Phantom Wheel, Page 2

  “No, I don’t. But you do need to move before I move you.” He doesn’t even flinch as he waits to see what the CIA agent is going to do.

  The rest of us wait too, breath held and shoulders tense.

  A stare-down ensues, and I swear you could hear a pin drop in the room as we all wait for the explosion. Agent Donovan doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’s used to people giving him attitude. Plus, the CIA paid for us to come all this way for an audition. The least this guy can do is hold up his end of the bargain.

  In the end, though, Agent Donovan just steps aside and lets him leave. “Don’t count on us to give you a ride back to the airport.”

  The guy just laughs. “Dude, I wouldn’t count on you to know what a command prompt is, let alone how to access it, and neither should anyone else in this room.”

  He turns and looks straight at me. For a second it seems like he wants to lay into me—into all of us—but he just shakes his head and says, “When something seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

  And then he’s gone, closing the door behind him with a firm thud and leaving the rest of us to stare anywhere but at Agent Donovan as we try to figure out what just happened.

  As I wait for Agent Donovan to say something, anything, the guy’s words replay over and over again in my head.

  When something seems too good to be true, it probably is. When something seems too good to be true, it probably is. When something…

  I try to block them out—try to block him out. Because he can’t be right. He just can’t be. I need this to be true too much.

  “All right, now that we’ve gotten rid of the deadweight,” Agent Donovan finally says, “grab some snacks off the table in the back, and I’ll show each of you to the rooms where you’ll be working.” He walks to the door and opens it, steps into the hall, and waits for us to pick up drinks or candy bars and follow him like good little soldiers.

  Which we do. All five of us.

  Just the thought grates a little—I’m not big on making waves for no reason, but I don’t like not knowing what’s going on either. Especially after what just happened. But what else are we supposed to do but follow Agent Donovan wherever he wants to take us?

  I need this program and the scholarship it provides way too badly to mess it up just to make a point. Better to keep my head down and my mouth shut, at least until I’ve done what they brought me here to do.

  I’m so busy concentrating on the floor and trying to avoid my own thoughts that I bump into one of the other good little soldiers.

  The guy jumps a little, then apologizes to me—even though I very clearly bumped into him—with a smile on his face. I smile back. I like him, and the well-trimmed red Mohawk he’s sporting. His badge says his name is Seth Prentiss.

  I think about introducing myself, but Agent Donovan is walking fast, his polished mahogany wingtips eating up the hallway one decisive click at a time. He stops suddenly and gestures to a room on his right. “Issa, this is your room. Everything you need to accomplish your task should be in there. If you’re missing anything, you can call me on the number provided inside your folder, or you can improvise.” His tone tells me which of those I should do.

  “Thanks,” I answer, opening the door and stepping inside. I turn, start to ask about a password on the computer, but Agent Donovan is already making his way down the hall with the others.

  Okay, so no questions and no lifeline. No problem. I’ve been making my own lifelines for a while now. Why should today be any different?

  As I move to close the door, another man walks down the hallway. He’s tall and old looking—silver hair, wrinkly face—and if I were somewhere else, I probably wouldn’t even notice him. But considering his suit looks like it cost more than a year of college tuition, I can’t help being interested. I thought government employees didn’t get paid enough to afford clothes like that.

  He nods when he notices me staring, but doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. I just watch as he walks by like he owns the place—head up, shoulders back, face totally impassive.

  I close the door, then take a moment to stretch out my neck and fingers and look around the room. Everything in it is government-issue gray—the desk, the chair, the carpet, the state-of-the-art Jacento computer, even the walls.

  Who paints walls gray, anyway? I wonder as I slowly make my way to the desk. And yes, I’m well aware that I’m stalling. Now that it’s all spread out before me, I’m nervous. Really, really nervous.

  Not because of my task—I glanced through the folder when Agent Donovan handed it to me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be a problem—but because so much is riding on this. This offer dropped out of the sky when I needed it most, and if I blow it, then I’ve got nothing.

  I’m not going to let that happen, not going to spend the rest of my life like my father, pining for a future that slipped through my fingers. This is my golden ticket, and I’m holding on to it with everything I’ve got.

  This thought is the reminder I need, and it steadies me. It also gives me the courage to sit down in the ergonomically correct gray chair.

  I flip open the folder, take a few deep breaths, and study the instructions more closely. My nerves settle. Because while there are a lot of big words that make the hack sound super complicated, the truth is, it’s really not. I’ve run this kind of game hundreds of times in hundreds of different systems. It’s all about the code, and I have a bunch of pretty, pretty codes up my sleeves.

  Usually I’m all about finesse—I like my hacks to be as stylish as they are effective. But even though it says on the first page in the folder to take our time, that doing it right is more important than doing it fast, I can’t help feeling like this is a race. Four other people are out there, all of whom are probably doing this exact same thing. I don’t want to be the last one in the door—especially when I don’t know how many open spots they have in the program.

  With that thought in mind, I turn on the computer. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my shot, even if it means brute-forcing my way into this thing.

  The second the screen comes up, I bite back a groan. Seriously? They seriously gave me a computer that runs Windows to do this stuff? It’s bad enough that they don’t have Wi-Fi, that they keep us tethered to Ethernet like a bunch of lamers. But Windows? It’s like they’re some small-town sheriff’s office instead of the freaking CIA.

  For a moment I wonder about the practicality of wiping the computer—installing Linux in place of Windows so I can actually do what I need to do with about a million times less hassle. But the clock keeps ticking in the back of my head, and doing that will take waaaaaaay too long, no matter how state of the art the system is.

  Maybe that’s part of the test. Windows takes triple the time Linux does because of the way I have to format commands—but maybe that’s what they want. To measure how we do when we’re not in our comfort zone, using equipment that isn’t our own and an operating system that sucks.

  The computer is password protected, just as I thought. A quick look through the desk shows that there’s nothing in it at all—they either emptied it out for us or this office is dedicated to auditions and interviews.

  The thought makes me even more nervous, and I give up on finding the password and turn my focus instead to breaking in. It’s not the easiest thing to do, but it’s not impossible either—if you know what you’re doing.

  I’ve spent years making sure I know exactly what I’m doing.

  I strike a few keys, get to the command prompt behind Windows. Then I enter a few lines of code that let me establish a back door into the system. A few more lines of code help the OS recognize the back door, and from there it’s a simple matter to circumvent the password.

  “Automagic, baby,” I crow before it registers that they might be recording me. Once it does, I keep my fist pump to myself, but it’s hard. I glance at the clock on the wall—less than five minutes and I’m in.

  Once I’ve got control of th
e system, I write a few lines of code in Python just to test things out. I can program in the C languages and Java, but I much prefer Python since it cuts repetition down to bare bones—and the time saved is totally worth the installation time.

  As soon as I’m up and running, I search the network’s IP addresses with my favorite mapping tool, looking for any open ports. Every single server they gave me has at least one open port, and though I have no idea where the servers lead (they’re just blind addresses to me), I spend a minute ranking how easy they are to access based on my own strengths and weaknesses. It’s not foolproof considering I’m not in any of their systems yet, but I’m betting when all is said and done, I’ll only be off by one or two, at most.

  I’ve been doing this long enough to know what I’m talking about.

  Grabbing a clip from my bag, I push my hair up and out of my eyes. And then I get to work.

  I’ve always been a girl who likes a challenge, so I tackle the hardest first.

  I start by Burp Suiteing it. I prefer Aircrack-ng, but Windows. Ugh. I bite back a groan and start searching for a point to exploit.

  Time begins to fly by, as it always does when I do my thing. The hack is a lot of munching. I didn’t expect to have to do so much exploration when I first saw the gig, but I roll with it, IRPing where I can and patching where I can’t. I eventually hit my groove, and three and a half hours later, I’m Netcatting the last server.

  I don’t want to make any mistakes, so I’m taking my time. But it’s hard once I start hearing doors open in the hall. The others are finishing, and I’m still in here, working on this last stupid exploit.

  And the exploit is harder than I expect. Still, I stick with it, using my standard Python code to strong-arm a path to where I want to go. But the vulnerability I originally found isn’t nearly as wide open as I thought, and I’m starting to worry I’m going to have to find a zero day—which will take way more time than I’ve got. Hours, or even days.

  I’m trying a bunch of different things—codes I’ve written through the years to get me through almost anything—when my phone pings. I want to ignore it, stay buried in what I’m doing, but I can’t.

  I swipe it open, and my stomach falls through the floor when I see the text from my sister.

  C has fever of 102

  Not now, not now. Please not now.

  Where’s Dad?

  But even as I wait for an answer, I know what she’s going to type. Sure enough:

  Dad’s sleeping

  Is she drinking water or formula?

  No

  She’s really hot

  God, God, God. Think, Issa, think.

  OK. Give her baby Tylenol, from the bathroom cabinet. READ THE DIRECTIONS. I can’t remember how much to give her

  Then rub her all over with a cool washcloth and let her stay in her diaper

  Try to get three ounces of Pedialyte into her

  Text me in forty minutes if she’s not better

  Ok

  I wait for her to text more, but she doesn’t, and I have a minor freak-out. Since my mom died, my dad’s been kind of out of it… okay, a lot out of it. Which is understandable. I mean, I get it. He takes his wife to the hospital, thinking he’s going to be bringing her and a baby home. Instead, he gets the baby and loses the wife to some freak complication during childbirth.

  Within a few months of my mom’s death, my dad stopped working—I’m still not sure if he quit or was fired or is, I hope, on some sort of leave until he snaps out of this depression. All he does most days is sleep. I’ve begged him to see a doctor, to get help for his very obvious depression, but he keeps telling me he just needs time.

  I’m not okay with any of this—I wasn’t a few months ago, and I’m not now—but it’s not like I get a choice. There’s a baby to take care of, plus the other kids. And since my dad can’t do the job right now, I do it. Most of the time, anyway.

  Today is… an anomaly. Leaving Lettie in charge for the day shouldn’t be a big deal—she’s fifteen and has helped me out a bunch of times. But now Chloe’s sick, and Lettie shouldn’t have to deal with that alone. God. I need to finish this code so I can get out of here and back home.

  Forty minutes later, I finally make it through the firewall. From there it only takes a couple of minutes to cover my tracks, blowing up my point of entry and erasing any trace that I was even here. I’m about to shut down when my phone goes off again.

  I grab it so fast that I nearly drop it, then shudder in relief when I read what Lettie wrote.

  Fever’s down

  She just drank some pedialyte

  Great! Keep me posted

  Make sure you give her next dose of Tylenol on time

  Ok

  How’s it going

  Good

  Yay!

  How’s everyone else?

  Twins are good and so is Ricky

  Good. I’ll be home really late tonight but text me if you need anything.

  I give myself a second or two to relax after all the drama. Then I shove my phone in my bag before shutting down the computer.

  I’ve got this, I tell myself as I make my way down the hall. I’ve got this.

  2

  Harper

  (5p3ct3r)

  A little thrill of excitement shoots through me as I realize the conference room is empty. I’m the first one done.

  That has to count for something, right?

  I mean, this is a competition. And the prize is a full ride to the university of my choice, courtesy of the American intelligence community, with a job doing what I love waiting for me when I get out.

  Thank you very much, CIA.

  Just thinking it feels like a betrayal, considering how difficult the agency usually makes things for people like me. If someone had told me a month ago that I’d be here, tucked up tight in the belly of the beast, I would have called them a liar. And then hacked into their personal stuff just to make a point. Just because I could.

  But here I am, soda in one hand and Skittles in the other, all courtesy of the United States government. It feels like a really bad trip… or a really good one. If I make it.

  I really, really want to make it.

  Being chosen for the program means no more pretending. No more hiding. No more worrying that someone, somewhere, is going to see through my hacks and drag me—kicking and screaming—back into the system.

  I’d rather die than be sent to another foster home. Or worse, to one of those group homes where survival of the fittest is more than just a lesson in a biology book.

  Keenly aware of the cameras in the corners of the room, I pick my seat carefully. All the way at the far end, back against the wall, with a perfect view of the door. Sure, it puts me right in the middle of both cameras’ range, but that’s the point.

  The best place to hide is almost always in plain sight.

  I drop my backpack at my feet, rest my soda on the table in front of me, and take out my phone. I pull up a random app, angle the device so the cameras can pick up what I’m doing, then let my thumbs fly as I pretend to be totally absorbed in—I glance at the screen for the first time—a rousing game of Candy Crush.

  I lean forward a little, looking to all the world like I’m totally into the game, and let my hair fall into my face just enough to obscure my eyes from view. And then I watch.

  There’s a large window opposite me, with a long hallway just beyond it. It’s the hallway I walked down to get here, and it’s the hallway everyone else will have to walk down too. So far it’s empty, but it won’t stay that way for long.

  As I wait, eyes trained on that window, I pull my phone in close to shield the screen, all the while keeping up the Candy Crush pretense. Then I key in a second password, one that gets me into a highly encrypted area of my phone that is invisible to anyone who doesn’t know it’s there.

  I swipe across another app—one I designed, this time—and let it do its job. Within seconds, it’s identified three bugs strategically plac
ed in the room. I could fry them in a second, but I don’t. No use tipping my hand. Besides, it’s not exactly a surprise that they’re listening to us. It’s what the CIA does.

  I’m just closing out of the program when Silver Spoon steps into the hallway. According to his name tag, his name is Ezra Hernandez, but with his designer clothes and state-of-the-art everything, my nickname fits him better.

  Everything about him is arrogant as hell—his walk, his eyes, even the way he talks. He’s got life by the balls, and he knows it. Everyone else knows it too.

  He opens the door with a triumphant flourish, eyes sweeping the room. He pauses when his gaze lands on me, an indecipherable look crossing his face before the conquering-hero smile is fixed firmly in place.

  “You’re fast,” he says, sauntering across the room toward me.

  I’ve got a million answers to that on the tip of my tongue, but thinking them and saying them are two very different things. So I just nod.

  “The equipment was stellar, though, right?” he continues. “My setup at home is pretty sweet, but this next-gen Jacento stuff is a whole different level.”

  “I didn’t use it.”

  One of his brows goes up in that way you only read about in books. It’s sexy, I suppose, but it only makes me distrust him more. Never trust a guy who’s that good-looking. Best advice I ever got—even if I gave it to myself.

  “You didn’t use it? Why not?”

  “I’ve got my own kit.” I nod to the backpack at my feet. “I like it.”

  Which is true, but it’s also true that I don’t trust anyone else’s system. Ever. Call me paranoid, but paranoia is better than prison. Second-best advice I ever gave myself.

  “Yeah, but…”

  His eyes light up as Snow White walks in. Of course they do. These two speak the same language, and I don’t mean C++.

  “Hey, Alika.” Silver Spoon waves casually. If Silver Spoon can’t be trusted because of his looks, the same goes for Snow White and then some. She’s hands down the most perfect-looking girl I’ve ever seen in real life.