Wicked Sexy

36

“You’re saying the hacker cut the power to the building? How? And how would he know we’re searching for his name? We’re on the FBI’s secure virtual private network—”

I laugh. “Spare me your ‘secure’ crap, O’Doul. The FBI’s VPN is about as solid as Swiss cheese.”

My new arch nemesis, Rodriguez, drawls, “Riiight. Let me guess—you think you could hack it.”

The energy in the room changes. I’ve got fifteen guys—sixteen including O’Doul— looking at me as if I’m either full of s**t or off my rocker. They’re shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, like I couldn’t possibly be legit because no one can hack the FBI’s site, and probably also because I don’t have a d**k.

I grin. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

“O’Doul, I need you to guarantee me immunity from prosecution by the FBI or any other law enforcement agency for what I’m going to do in the next five minutes.”

Rodriguez snorts. “Five minutes? Are you high? You can’t hack into the FBI’s VPN in five—”

“I’m not in a position to grant anyone immunity,” lies O’Doul, making me laugh again.

“C’mon, buddy. You’re the head of the NCIJTF! I wasn’t born yesterday.” When his expression sharpens, I add, “You’ve got fifteen witnesses who can attest to what happens in case anything goes sideways, which it won’t.” I glance at Rodriguez. “This is just a little pissing contest.” I turn my attention back to O’Doul. “If it makes you feel better, you can consider it a bit of free security consulting for Uncle Sam. And after I win, you and I will have a nice long talk about the man you’re dealing with at the other end of cyberspace.”

O’Doul says drily, “Yes, about that. No one by the name Søren Killgaard exists. We’ve been checking for the last two hours.”

“And don’t you find that interesting, that on this planet with a population over seven billion people, not a single one of them has the given name Søren with the surname Killgaard? Not one social media profile? Not one utility bill? Not one birth—or death—certificate, driver’s license or credit card? What do you think the odds are of that?” “About one in seven hundred trillion.”

It’s Connor, from the doorway, holding a flashlight in his hand. The yellow beam sweeps across the room, landing on O’Doul’s scowling face. He adds, “The guards at the security desk downstairs confirmed the power outage isn’t anywhere else on the local grid or the rest of the studio campus. It’s only in this building. And it’s not the circuit breakers either.”

Someone says, “I’m sure the backup generators will come on any second—”

“Those will be disabled too,” I say. “He’s hacked into the servers of the local power station, along with the studio servers. Consider the power out in this building for good.” Smiling broadly, I add, “Except for over here, of course,” and make spokesmodel hands at my computers.

I can tell O’Doul is trying to decide if he should arrest me on the spot and ask questions later, so I throw him a bone.

“How about this? While I get busy winning my hundred bucks from Rodriguez—” “I never said we were betting a hundred bucks!” protests Rodriguez.

“Two hundred bucks from Rodriguez, why don’t you get Professor Alfredo Durand in the

Computer Science department at MIT on the horn and ask him about the Bank of America incident in 2007. He and other professors at the school can confirm the existence of Søren Killgaard, even if all the records of his attendance have been erased.”

I look at my watch. It’s glow-in-the-dark, and therefore easy to read. “It’s after three a.m. in Massachusetts, but I’m sure Professor Durand won’t mind assisting the FBI, no matter the time. He’s a good sport like that.”

O’Doul c***s his head, his sharp eyes studying me. He says to one of the agents standing nearby, “Special Agent Chan.”

A young Asian man with glasses and unruly black hair, says, “I’m on it, sir,” takes a cell phone from his shirt pocket, and walks several feet away to make a call.

I point to my computer. “May I?”

O’Doul growls, “You’ve got five minutes, Miss West, and not a second longer. Don’t make me regret this.” He throws a shady look at Rodriguez, who I can tell he doesn’t particularly like.

I sit down in front of the computers. Everyone gathers around me, including Connor, who asks, “What are you doing?”

His voice is suspicious, but even more than that, it’s worried. I don’t look at him when I answer.

“Oh, just this little thing called a b***h slap. It’ll only take a sec.”

Behind me, there are snickers. Ignoring them, I log onto my computer and begin.

For a full minute, there’s silence. The only sound is my fingers rapidly tapping the keyboard. Over my shoulders, everyone raptly stares.

At two minutes, a hushed voice says, “There’s a vulnerability in the web server.” Still typing, I chuckle. “There always is.”

After another interval of silence: “Holy s**t. Is that the remote login for the…crime database?” “Yep,” I say cheerfully.

The agents behind me are getting restless, starting to mutter to each other.

“There’s no way she can get into the mainframe. They fixed all the holes after the Trilogy software disaster.”

“She’d need an administrator password—”

“Forget about passwords, she’s already at the Unix shell!”

I say, “Oh look, the mainframe directory listing. Tsk. Your system architect should be tried for treason.”

Shocked silence. After typing for another few moments, I ask no one in particular, “Should we add Darth Vader to the Most Wanted list?” Nobody answers.