Hack, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2022 by Mark Pawlosky
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Girl Friday Books™, Seattle
www.girlfridaybooks.com
Produced by Girl Friday Productions
Production editorial: Bethany Davis
Project management: Sara Spees Addicott
Cover design: Emily Weigel
Image credits: cover © Shutterstock/Orhan Cam, Shutterstock/Motortion Films
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-954854-60-4
ISBN (e-book): 978-1-954854-61-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022903955
To Jen, Ben, and Will—my love and devotion, forever and a day
Author’s Note
Hack is set in Washington, DC, where I once lived and worked and which I still remember fondly. The city and its environs have changed considerably since my days there, and, out of a sense of nostalgia, I’ve resurrected several long-shuttered establishments for the telling of this story. I have attempted to remain true to the more iconic landmarks, but, for my purposes, I have altered some locations and conjured up whole entities—the Northern Virginia County Sheriff’s Department, among them—where none exist.
Chapter 1
December 15, 2018, Interstate 270, Maryland
The rattletrap panel van was pushing sixty-eight miles an hour, headed north on Interstate 270 just south of the Pennsylvania state line as darkness descended. The road noise in the cab was deafening, and Cooley had to shout to be heard.
“You see that fireball, Nuky? I bet that sucker rattled the fuckin’ china cabinet in the fuckin’ White House,” wailed Cooley, highballing on a combination of adrenaline and meth.
Cooley’s companion, a towhead named Nukowski with a stringy mullet and eyes as red as cayenne peppers, let go a long blue cloud of vape as he stared out the passenger window at the vanishing countryside and muttered under his breath.
“Whaaaat?” Cooley said at the top of his lungs. “I told you I can’t hear you with you mumblin’ all the time.”
“I seen it,” Nukowski said, thinking, The bomb was supposed to go off in the morning when people were at work, not Sunday night when no one was around. “Lucky we didn’t get blowed up ourselves, and would have, too, if that security guard hadn’t spooked us. You screwed the pooch, Cooley.”
“Uh-uh. No way. I didn’t set that detonator. Hawk did. And he told me he double-checked it and all I had to do was flip the switch. Something musta triggered it.” Cooley defended himself.
“It didn’t look like no fuckin’ FBI building, either,” Nukowski said.
“Hawk never said FBI office,” Cooley replied, hunched over the steering wheel, one hand obsessively clawing at his rubbery, loon-like neck while he stared out at the highway through slitted eyes. “He said FBI had top-secret operations there.” Cooley slapped the steering wheel and let out another high-pitched war whoop.
“I signed on to kill government agents, not blow up fuckin’ shopping centers,” Nukowski said, glaring at his addled accomplice and wondering how Cooley had ever survived two tours of duty in Afghanistan.
“That weren’t no shoppin’ center. It was an office park,” Cooley corrected.
“Same difference,” Nukowski replied.
“No it ain’t neither, and besides,” Cooley assured him, “Hawk said we’ll have plenty more opportunities. You’re just tired, s’all. Why don’t you try to catch some shut-eye whilst I drive. We got a long road ahead of us before we get back to Michigan. I got this.”
Nukowski muttered under his breath again, and Cooley, nerves frayed and jangled by the meth, and seemingly exasperated by his companion’s sourpuss attitude, taunted in a braying voice, “Twat you say? Cunt hear you. Bare ass me again.”
Nukowski seethed and contemplated plunging the tip of his vape stick deep into Cooley’s right eye socket, then thought better of it. Instead, he said, “Can’t sleep in this fuckin’ washtub. Tell me again about Hawk’s plans.”
Cooley whipped his bullet-shaped head around to face Nukowski and flashed him a set of mossy teeth. “Well, now, Nuky, that right there’s the beauty part.”
Chapter 2
December 15, Washington, DC
It was a dreary gray mid-December evening and, as he had been every weekend for the past three months, reporter Nik Byron sat alone in Newshound’s Washington, DC, office, single-handedly manning the phones, knocking out mundane news stories, monitoring social media feeds, and keeping one ear tuned to the police scanner while drinking bitter coffee from a mug inscribed with the phrase “World’s Greatest Reporter.” The irony was as cruel and comical as it was inescapable.
Months earlier, Nik had landed in Washington at the peak of summer to strangling humidity, swarms of cicadas, and the devastating news that he had been demoted and would no longer be Newshound’s DC chief editor, a promotion he had been promised after uncovering a massive banking scandal in the Midwest for the feisty online news operation.
Instead of sitting atop Newshound’s food chain when he arrived in Washington, Nik was now a bottom-feeder, the casualty of a hastily hatched media merger. He was relegated to weekend duty, the drudgery of the graveyard shift, and assignments no one else wanted. He had been given the title chief deputy editor, as if that carried any weight at all.
Nik’s only “scoop” since arriving in DC was a story on King Kobe, a packaged food mogul, who, it turned out, was adulterating the ultra-premium beef with horseflesh from some stables he owned outside The Plains, Virginia, and selling it to high-end restaurants in and around the nation’s capital for top dollar.
The story had resulted in two utterly predictable outcomes: health officials declaring themselves shocked and launching an investigation, and Nik’s officemates seizing on the story and knighting him the Galloping Gourmet. They had even chipped in and bought him a stick pony that made galloping sounds when you rode it around the office. The good-natured ribbing only helped to underscore the demoralizing turn of events Nik’s career had taken.
As he switched off the office lights and headed for the door, Nik was grateful it had been a relatively quiet weekend. He planned to meet with two colleagues after work, and he was looking forward to an evening on the town. His erratic work schedule and complicated personal life made for a meager social existence.
In his late thirties with a thick tassel of golden hair, a perpetual three-day stubble, aquiline nose, and easy manner, Nik seldom wanted for companionship, but before relocating, he had committed to a long-distance relationship with his girlfriend, Haley Patterson, a budding entrepreneur who had launched a successful online cosmetics company in Kansas City.
The cross-country courtship, emotionally intense, sexually adventurous, and all-consuming at first, had flagged by month three and cratered in month five, just before Thanksgiving. Nik had remained faithful to Haley during the trial run and spent most nights at home by himself with his dog, Gyp, a high-strung vizsla, in his Georgetown apartment, but now, single again, he was eager to socialize with friends and drown his sorrows in what his colleagues had dubbed “boozehounders,” nights of hard drinking, gossip swapping, and scheming to undermine Li’l Dick Whetstone, their tyrannical boss.
Nik was standing in the hallway absentmindedly locking up and musing about the night ahead when the police scanner in the office burped to life. The scanner was tuned to filter out routine calls and only monitor critical developments.
Nik pressed his ear to the door to listen and silently cursed his luck. Two more minutes, and he would have been riding the elevator down to the parking garage, home free.
The scanner crackled with nonstop chatter, though Nik had a hard time deciphering what was being said through the closed door, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of the shorthand codes that were being broadcast.
“Damn it,” he cursed aloud and pushed back through the doorway, dropping his bag on the carpet and stumbling across the darkened office to where the scanner sat next to a bank of television monitors and the light panel. He toggled on the lights just as a voice spilled over the speaker: “Injuries reported, extent unknown, medics dispatched to Trident Office Park, Homeland Security alerted, code Z as in zebra.” There was a brief pause, and then: “Switching to secure channel.” The squawking ceased and the monitor fell silent.
Nik didn’t know what code Z was, but Trident Park rang a bell. It was a southeast office complex where a number of high-tech companies, including OmniSoft Corporation, were located.
When Nik had first joined Newshound’s DC operation, he had been saddled with the OmniSoft saga—a hair ball of a story so convoluted and vexing that the other reporters in the office had run screaming from it.
The owner of OmniSoft, Cal Walker, claimed the government had forced him into bankruptcy in order to gain control of his proprietary surveillance monitoring software—named POOF. When Walker decided to fight back and sue the US government in federal court for $100 million, every attorney in town he approached refused to represent him on the grounds that they thought he was delusional, a conspiracy kook, and, moreover
Walker had no choice but to represent himself, and Nik, as the new guy on the beat, had inherited the long-running case just as it was headed to trial, along with thousands of pages of court filings, government documents, and constant chirping in his ear from Walker.
Walker explained that POOF—which stood for Phantom Omniscient Ocular Functionality—was developed to be an encryption-cracking, data-mining, and software surveillance program all rolled into one that, when fully operational, would throw a digital net over an individual’s activities and capture their every move, transaction, and interaction in real time.
One arm of the program allowed operators to build comprehensive databases on targeted suspects, their families, and associates beginning with just the tiniest piece of digital information, such as an email address. Another aspect identified all computer and communications devices the individual had access to, and a third component was capable of invisibly infiltrating those devices to secretly monitor and track activity.
Walker first started developing the technology after 9/11 to target terrorist organizations and had funded the start-up company out of his own pocket in the early years. It was only later that he received some government funding and grants to continue his research and keep his small company afloat. He promised his government handlers he could develop POOF for a few million dollars and have it up and running in no time. In reality, it would take Walker years and tens of millions to build the software framework.
Walker told Nik that POOF’s code was capable of penetrating computer networks, government mainframes, server farms, laptops, and any and all mobile devices and apps, and it worked by mimicking the host operating system.
“Think of it as a needle,” he had once confided to Nik over morning coffee, “in a haystack of needles. With one hack, we’re in. Then we burrow like a tick.”
Nik wasn’t a technology expert, but Walker, a former CIA and National Security Agency analyst with a doctorate in computer science from MIT, had a brilliant, if somewhat rogue, reputation among software developers, coders, and hackers and was nothing if not persistent. Colleagues took to calling Walker Sir Veil for his genius in creating tracking software.
Nik found himself grudgingly admiring Walker’s grit, and when he heard Trident’s address broadcast over the scanner, it flashed through his mind that the cash-strapped Walker might have staged an explosion to collect an insurance payout.
Nik quickly searched Newshound’s office for the bureau’s operating manual, known as The Brains. It contained the contact information for every meaningful government agency and their department heads in the metropolitan area.
After rooting through desks and cabinets, he found The Brains in a stall in the men’s john. Nik bypassed all the federal agency listings and skipped to the directory for district offices and dialed the number for the police precinct nearest Trident Office Park.
He reached a bored female desk sergeant and was immediately stonewalled. He hung up and scanned social media channels. He found reports of a bright flash followed by a thunderous clap, but nothing else. Not surprising. The office park was in a remote area and likely near-deserted on weekends, especially around the holidays. He then dialed Walker’s cell phone, and the call immediately went to voice mail. He left a message. His next call was to a nearby fire station. The dispatcher told him units were on the way but didn’t have any further information on injuries.
“Can’t verify it, but heard it was a gas-line leak,” the dispatcher said.
That, at least, was somewhat comforting. If it was a garden-variety disaster, Nik could ignore it and let local TV news—whose unofficial slogan was “If it bleeds, it leads”—deal with it while still rendezvousing with his friends on time, but the mention of Homeland Security nagged at him. Nik was trying to decide what to do next when his mobile phone lit up with a text message. Call me. IMPT.
It was from Jake Korum, a former Army Ranger and FBI agent who was now a sheriff in Northern Virginia.
Nik had been introduced to Korum by Rebecca Isaac, a security specialist and ex–Israel Defense Forces operative who had saved Nik’s life one night when she pulled him from the path of an oncoming SUV that was bearing down on him. In Isaac’s world, there were black hats and white hats. Korum’s was a white hat.
“What’s up?” Nik said when Korum answered his phone.
“You hear about the explosion over at Trident?” the sheriff asked.
“Yeah, I was just leaving work when it happened. Trying to run it down now,” Nik said. “Know anything?”
“Official word is it was caused by a gas leak,” Korum offered.
“Good. I heard that, too,” Nik said a little too buoyantly, relieved to know his night wasn’t going to be ruined after all. He checked his watch. He still had plenty of time to keep the date with his friends. “Well, I mean, not good, but it could have been something worse, I suppose,” he added quickly.
“It don’t make sense, Nik,” Korum said laconically.
Nik envisioned Korum in his office, dressed in his nut-brown uniform, brass buttons as shiny as stars, polished cowboy boots propped up on his desk, Stetson hat tilted back on his head, toothpick dangling from his lips. Korum liked to play the role of the good ol’ boy, but the West Point graduate and Rhodes Scholar was as sharp and hard as an ice ax.
“That whole complex was developed to mainly run on alternative energy—wind, solar, hydro—and be self-sufficient,” the sheriff continued. “They got their own power plant, massive storage batteries, redundancy. They feed the grid their excess capacity.”
“Soooooo . . .” Nik interjected.
“So I’m bettin’ it weren’t no simple gas-line explosion,” Korum said. “You know they handle a lot of classified work over there for the intelligence apparatus—NSA, FBI, CIA, US Cyber Command.”
“I’m familiar with companies in Trident,” Nik said, sounding a little defensive. “They have government contracts, but what of it? So does every high-tech firm inside the Beltway with two employees, a coffeepot, and a receptionist.”
“Not like this. They’re into super-spook shit over there. Cyber weapons, domestic spying software, metadata harvesting, quantum computing,” Korum said, and Nik was reminded that the office park was rather controversial and had been the target of protests by privacy rights groups in the past.
It occurred to Nik to call Dick Whetstone, his boss, and palm the story off on him, but then he recalled Whetstone was out of town speaking at a media conference and wouldn’t be back for a week or more. Just as well. There was bad blood between the two of them. That had as much to do with their differences in news judgment as it did with Nik’s belief that Whetstone was out to sabotage his career.
“They mentioned code Z,” Nik said to Korum. “Ever hear of it?”
“Yeah. Fed speak. Shorthand for ‘lock it down.’ Shit ’bout to hit the fan.”
“Hmmm,” Nik responded noncommittally.
“I’m telling you, Nik, it don’t pass the sniff test. I’d send my folks, but I don’t have jurisdiction. You should go nose around. See what turns up,” the sheriff prodded.
Nik tried to tune Korum out. The last thing he wanted to do on a Sunday night was drive across the Anacostia River to an office park in southeast Washington, but he had to admit Korum’s hunches had proved prescient in the past. He waffled. “Awright,” he said finally, “I’ll look into it.”
“Good, and I’ll let you know if Sami hears anything,” Korum said, referring to his spokesperson and lead investigator, Samantha Whyte, a former star reporter for the Washington Post, who, without warning, had walked away from her job one day never to return.
Nik knew Whyte but was still undecided about her. Professional but emotionally distant and at times somber, she was always available to answer Nik’s questions, but rarely, if ever, volunteered any useful information unbidden. On the few occasions when she did loosen up and drop her guard, Nik found her funny, charming, even.
