Retribution - A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller Book #7, Page 2

  “Dr. Karl will be here in five minutes.”

  Temple glanced over his shoulder at the nurse. “My daughter?”

  She stared at him for a moment. “I’ll go check.”

  He smiled at her gratefully, and took a moment for a silent prayer before returning to solving the problem at hand. It was all he could do. He was a technical expert, not a medical expert. He needed the doctors and nurses to be able to focus on their jobs with the tools they were used to having at their disposal. That was something he could help with, and by doing so, he just might save his daughter’s life by allowing the experts to do their job.

  The doors to the ER swung open and he glanced up to see the nurse who had left moments ago to check on his daughter.

  And her face told him everything.

  “Is she…?” He couldn’t finish the question as he began to shut down.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. There was nothing we could do.”

  “If there had been a doctor here?”

  “I-I really can’t say. Perhaps.”

  Temple’s shoulders shook as sobs racked his body. “Oh, God, why? Why both of them?” He felt a hand on his shoulder, but it provided none of the comfort intended. He ignored it, his self-pity almost overwhelming him, until through the tears he saw the blur of the screen in front of him, the red burning through the sorrow, a rage building within.

  They’re going to pay.

  3

  Clayton Hummel Residence

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Two Years Ago

  Clayton Hummel stared at the mirror, the reflection still a shock to him even after decades of disappointment looking back at him. He was what the medical community labeled morbidly obese, what the comedians and public might call a fat bastard, and what he called a disgusting example of a human being.

  He hated himself.

  It was why he despised having photos taken of himself. If he were in a situation where a camera was out, he was always the one offering to take the photo.

  Better to be behind the lens, than in front of it.

  There were no photos of himself in his home except from his youth, before the food addiction had taken over, or from the brief period of time when he had lost the weight after bariatric surgery.

  But it had all come back.

  And more.

  He had never wanted the surgery, but the doctors had insisted it was his best and only option. His family had urged him to go through with it, and what few friends he had, agreed as well.

  So he had.

  And it had worked.

  Until he had slowly stretched out his newly shrunken stomach, and eventually put the weight back on.

  Much to the dismay—and disgust—of those around him.

  But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand.

  It was an addiction. An emotional crutch. When he was depressed or stressed, he ate. The very act of chewing, of tasting, of swallowing, was a comfort that no person had ever provided him. During those few minutes he was eating, he wasn’t alone. It was him and his fork, in front of the television, lost in a world of euphoric satisfaction, where his troubles would be forgotten, where the fact he was chronically alone would fade to the periphery, and for those few brief moments, he was happy.

  Until he was done.

  Then he’d feel sick.

  Stuffed to the point of almost vomiting, disgusted with what he had just eaten, the depression would return as he beat himself up over his failure as a man, as a human being. He hated himself, and he hated what he had become. Yet no surgery, no diet, could possibly work until he addressed the root cause.

  And what that was, he had no idea.

  He needed counseling, yet was too proud, too much of “a man” to ever submit to such a thing. He never spoke of it to his family, and they never broached the subject anymore. Not since his dramatic failure after the surgery. It was a constant source of anguish for his parents and his sister, and he desperately wanted to stop, but he couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  And he didn’t know why.

  Every single time he overate, he knew it was wrong, even while he was doing it. Even before he placed the online order for a large pizza when all he needed was the small. He wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t an idiot. He was killing himself, yet he couldn’t stop.

  And he didn’t know why.

  God, help me! Please!

  He didn’t know why he bothered praying for some sort of salvation. And what form would that be? Instantaneous weight loss? The miraculous ability to just say no to the cravings? The sudden ability to love himself for the first time in his life?

  He stared in the mirror, then shrugged his 2XLT black pocket-tee over his shoulders and pulled it down over his large frame, yanking at the fibers of the freshly laundered shirt in an attempt to stretch it out so it wasn’t so tight.

  He glared at himself.

  Do you really think the black makes you look any thinner, you fat piece of shit?

  His eyes burned and he turned away, sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on a pair of shorts with an elastic waistband that allowed him to feel thinner than he actually was. Size 44, instead of the probably 50 he needed. He stood and buttoned them closed with a struggle, his held breath bursting as he finally managed to get the button through the hole he had no hope of seeing.

  He checked the part in his hair then headed for his home office, and to the only friends he had. The friends he had met online, in a world that had no idea what he looked like, or how he felt about himself.

  An electronic world where he could be the man he dreamed of being, and not the pathetic creature he had become.

  4

  Ashland, Oregon

  Present Day

  Franklin Temple sat alone in a room reserved for the families of patients who had succumbed to whatever had brought them here. A call had been placed to his company, and a team was on the way, though with the exception of his personal assistant, none were friends, and none were family.

  The last of that died only hours ago.

  An autopsy was to be performed, but he already had a preliminary diagnosis from the doctor who had arrived too late, his phone with him the entire time as he had a romantic dinner with his wife nearby, the number known only to a ransomed computer, the nurse’s aide sent to his home finding an empty, darkened house.

  The doctor’s theory was a ruptured aorta, probably from a congenital defect like Marfan syndrome. If he had been here, if any surgeon had been here, they would probably have saved her. But instead, the surgeon on duty had been incapacitated by an irate patient, frustrated by the long waits due to the ransomware attack on the hospital’s computers, and the backup had been unreachable.

  A confluence of events no contingency plan could have mitigated.

  And it wasn’t just here. A television in the corner, the volume low, was tuned to a news channel as it delighted in broadcasting the details of what was characterized as the largest ransomware attack in history, with millions of computers crippled across the planet, including government, institutional, corporate, and personal. Talking head experts were advising people not to pay the ransom, as it would only encourage further attacks, and those not impacted were urged to make sure their latest security patches for their operating systems were installed.

  He stared at his phone, at the last photo taken of his wife and daughter together. His beloved Clara was having a good day, and if he didn’t know when it was taken, he could be forgiven for not remembering the fact her body had been ravaged by an incurable disease, and she was only weeks away from death. His precious angel, his dear, sweet Angela, was hugging her mother, a huge grin on her face, seemingly oblivious to the fate that awaited the woman who had given birth to her too few years ago.

  And now they were both gone.

  All because a hospital hadn’t patched their systems with the latest security updates.

  All because a hospital wouldn’t pay three hundred dollars to unlock
just one machine.

  All because some faceless hacker, working on behalf of only God knew who, launched an attack purely motivated by greed.

  He put his phone in sleep mode and closed his eyes, his mind racing with what to do next. His team would arrive soon, and they would make things much easier. Being rich had its advantages, and he planned on letting them deal with as much as they could.

  His daughter was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. He would cut a check to the hospital as he had promised, and he would meet with somebody in Washington to find out what they were doing about the attack.

  For someone had to pay.

  The death of his little girl, the death of the only thing left in this world that he loved, could not go unpunished.

  There was a gentle knock on the door and he glanced toward it. “Come.”

  The door opened slightly and his assistant entered, Tanya Davis’ concerned look genuine, the woman always doting on Angela whenever she was at the office. “Sir, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  Temple grunted. “What do you think?”

  She knelt in front of him and took his hand. “Can I get you anything?”

  His shoulders shook and a single tear escaped, rolling down his cheek. “The heads of those responsible.”

  She reached into her purse and removed a tissue, handing it to him. He took it and gripped it into a ball, leaving the now streaming tears to burn his cheeks. “The team is outside. What do you need us to do?”

  “Do whatever is needed to confirm what took my daughter, then arrange the burial.”

  “Beside her mother?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, finally losing what little control he had, his shoulders collapsing. Davis’ arms surrounded him, and he reached out, taking her in his as she shook with her own sobs. The shared pain was strangely comforting, and he felt no shame in revealing his sorrow, his vulnerability, to this woman he trusted implicitly, who had been a friend to him and his wife, and a surrogate mother to his daughter after his beloved’s passing.

  She was a friend.

  And she was hurting. Just like him.

  He gently pushed her away and offered her the balled up tissue. She chuckled, pulling two fresh ones from her purse, dabbing her eyes dry as she handed him the other. This time he wiped his eyes and face, leaning back as Davis stood then sat beside him. He took her hand in his and squeezed as they sat in silence, sniffling.

  “Take care of my little girl.”

  Davis nodded. “I will.” She blew her nose. “Anything else?”

  “Just deal with my daughter, and arrange a meeting with Washington.”

  “What for?”

  “I intend to make whoever is responsible for this, pay.”

  5

  Tailored Access Operations Unit, NSA Headquarters

  a.k.a. The Equation Group

  Fort George G. Meade, Maryland

  Two Years Ago

  Clayton Hummel sat hunched over his keyboard, an array of monitors sweeping across his desk, his cubicle one of complete disarray to those who didn’t know him, yet he knew where everything was in the piles of papers and junk food. As he reviewed the chunk of code designed to exploit a vulnerability he had found in an older version of the world’s most popular operating system, he reached absentmindedly to his right, grabbing a handful of Cheezies from the Costco-sized bag sitting in his desk drawer. He stuffed the delicious orange, puffy treat into his mouth, and savored the taste and textures as he let the chips dissolve before he swallowed. Then, in an almost ritualistic fashion, he sucked each digit clean, the sticky orange paste that remained behind, the dessert course of a carb-laden meal.

  It was pathetic.

  Someone cleared her throat behind him and he reached down, slamming the desk drawer shut, two orange fingerprints left behind, his ring and pinky fingers still covered. He spun in his chair and gulped to see his supervisor, Sheila Stone, behind him. “Wh-what can I do for you, ma’am?”

  He could tell Stone was disgusted with him. They all were. Coming to work every day was a struggle. If he didn’t make excellent money here, he’d probably have tried to get a job where he could work from home. But he couldn’t do that here. Not with this job. This was the National Security Agency. The NSA. Tasked with protecting the nation’s secrets from hostile elements both foreign and domestic, they were the people of codes. They created them, and more importantly, they cracked them. They were the agency that monitored the phone calls and emails, that hacked foreign governments and individuals. They were the agency you definitely wanted on your side.

  And they didn’t allow telecommuting.

  “I just wanted to know how that exploit is coming.”

  Hummel jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his computer. “Just finishing up. It looks good. All we need is for the target to open an email in their browser, and we’ve got full access.”

  “And this is new?”

  Hummel nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. Redmond doesn’t know about this one yet.” His eyes narrowed. “Should we tell them? If this gets into the wrong hands, it could be pretty dangerous.”

  Stone stared at him then smiled. “I thought you were serious there for a moment.”

  Hummel laughed nervously. “Just joking with you. You know me.”

  “Yes, I do.” Stone jabbed a finger at the monitor. “Keep this one under your hat. We’ll keep it for the ToolKit until we see the other side using it, then we’ll let the company know. Until then, this is our little secret.” She paused. “So, you just need them to open an email, and it installs?”

  “Yup. It’s just a matter of getting someone on the target’s network to be willing to open it. It’s too bad people are still so stupid that they open things from people they don’t even know.”

  “Hey, promise cheap Viagra or a larger penis, and you’d be surprised how many people will click on an email. If it didn’t work, you wouldn’t be receiving ten or twenty of them a day.”

  “Pathetic.”

  Stone agreed. “Yup. Let me know when you’re done. The Director will want to know about it.”

  “Will do.”

  Stone left the cubicle and Hummel turned back toward his keyboard, eying the closed drawer with his Cheezies. He resisted, staring at the code, slowly scrolling through it as his brilliant mind traced the logic line by line, branching off with each possible outcome, tracking it all like a grandmaster chess player plotting seven moves ahead.

  He was a failure in life, but not at this. At his job, he was brilliant. You weren’t paid six-figures if you weren’t. Though he’d never really get any further than he already had. He wasn’t supervisor material. Fat bastards like him rarely were unless they were connected, or had become so after they were in the position.

  He had always been overweight, and it was his brains that had gotten him this far. He had studied hard, learned his craft, and worked his way up through various subcontractors, eventually put on contract at the NSA itself, a dream job of sorts. His dream was to be a spy. Operational, like James Bond, though more on the cyber side of things. The women, the glamor, the cars, the resorts. It was a lifestyle he wasn’t even certain existed outside of the movies, but fantasies never hurt anybody, and it was one that as far as he was concerned, working in this building put him one step closer to.

  You’re an idiot.

  He reached down and opened the drawer, stretching a hand into the greasy mess.

  6

  Leroux/White Residence, Fairfax Towers

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Present Day

  CIA Analyst Supervisor Chris Leroux stepped through the door of his apartment and tossed his keys into the bowl beside the entrance, pulling his shoes off with the opposing toes as he dragged his ass toward the bedroom.

  He was exhausted.

  It had been all hands on deck for the past twenty-four hours as the ransomware attack that had struck the globe spread. Millions of computers had been infected, and it was still spread
ing as more people turned on their computers, ignorant to the risks.

  This one had been different.

  Very different.

  It had exploited a security hole nobody had known about, so there wasn’t a system in the world protected against it. It spread through email, which made it easy to disseminate, and all one had to do was open the email in a browser to activate it. At that point, if proper security wasn’t implemented on the machine, which most people didn’t have, it was infected, and the hackers could fire any chunk of code they wanted.

  In this case, ransomware designed to encrypt all the data on a hard drive, and demand payment for an unlocking code.

  Tens of thousands around the world had paid the ransom, though the vast majority hadn’t. Those with proper backups simply wiped their machines and restored, and those who kept their data in the cloud did the same.

  But there were reports of cash-strapped organizations like charities and hospitals that had been hit, and hit hard. And it wasn’t their fault in this case. No one could point to a machine and say, “Hey, you ignored the security updates for two years!”

  Nobody had known it existed.

  “Is that you?”

  He smiled at the sound of his girlfriend, Sherrie White, coming from the bedroom. “No, just an Assembly hit squad that’s really too tired to bother killing you today.”

  “Ha ha. If you’re that tired, then I guess I won’t be giving you my customary greeting.”

  Leroux paused. He was exhausted, but when Sherrie, a CIA Agent, returned from a mission, she was usually insatiable. Something stirred below.

  He stared down at it. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “What’s that?”

  He looked up. “Umm, nothing.” He resumed dragging his ass toward the bedroom, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He turned the corner and smiled. Sherrie was lying in bed, a red negligee hugging all the right places, the lamps on low, a bottle of champagne on ice, and a can of whipped cream nestled between her cleavage.