Phantom Wheel
Tracy Deebs
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue (except for incidental references to public figures, products, companies, publications, and services) are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company’s products or services.
Copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Deebs, Tracy, author.
Title: Phantom Wheel : a Hackers novel / Tracy Deebs.
Description: First edition. | New York ; Boston : Little, Brown and Company, 2018. | Summary: “A group of teenage hackers has been conned into creating the most devastating virus the world has ever seen, and now it’s up to them to take down the shadowy corporation behind it before it’s too late.”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017051342| ISBN 9780316474412 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316474436 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316474405 (library edition ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Hackers—Fiction. | Computer viruses—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Science fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.D358695 Ph 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017051342
ISBNs: 978-0-316-47441-2 (hardcover), 978-0-316-47444-3 (pbk.), 978-0-316-47443-6 (ebook)
E3-20180817-JV-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 2: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 3: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 4: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 5: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 6: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 7: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 8: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 9: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 10: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 11: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 12: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 13: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 14: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 15: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 16: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 17: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 18: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 19: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 20: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 21: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 22: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 23: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 24: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 25: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 26: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 27: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 28: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 29: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 30: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 31: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 32: Issa (Pr1m4 D0nn4)
Chapter 33: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 34: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Chapter 35: Owen (1nf1n173 5h4d3)
Chapter 36: Harper (5p3ct3r)
Author’s Note
About the Author
For Martin Torres,
the best man I know
1
Issa
(Pr1m4 D0nn4)
I can’t believe I’m here.
Seriously. I. Can’t. Believe. I’m. HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Three days ago I was changing my little sister’s dirty diapers in between calculus problems in our crappy apartment in San Antonio, and now I’m climbing out of the back seat of a limo in L.A. It doesn’t seem real.
But it is real, I tell myself as I thank the driver before making my way up the sidewalk to the security guard who waits for me at the open door. Discreetly, I reach down and pinch myself.
The pinch hurts, but not enough, so I do it again. Just to be sure that this is real. Just to be sure that I really have a shot at making my dreams come true—if I don’t screw up.
Not that screwing up is an option, because it isn’t.
With that thought in mind, I plaster a smile onto my face as I approach the security guard, who watches me make my way into the building with narrowed eyes.
“I’m here for the college program,” I tell him, forcing a steadiness into my voice that I’m far from feeling. “My name is—”
“I know who you are, Ms. Torres.” If possible, his eyes narrow even further as he looks me over from head to toe like I’m some kind of criminal.
Which I am, I suppose. One more reason why it’s so unnerving to be waltzing through the front door of the CIA’s Los Angeles headquarters.
“You can check in with the receptionist at the desk. She’ll get you a name tag, and then an agent will escort you up to the conference room.”
Escort, of course. Because letting a bunch of hackers run around on their own in a major CIA office isn’t the smartest move. Even if you are auditioning those hackers for some top-secret intelligence program…
“Thanks,” I tell him with a nod before doing as he says. I kind of expected there to be a line, a bunch of kids like me waiting for their big chance to impress the CIA in return for a full ride to college and a guaranteed job upon graduation.
But there’s no one in the lobby who doesn’t appear to work here. Two security guards, the receptionist, and a janitor cleaning the big picture windows at the front. I hope it means I’m early and not late.…
“ID, please?” the receptionist says as soon as I approach the long wraparound counter where she’s sitting.
I fumble in my bag for my wallet. As I pull out my license, I notice the receptionist—who is dressed in the most boring gray suit ever—glaring at the colorful sugar skulls and safety-pin chains on the front of my purse.
Note to self: The CIA really isn’t into creative expression.
I prop my purse up on the counter so she can get a better look at what she so clearly disapproves of. Then wait semi-patiently for her to run my license through a thousand-dollar ID scanner. Seconds later, a badge pops out. I nearly freak when I realize it has not only my name on it, but also my handle: Pr1m4 D0nn4.
Seeing it out there like that makes me sweat a little. I mean, obviously they know who I am or I wouldn’t be here, but still. I’ve never claimed my handle publicly before, and I’m not crazy about d
oing it now. In a government building.
Then again, that could be the point, right? This is the CIA, and maybe they want to see how I react to having a curveball like this thrown at me.
The receptionist watches, eagle-eyed, as I peel the backing off the label and start to press the tag onto my hip. No need to advertise any more than necessary, after all.
But she stops me with a shake of her head and a sharp, “No! It needs to go on your chest.” She pats her own gray tweed lapel to ensure that I understand. I do.
After my name tag is in its CIA-approved place, she gestures toward the elevators to our right. “Agent Carstairs will escort you upstairs.”
Before she’s even done speaking, the elevator doors glide open, and a tall, dark-skinned man in a navy suit is standing there, face carefully blank, eyes alert.
I try to introduce myself, but I don’t get any further than “Hi, I’m Issa—” before he cuts me off.
“I know who you are, Ms. Torres. Please come with me.”
Ooooooookay. So everyone here is in we-know-more-than-you-do mode. Which is true—I’m not denying that. But it still makes me want to pull out my gear and take them down a few pegs. They aren’t the only ones who know things, like how to access information that others can’t.
I step onto the elevator instead. This is an audition, after all. I’ll get to show them exactly what I know—and what I can do—soon enough.
Agent Carstairs doesn’t speak as the elevator swishes us up to the fourth floor. Nor does he speak as he leads me down a long hallway lined with official-looking pictures of official-looking people—former CIA directors, according to the plaques beneath the frames.
The enormity of where I am sinks in a little more with each step I take, with each picture we pass, and my stomach starts to flip-flop. Normally I’ve got mad confidence in my skills, but I want this too much. Suddenly I’m terrified that I’m going to make a mistake and end up back in San Antonio, hacking test sites to help my dad make ends meet.
Don’t screw this up.
Don’t. Screw. This. Up.
Don’tscrewthisup.
The words are a mantra in my head, a beat in my blood, and they’re ramping me up a little higher with each step we take. Thank God we get to the end of the hall before I go into total and complete freak-out mode. It’s close, though, and I concentrate on taking deep breaths as we pause outside a door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM 1A.
Agent Carstairs glances at me before he pushes the door open. I expect him to lead the way, but he gestures for me to cross the threshold, so I do, trying my hardest to look like I belong here.
Seconds later the door closes firmly behind me.
I am on my own.
A man in a brown suit at the front of the conference room turns to look at me, as do the five people sitting around a long table. My stomach sinks a little as I look back and forth among them, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I square my shoulders and paint a badass look on my face, trying not to notice that there’s only one seat left—which means I’m the last to arrive. Late, not early. Fantastic.
“Issa, glad you’re here,” the man at the front of the room says as he gestures me closer. “We’ve been waiting for you. Please take a seat so we can get started.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “My flight was a little delayed.” I couldn’t control that, so I don’t know why I’m apologizing, but I feel like I’m at a disadvantage walking in last.
“You’re not late,” he assures me with what I think is supposed to be a smile but most definitely is not. “But please do take a seat so we can begin.”
“Wouldn’t want to get a minute off schedule,” one of the guys mutters as I pass. He’s big, with mocha-colored skin and killer dreads. He also looks like he’s about to get a root canal instead of audition for an all-expenses-paid trip to college with a job waiting for him after graduation.
He’s hot, I’ll give him that, but he’s wearing his bad attitude like a shield, and I so can’t afford to be associated with that right now. Which is why, when I take the empty seat next to him, I try to subtly scoot my chair as far away from him as I can. The smirk on his face tells me that he notices. I subtly try to scope out his name tag, but I can’t read it without being really obvious.
“All right, then. Let’s get started,” the agent at the front of the room says. “For those of you who just got here”—he glances at me—“I’m Agent Shane Donovan, and I’ll be guiding you through the activities today. First of all, I’d like to say how pleased we are that you accepted our invitation to join us. Because we need people like you to help us find our way through the difficult years ahead.”
His voice is booming now, bouncing off the oatmeal-colored walls, and I try to block out everything else and listen carefully.
“We’re at war, ladies and gentlemen, right now, this very minute. Not just in Afghanistan. Not just against ISIS. But against cyber terrorists who want to bring down the United States of America for political, economic, and social reasons. And have no doubt—they are everywhere, and they are gunning for us. We are in jeopardy. Our way of life and our place in the world are in very real danger, and we’re looking to you, and others like you, to help save us.”
He pauses and takes a sip of coffee from a plain white mug. He remains silent as we wait for him to continue, then drains his coffee before very deliberately setting the cup on the table.
“We’re only looking for the best for this program,” he tells us, turning his head so that he can take turns looking each one of us in the eye. “And according to our research, you six are the very best in your age group at what you do. Which—if you pass our tests—is why we want the chance to train you over the next several years and eventually give you a place at Langley, if you’re good enough.”
A guy at the front of the room—who looks more slick than any hacker I’ve ever seen—shifts at that, like he wants to say of course he’s good enough. He doesn’t, though, and Agent Donovan continues.
“These are dark and dangerous days,” he tells us, voice grave and body ramrod straight. “Your country needs people like you to act as our last line of defense against those who want to bring it down.”
All of this sets my teeth on edge a little, if I’m being honest. I don’t like the CIA—no hacker does—but I dislike being poor even more. And since we’re talking about access to the best equipment in the world here, I can overlook the rest. Especially since all our activities will actually be government sanctioned.
No more looking over my shoulder.
No more waiting to be arrested for hacking my way into some classified database to make a few bucks to help put food on the table at home.
No more worrying about what will happen to my family if I’m not there to watch out for them.
Add a college scholarship to the mix and a job after graduation, and it’s like I’ve won the lottery. If listening to a bunch of pro-government propaganda is the price of the ticket, I will gladly pay it.
Still, he’s droning on and on about stuff that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the actual test we’re here to take, so I let my mind wander just a bit, making sure to keep one ear open for when he actually starts to give us instructions.
I glance around the room. Photos of the president, the CIA director, and the deputy director hang at perfectly spaced intervals on the walls, along with all five (former and present) directors of national intelligence. At the front of the room is the official seal of the president of the United States, and underneath is the official motto of the CIA: “The work of a Nation. The Center of Intelligence.” Meanwhile, the back wall is covered with what my research on the CIA has taught me is the agency’s unofficial motto, written in huge black letters that stand out against the light-colored walls: AND YOU SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH AND THE TRUTH SHALL MAKE YOU FREE. (JOHN 8:32)
Seeing those words puts me a little at ease, since hacking is all about truth. Most people think hackers are bad, and some definitely are.
But most of us are in it because we don’t like secrets. We want to know everything, want to see everything. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it’s fueled just about every hacker who ever lived.
A quick glance at the others as they perch on the edges of their red leather rolling chairs tells me they look as excited to be here as I am. Well, except for the guy with dreads, who looks more and more like he swallowed a lemon with each word that comes out of Agent Donovan’s mouth.
He even goes so far as to pull out his phone and scroll through it. I watch him surreptitiously, a little amazed that he’s got the guts to be screwing around in front of Agent Donovan. Then again, I don’t know anything about him, nor do I care. I’m here for me.
Agent Donovan pulls out some black folders and begins handing them out.
“What are these?” the guy with dreads asks as he shoves his phone back in his pocket.
“Your assignment,” Agent Donovan answers, handing me the last folder.
I take it with trembling hands. This is it. This is my big chance, right here. Right now.
I flip open the folder and start to read, but before I can do much more than glance at what’s inside, the guy beside me tosses his folder on the table and grabs his bag.
“What are you doing?” Agent Donovan demands.
“Not wasting my day doing this BS, that’s for sure.” He stands up and rips off his name tag and shoves it into his pocket before I can even see what it says. Then he heads for the door.
I’m staring at him in shock—as are the rest of the people in the room—when suddenly Agent Donovan moves to block his way. The fact that the guy is four inches taller than the agent makes their whole nose-to-nose showdown kind of comical—or it would if I could stop trying to figure out what’s happening and just enjoy the show.
“You need to sit down,” Agent Donovan orders.
“Like I’m going to listen to you,” the guy responds.
“You’re here for an audition.”
“Yeah, well, I just got stage fright. Sue me.” He shrugs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“You need to do what I say.” Agent Donovan sounds as angry as he looks.
