An Armageddon Duology (16 page)

T
he guard sat
the prisoner down across from them on the other side of the plexiglass. There was a voice activated speaker that did away with the antiquated two-phone system of the past. Cameras were perched on the ceiling in multiple locations. The armed guards did not leave.

Savas and Cohen had driven north from the city into the heart of Upstate New York, the scenic Adirondack mountains. Miller remained at Intel 1, serving to coordinate the division’s activities in their absence as they waited for the results of the forensics. On the way up, Lightfoote had informed them of the progress on the drones and Lopez and Houston’s plans to infiltrate the New Jersey plant. It was reckless, but Savas had to concede that it was necessary. The finer points of legality and admissibility seemed to matter little when the city was locked down by the National Guard. It had taken them an hour simply to get permission to leave Manhattan.

The prisoner stared across the composite glass with apparent bemusement. He was lanky and his posture slovenly, body nearly vanishing in the folds of his overlarge gray and tan uniform. A baby face aged by a short growth of beard grinned at them as his fingers drummed incessantly.

“Laurens Hanert?” began Savas as the pair of FBI agents settled into chairs. Cohen swiped across her tablet and opened several files.

Hanert smiled. “Who wants to know?”

“FBI Special agents Savas and Cohen. New York.”

Hanert leaned forward with a smile. “Federal special agents. Well, well, well. What brings you two all the way up here? Don’t you have a national crisis to solve?”

Cohen scowled. “I’m sure you can imagine why.”

“An-on-y-mous.” He broke out each syllable in slow motion, seeming to relish every moment. “Remind me why I’m locked up in here?”

Cohen set her lips in a line. “Hanert, the judge slammed you, no doubt. But you weren’t a nihilist. You were an activist. You can’t tell me you approve of what has happened.”

“FBI girl with a heart. I like that. You must be good cop. In fact, you remind me of the lady that cuffed me when they flash-bombed my bong-session at home. America is lucky to have you folks on the job.”

Savas cut in. “Why do you have any loyalty to Anonymous? They ratted you out.”

“Please, at least pretend you’re not as stupid as you sound. It’s a distributed group, Einstein. Anarchist. There isn’t
an Anonymous
. There are as many as there are people and groups within it. I was sold out by one motherfucker who decided to protect his own ass when he fucked up. He set me up to cut time served.
You folks
gave him that deal. I don’t blame Anonymous for this,” he said, rapping on the glass and gesturing around him. “And you shouldn’t blame them for what’s happening now.”

Cohen tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, pretty agent girl, that you need to take that bloodbath broadcast seriously. One very disturbed dude with an
I’m-the-real-Anonymous
delusion of grandeur. The rest of us are as
Oh Shit!
as you FEDs are.”

“Do you know who he is?” asked Savas.

“We all know who he is. Those of us who were in deep. There is only one nut job with the chops to pull this off.”

Savas leaned forward. “And who is that?”

Hanert smiled. “What’s Batman say? ‘If you make yourself more than just a man’?”

“That was Ducard,” said Cohen. “And it’s
a legend
.”

“No fake geek girl here!” Hanert paused and looked between them. “Interesting. There’s some chemistry between you two! Tell me, gramps, you banging this one? You getting some? ’Cause she’s hot.”

“What legend?” asked Savas, his voice strained.

The prisoner’s smile fell. “Right now I should be asking for early parole or something. But honestly, I think this damn place might be safer than being on the outside from here on out.” He leaned forward, his expression serious for the first time. “You know why communism never worked?”

Savas blinked. “I don’t see what—”

“Because it’s based on perching society at the top of an unstable equilibrium. I mean, forget all that ‘give to those in need from what you have’ Marxist ivory tower bullshit. Sounds nice. Would be a good Sunday school lesson if people understood a fucking thing in the Bible. But it’s a god-damned local maxima!”

“I’m not following,” said Savas, who looked to Cohen. She was staring intently at Hanert.

“Jesus, don’t they teach even basic math to you
special agents
? How are you going to understand the economy or cybercrime? Look, for an economic system you want stability. Communism ain’t it, because all it takes is one person—a single fucking non-saint—to start being a selfish asshole and the whole thing collapses. Of course, usually you get groups of selfish assholes that form parties and blocks and structures to protect their power. But I digress. It’s inherently unstable! Like a car perched at the top of a hill. Release the brakes and zoom! That’s Anonymous.”

“How’s that?” asked Cohen.

“It’s a leaderless, structureless anarchy. That’s nice for flexibility and isolating different cells when you Feds come knocking. But its weakness is in the Selfish Asshole. One person can assume control of it before it can be stopped. This new
real
Anonymous
of live televised massacre notoriety. And that person is Fawkes.”

“Fawkes?” asked Savas. “As in Guy Fawkes?”

Hanert slumped back in his chair. “Yeah. I mean who takes that handle? Mt. Everest ego. But this wacko was like Mozart. He could play the hell out of the code.”

Savas shook his head. “You’re telling me that there is a single individual—this Fawkes—who is responsible for what is happening? I don’t believe you.”

“Look man, I don’t care what you believe.”

Savas continued. “Who is he, then?”

“Hell if I know. It’s not like we all got around and passed the hash pipe. It’s called
Anonymous
for a reason, you know.”

Cohen pressed. “Doesn’t this Fawkes need other members of Anonymous to help? An infrastructure? You can’t orchestrate multiple bombings, kidnappings, and hackings without money and people. A small army.”

“No doubt.”

“And so?”

“So, it isn’t Anonymous. None of the main players anyway.”

“And how would you know that?” asked Savas.

Hanert smirked. “I have my ways of knowing. Even in here. Believe me when I tell you that the main hacker groups aren’t involved. It’s a ridiculous idea, anyway. They aren’t terrorists. Most wouldn’t know which way to point a fucking gun.”

“I want contact information on all of these groups.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Cohen spoke. “Hanert, one of them might know something that can lead us to this Fawkes. We’re not interested in them right now. They may have broken one hundred federal statutes, but in the larger context that’s background noise. You can see how serious this is. You know about the worm, I assume?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We all do now.”

“Then you know what’s at stake.
Please.
You have to trust us. And we need to trust you to tell us what we need to know. Anonymous was about changing a corrupt system. But right now the entire system is about to be blown up.”

“That’s Fawkes. His conclusion. Some agreed with him.”

“Do you?” Cohen locked eyes with him.

“No. Far more damage than gain. We could go back to the Stone Age.”

“Then you’ll give us names?” asked Savas.

Hanert looked at him and back to Cohen. “Yeah, but only because she’s so damn pretty. I wouldn’t give grandfather here jack.”

“Go to hell, Hanert,” said Savas.

The hacker smiled, tapping his index finger, nail to vinyl on the short shelf between him and the glass. “I said we didn’t know each other. That was mostly true. But there’s online and there’s the real world. Some of us did pass the hash pipe. Maybe more.”

Cohen tapped on her tablet and looked up. “Well, I’m ready when you are.”

C
ohen sped
down I-87 toward New York City, the black Dodge Charger clearing one hundred without seeming to break a sweat. She glanced from the speedometer over to the impressive LCD screen flashing information on the cellular signal as Savas continued to speak through the hands-free system. The hidden flashing lights had been activated, but she had left the siren off—she'd have a migraine by the time they entered the City otherwise.

"Several of the prints returned with hits." It was Miller's voice. "They're all over the place—security firms, prison guards. One was ex-military, then worked for a contractor that provided muscle in Iraq and Syria for VIPs."

"I'm smelling mercenary," said Savas, his expression grim.

"Possible. But it's not very helpful. No recent addresses. We’ll fish with relatives and last known residences, but—"

"But we don't have the time for that. What else?"

"The mask was better."

"How so?"

"Hair. They got DNA sequence—likely the mask ripped out some strands with roots."

"A match?"

"No, and that’s the interesting part. Doesn't match the prints. The DNA sequence is an unknown. But some genotyping gives us a first sketch of the leader: Caucasian male, brown eyes, black hair that matched the hair color found, so a good control."

"Fawkes," whispered Cohen, staring ahead at the blurred road. The dash display flickered oddly. She hoped that she wasn’t pushing the car too hard.

"Sorry?" asked Miller.

Savas answered. "We'll fill you in soon, Frank. Thanks. I'm getting an alert of an incoming call from Angel. We'll get more details in an hour when we arrive."

"Right. Out for now."

The connection was severed and Savas punched the touch screen on the dash to take the call from Lightfoote.

"Shoot, Angel."

"John, pull the damn car over!"

"Sorry—repeat that, Angel?"

The dash screen pixelated and froze. Cohen spoke coldly.

“John, the steering wheel is locked.”

Lightfoote’s voice still came in over the speakers. “The worm! You’re on a system with an online connection. Your car cell is tracked. Worm activity lit up on my monitors and it’s you two!”

Savas felt his stomach clench. “The car?”

Cohen gasped. “Oh God.”

Savas didn’t have to see the needle on the speedometer begin to spin clockwise, he could feel the acceleration in his gut. Cohen frantically stomped on the brake.

“Nothing’s responding!”

The speed climbed toward one-hundred and twenty. Cohen flipped the switch to engage the sirens. They were not part of the car’s system, installed independently, and they blared out. Cars in front began to swerve to the side as the blue and red lights bore down on them.

“Disconnect the motherboard!” came Lightfoote’s voice. “Under the steering wheel, wires lead to the circuitry. Yank them! You’ll get manual, maybe. Or the car will shut down. I don’t know! But disconnect, now!”

There was a loud pop from the speakers. The control panel went dark.

“Angel?” called Savas. There was no response.

“No time, John. Connection’s severed. Do what she said. Get over here.”

The car shuddered and Cohen gasped. Her hands were white with pressure and her shoulders hunched as she struggled with the wheel.

“John, hurry! It’s trying to turn!”

Turn?
At that speed, they’d flip over and roll to their deaths.

There was no time for finesse. He removed his sidearm and fired several shots into the casing of the dash near Cohen’s legs. He saw her flinch as the plastic exploded only inches from her knees. His ears rang. He released his seatbelt and fell onto his back toward the driver’s seat. His feet worked their way up the window and he pushed himself between the steering wheel and the floor board, body crushed into the tight space.

“One forty! It keeps trying to turn! John, hurry!”

Jesus
. Grasping the smoking and shattered plastic, he ripped with all his strength. Toxic fumes from melted insulation choked him, but he reached in and grasped elements of the circuitry and wires, praying that he wouldn’t electrocute himself.

Cohen screamed and he felt the car lurch back and forth and barely remain under her control. He felt sick from the motion and stench, but forced himself to focus. He ripped backward from the electronics, snapping wires and yanking pieces of the computer boards out with them, static pops exploding beside his face.

The car stalled.

“John, no control. No brakes, no wheel. Key is locked! I can’t start it!”

“Is the computer control dead?”

“I don’t know!”

Ahead of them construction arrows indicated a merge of traffic. Cohen could see a small bottleneck approaching and a single-file line of cars. The car continued to slow down, but it wouldn’t be enough.

“John, hotwire it. Now. Construction!”

“Shit! Can you hotwire these cars?”

“Try!”

In his wild efforts to disconnect the computers of the dash, he had smashed part of the paneling around the steering column. He reached up and beat on the loosed parts, crushing several elements and the ignition cover. By now his hands were bloody, but he hardly noticed, running on pure adrenaline.

Three wire pairs. “Battery, lights, ignition,” he spoke numbly as his slick fingers worked to strip the wiring, bring the leads to this mouth where his teeth ripped at the insulation.

“John, now!”

He didn’t have time to figure it. He’d have to guess. He grasped two wires which he prayed were the power to the car. He disconnected them from the cylinder, twisting them together.

Cohen cried out. “We’ve got the dash and lights. Start it, John!”

He took the two remaining wires and touched them together. There was a spark and the engine roared. Cohen slammed on the brakes and steered the Charger. The car shuddered and leapt into the air. From his vantage point he could see nothing, only imagining her veering away from the obstacles ahead and likely off road. If the shoulder was not forgiving, they were likely dead.

A machine gun sound beside his ear announced the engagement of the antilock brakes, and the car began to spin. Cohen screamed. They wrenched sideways, glass shattered, and everything went dark.