It’s possible.”
“What options do we have?”
“As you pointed out, the small towns can’t afford the ransom, and they don’t have cyber insurance. The federal government could step in and pay it, but...”
“But we won’t, because we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“You and I both know that we do negotiate with terrorists if it’s expedient to do so. Our analysts say it wouldn’t make any difference in this situation. Dash is making a point. If we cave now, he’ll be back next week or next month demanding twice as much.”
Nora sat forward, elbows on her knees, and rubbed her fingertips up and down her jaws. Finally she straightened up, having made her decision. Now all she needed was her boss’s permission.
“I assume you called me in here because you’ve found a digital footprint.”
He motioned her over to the U.S. map on the wall, and tapped a pin on the NE corner of Indiana. “Here. A little town called Shipshewana.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s small. Six hundred residents.”
“I don’t get it. He’ll stand out like a Great Dane in a litter of miniature poodles.”
“There’s a catch.” He crossed his arms, feet planted firmly and eyes drilling into hers. “The place is a tourist destination.”
“What do people go there to see?”
“The Amish.”
“What’s that?”
“Not what, who. Surely you’ve heard of Amish people.”
“Not really.”
“They’re plain—conservative. They dress old- fashioned, live old-fashioned.”
“So why would a cyber terrorist hide among a group of conservatives?” She snapped her fingers. “They’re the people without electricity.”
“Exactly. No electricity, no security cameras, no real way to track someone. If you think about it, he picked the perfect spot.”
“Certainly everyone in...” she leaned toward the map, squinted, and said slowly, “Ship she wana...”
“Shipshewana.”
“Whatever. Everyone there can’t be Amish.”
“No, it’s about fifty-fifty, though even the locals try to emphasize the plain life. It’s what t
ourists go there to see. Allowing folks to glimpse the Amish lifestyle has provided jobs and prosperity for the area—for everyone in the area.”
“Okay. You’re assigning me to Shipshewana, right?”
“If you want it.”
“I do.” She didn’t hesitate, didn’t have to think about it. If Dash was in a town of 600, she’d find him. “I’ll send you hourly updates. Tate Woods has been activated already and will meet you at the airstrip. I’ll forward details of the assignment to your phone.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Nora,” He waited for her to make eye contact. “Be careful.”
Nora nodded once and glanced at the map as she left the office. Twenty pins had been stuck into twenty locations that represented twenty towns in danger. Theirs was a small task force. Dash knew what he was doing. He was spreading them thin. They could ask for more personnel, but that request would be leaked, and it would make his point for him. Cyber terrorism was a real threat, and insurance was the only way to prepare for it—or so he wanted everyone to believe.
Well, she for one was not going to be a victim. She also wasn’t going to be held hostage by a cyber punk. She would go to Indiana, find Dash, arrest him if he was cooperative and kill him if he wasn’t.
In other words, she’d do her job.
BENJAMIN LAPP DIDN’T mind living on the farm alone, or at least that’s what he told himself.
Sitting down at the large table to eat alone— that was a different matter. During those moments, instead of feeling satisfied with a good day’s work, instead of appreciating the view of his farm outside the window...the memories wash over him.
Four brothers and three sisters, all crowded around the table.
His mamm, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she pulled dinner out of the oven.
His dat, walking in through the mudroom, stomping his boots, and delivering his favorite line. “What’s the occasion, that we are having this bountiful meal?”
It was no occasion. It was simply their life, and it was good.
So much had changed since then. Life was still good, but it was different and Ben felt stuck. He didn’t really know how to move forward, so instead he did the things he was supposed to do—raised crops in the Indiana dirt, cared for the buggy horse and the old cow, ate and slept and worshipped and rose at sunrise each day to do it all over again.
Crickets chirped outside the open window.
A slight breeze stirred the leaves of the old maple tree.
Molly, his single dairy cow, mooed from the barn. How was it that he was able to hear that? Or perhaps he only imagined he heard it. Molly was always eager for her evening milking. If there was one constant in his life, it was the habits and needs of that cow.
He stared down at the dinner on his plate—if you wanted to call it that. Cold ham, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden, and okra he’d half-heartedly attempted to stew in a pan. He really needed a cooking class or a wife.
That thought should have made him laugh, but it didn’t.
“You’re becoming morose,” he muttered to himself. Then he stabbed the ham and forced himself to eat the dinner. It was while he was washing the single dish, knife, and fork, that he heard something.
Something unusual. Something that didn’t belong.
He must be imagining things, because he thought he’d heard the click of a handgun. Personally he only owned a rifle and a crossbow, but the sound was close enough to the same.
He dried his hands on a dishtowel, placed the towel back on the hook, then moved to the window.
The sun had set while he was doing the dishes. The yard, barn, and fields looked as they should. And then he heard the footstep—shoe on gravel.
The person was walking slowly, carefully. Why would that be?
He glanced into the living room at the rifle which rested in a mount on the wall.
Nein. He wouldn’t be needing that. More than likely what he’d heard had been some youngies messing around, perhaps they were trying to take something. Amish youth were good kids in general, but even they made bad decisions. Perhaps someone needed money for a phone bill. He’d just have to go out there and set them straight.
He left the rifle, opened the door as quietly as possible, and stepped out into the night.
Instead of striding out into the open, he waited.
There it was again, the same careful footstep on gravel—heel to toe, but this time near the barn.
He made his way around on the south side where the ground was covered with grass, where he wouldn’t be heard. No use announcing his presence until he knew who and what he was dealing with.
He had the absurd thought that it might be a mountain lion. There had been reported sightings in the last few years, though none of them confirmed. Perhaps he should have fetched the rifle, but he could have never brought himself to shoot such an animal. Still, perhaps a shovel or rake—anything to wave and scare it off would have been a good idea.
Too late for that.
He was already creeping toward the back corner of the barn.
Ben Lapp thought he understood what life had in store for him. He thought there were no surprises left and certainly that there was no danger to be found on his little acreage. But life had always been full of surprises, of things that he didn’t and couldn’t understand. This was one of those moments.
Chapter 1
BENJAMIN LAPP WALKED around the corner of his barn and found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun. He froze mid-step. The woman holding the gun had her finger on the trigger.
“Easy.” He said the one word in what he hoped was a low, calming voice.
“Hands up.” “Ya. Okay.”
“Turn around. Walk to the barn.”
The sun had already set over her shoulder, and night had nearly fallen. But there was a sliver of light remaining, enough to see the sweat beading on her forehead, her labored breath beneath the black vest, and the blood running down her right arm.
He walked slowly. No need to spook her more than she already was.
The sound of that first shot had sent him out into the night to see what had happened. He didn’t doubt that the second would stop his heart.
When they’d stepped into the coolness of the barn, she motioned him toward the workbench. “Sit.”
Moving to the window, she divided her attention between the gathering darkness and him.
Ben didn’t speak. He did slowly lower his arms, but she immediately raised the gun.
“Keep them up.”
He’d never argued with a woman holding a gun, and he didn’t plan to start now.
Then again, the only woman he’d ever known to hold and shoot a firearm—a rifle not a handgun— had been his mother, and he wouldn’t have messed with her if she were holding a mop.
Stepping away from the window, the woman pressed her back to the wall. “You don’t talk much.”
“Nein. I’m not exactly sure what to say in this situation.”
“You’ve got the accent down. I’ll hand you that.”
“What accent?”
“And the clothes? What did you do, steal them off a clothesline?”
“Not too many six and a half foot Amish men hanging about. I assure you, the clothes are mine.”
“Save it.”
She continued to study him for several minutes.
Finally she said, “Turn the lights on. Just one.”
“I can’t.”
“Do not test me.”
“Of course not. That is—I’d be happy to turn the lights on, but there aren’t any.”
“Aren’t any what?”
“Lights.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Amish farm—no electricity. There’s a gas lantern...over there on the shelf.”
She shook her head once, a curt definitive motion. Did she think he’d try to burn the place down? Why would he do that to his own barn? And how would it help him in this situation?
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“Flashlight?” she asked.
“Ya. Top shelf over by the office.”
“You get it.”
He moved slowly, carefully, retrieved the flashlight, switched it on, and placed it on the workbench facing toward the ceiling.
“Tell me what you’re planning.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is it a bomb?”
“A what?”
She stared at him another minute, her eyes piercing his with such hatred that Ben couldn’t begin to imagine what the person she thought he was had done. Because one thing was certain—he’d never met her before. He would remember if he had. She was short—a full foot shorter than him—but what she lacked in height she made up for in intensity. Her hair was red and cut to frame her face. Her body—compact was the word that came to mind. There wasn’t an ounce of extra on the woman, a fact made obvious by her tight-fitting black clothes. Definitely not Amish.
“If it were up to me, I would have put a bullet in your head when you walked around the side of the building.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Because it’s not up to me. Tell me the plan.”
“I don’t have a plan.”
“Tell me where the bomb is. My boss has agreed to cut you a deal, against my protests.”
“Because you would shoot me.”
“Do not mock me.”
In the soft light he could just make out the wound on her upper right bicep. Blood had soaked through the fabric of her shirt, rendering it glossy in the low light. Occasionally he thought he saw a tremor in her arm, which wasn’t comforting in the least. She was holding the gun with her right hand.
“You’re hurt.”
She didn’t respond, as if he hadn’t even spoken.
“I have some medical supplies in the office. Accidents happen all the time in a barn. Let me get the kit for you.”
“Is it on an automatic timer?”
“Is what on an automatic timer?”
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