Down to the Wire
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Patricia Sargeant
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16,5K
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19
Chapter 1
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” Dr. Grace Blackwell’s fingers flew across her keyboard.
Malware-protection warnings popped onto her ancient laptop’s screen with nerve-wracking frequency like over-caffeinated whack-a-moles. Seated at the dark wood table against the back wall of her home office, she’d deleted the email with the attachment that had started this mess.
Faster!
Faster!
Faster!
Internet, disconnected. Documents and programs, closed.
She released the breath she’d been holding before launching her anti-malware software to scan her hard drive. She wanted to make sure all the malicious little invaders had been quarantined.
“How did this happen?” she asked herself and all the cybersecurity fairies who were supposed to keep her systems safe.
They wouldn’t answer, but she knew someone who could. Grabbing her cell phone from the desk, Grace tapped the icon programmed to dial the personal mobile of her friend, mentor and former graduate school professor Dr. Bennett MacIntyre. The call went straight to voice mail. Odd. It was as though his phone had been turned off. She frowned as his greeting gave her instructions for leaving a message. According to the clock displayed in the lower right-hand corner of her computer screen, it was twenty minutes before his eight o’clock Friday-morning class. Wasn’t that early to have turned off his phone?
The greeting ended. Grace put a smile in her voice. “Good morning, Dr. B. It’s Dr. B. I think your system may have been hacked. The attachment you emailed this morning tried to upload malware to my hard drive. I’m running a scan now, but you should check your computer, too. We’ll talk later.”
Grace ended the call, but her unease persisted. Her anti-malware software had quarantined six threats. So far. She was afraid to touch anything until the scan was completed. Stepping away from her filing table, she stretched as she paced across the midsize guest room she’d converted into her home office. Sunlight streamed in from the two windows that overlooked the front landscaping of her sprawling town house complex. It made the eggshell walls appear brighter.
She stopped beside her cherrywood desk and touched the framed photograph of her with her grandmother and her deceased older sister. The picture, which stood beside her laptop, had been taken almost eight years ago during her Thanksgiving visit with her family in Florida.
Grace moved away from her desk, stretching some more and massaging the spot where her shoulder met the side of her neck. The breach had tapped into all her paranoid responses, including the one that was bugging her to keep trying to reach Dr. B. Fine. This time, she dialed his direct office line. The call connected on the second ring.
“Dr. Bennett MacIntyre’s office. Doris speaking. May I help you?”
The female voice was unexpected. It scattered Grace’s thoughts. Doris Flank had been Dr. B’s administrative assistant for years. Grace lowered herself onto her desk chair. “Good morning, Doris. This is Dr. Blackwell. Is Dr. B available?” There was a long pause. Had they lost their connection? “Hello?”
“I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you. There was an accident. Dr. MacIntyre died last night.” Doris’s response was thick with emotion.
“What?” Grace’s voice broke, making the word two syllables. “How?”
Doris sniffed, then cleared her throat. “He tripped and fell down a flight of stairs late yesterday evening. A security guard found him. His neck was broken.”
Grace’s right hand flew to her mouth, pressing against her lips. Her throat was on fire with emotion. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks.
Dr. B.
“Doris.” Grace didn’t recognize her voice. The words were raspy and unclear. “I’m so sorry. Thanks for letting me know.” She disconnected the call without waiting for a response. Folding her arms on her desk, she lowered her head and sobbed her heart out.
Sometime later when the storm had settled, Grace pushed herself to her feet and shuffled downstairs to her townhome’s kitchen for a glass of ice water. Once she felt a little stronger, she thought she would call Dr. B’s wife and children to express her sympathy and ask if there was anything she could do for them. Anything at all. Her eyes stung with more tears as she thought about their loss and pain. To wake with your loved one in the morning and then that evening learn he’d died. The shock and grief would drop you to your knees.
Wait. What had Doris said?
Dr. MacIntyre died last night.
That would’ve been Thursday night. Then who’d sent her the email this morning?
“Why are you here?”
Malachi Touré glanced up from his laptop early Tuesday morning. His older brother, Hezekiah, frowned at him from the threshold of his office at their family-owned company, Touré Security Group, in Columbus, Ohio.
Their parents had died almost two years earlier, leaving Malachi and his two brothers a third of the company each. They ran the company together, but Hezekiah had assumed the leadership role. It made sense. He was the oldest and he’d worked for the company the longest. Even before graduating from The Ohio State University more than ten years ago, his older brother had been deeply involved in the business, including the finances, marketing and contracts. And he dressed the part. Today, he looked acceptably conservative in a tailored navy-striped suit. Malachi would’ve chosen a more subdued tie, but he didn’t have any quarrel with Hezekiah’s bold paisley one. The black combination-lock attaché case added to the corporate look. Their brother, Jeremiah, would have gotten a rash just thinking about those clothes.
“What’re you guys doing?” Speak of the devil and he appears, Malachi thought. Jeremiah, the youngest of the three Touré offspring, balanced a mug of coffee as he squeezed past Hezekiah. His loose-limbed stride carried him to the closer of the two black cloth guest chairs in front of Malachi’s desk. His slender six-foot-plus frame was clothed in black pants and a long-sleeved emerald jersey.
“I was working.” Neither brother acknowledged his dry response. Since they’d trashed his concentration, Malachi sat back against his black cushioned executive chair and gave his siblings his full attention.
He drew a frustrated breath, catching the scent of strong hot coffee coming from the black coffeepot on top of the iron gray filing cabinet beside his white mini fridge. The smell reminded Malachi of the half-full mug beside his right hand. He took a deep drink of the rich, sharp brew. White cursive lettering on the mug’s black surface read I’m Not Antisocial, I’m Just Not User-Friendly. His brothers’ idea of a joke and proof they could work together—if they tried.
“You’re supposed to be at the client’s office, tracking down the hacker. What happened?” Hezekiah’s frown remained stamped on his broad sienna features.
“What’s with the tone, Number One?” Jeremiah rested his right ankle on his left knee and linked his fingers over his flat abdomen. “Mal doesn’t report to you.”
“We report to each other.” Hezekiah tossed their youngest brother a quick look.
Malachi answered, foiling Jeremiah’s first attempt of the day to start an argument. Others always followed. “I can trace the hacker from here. The client gave me the login for remote access to their network.”
“That mug is so you, man.” Jeremiah chuckled. “Are you really surprised he’s working from here? I would’ve been surprised if he wasn’t.”
Hezekiah propped his right shoulder against the open door and rubbed his eyes with his left fingers. “Mal, would it kill you to interact personally with our clients once in a while?” He pinned Malachi with a direct stare. “We need to raise our profile so we can expand our client base. One way to do that is to increase our visibility with current and prospective clients.”
Malachi blew out a breath and reached for the same argument he’d been using for the past two weeks, every time Hezekiah brought up this subject. “We’re already well situated in our niche market. We need to focus on what we’ve always done best: partner with small to midsized businesses for their security needs. That’s what Mom and Dad built the company on.”
Hezekiah turned his attention to Jeremiah. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re both crazy.” Jeremiah’s shrug was nonchalant, but Malachi caught a brief look of discomfort before his brother hid behind a mask of bravado.
Hezekiah pressed him. “Should we expand or double down in our current market?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “They’re both good ideas.”
Hezekiah narrowed his eyes. “It’s not like you to not have an opinion on something. You have an opinion on everything. You love to argue, whether you know what you’re talking about or not. So why are you holding back now?”
“What do you care?” Jeremiah slumped on the chair and scowled. “You’re going to do what you want anyway.”
Hezekiah shook his head. “That’s not true. I wouldn’t ask for your input if I didn’t want it.”
Jeremiah planted both feet on the floor and leaned forward on his chair. “You’re always telling Mal and me what to do, like you’re somebody’s boss. Just now, you barked at Mal because he’s working from our offices instead of the client’s.”
“I didn’t bark at him.”
“You’re always bossing us around. We’re not kids anymore. We—”
“That’s enough.” Malachi’s patience snapped, pressing him against his chair. “What’s wrong with both of you?”
Jeremiah glared at him. “What did I—”
Malachi cut him off again. “I don’t know why you won’t tell us what you want for the company, but that’s your choice.” He turned to Hezekiah. “Don’t bring your arguments into my office. Do you think I enjoy being in the middle of your spitting contests?”
“You’re right.” Hezekiah shifted his briefcase to his left hand to check the bronze Rolex on his right wrist. “We’re too busy to get distracted by petty arguments.”
Jeremiah stood. “Yeah, it was a stupid argument.”
Malachi caught Jeremiah’s eyes, searching them for an explanation for his inexplicable behavior. His brother lowered his gaze, turning away to leave his office.
Hezekiah stepped aside so he could pass. With his attention on the doorway, he lowered his voice. “Do you think he’s been acting even stranger than usual?”
Yes, but it’s not for me to explain Jerry. He has to explain himself. “The two of you need to talk. I’m getting tired of the constant arguing.”
“You’re right.” Hezekiah’s sigh lifted his broad shoulders. He turned toward the door. “And I don’t want to chase you away again. Good luck catching the hacker.”
“It’s skill, not luck.”
Hezekiah tossed a smile over his shoulder as he left Malachi’s office. It was a dim imitation of his usual expression.
Jeremiah had told him he’d been thinking about leaving the family business and offering his own brand of fitness and self-protection training through a local gym. Why wouldn’t he also tell Hezekiah? Why was he keeping secrets?
With effort and another long drink of coffee, Malachi pushed concerns about his brothers from his mind. He had a hacker to catch.
This hacker is not going to give me the slip.
At least, not for much longer.
They’d already avoided him for the better part of Tuesday morning, leaving a trail of subtle breadcrumbs that had led him ever deeper into the network only to find...nothing. Malachi scrubbed his face with his palms, then leaned back against his chair to roll up his sleeves. The hacker was smart but not that sophisticated. They knew enough to plant red herrings but not enough to cover their tracks—at least, not from him.
His black Apple Watch vibrated. Time to stand. With a sigh, Malachi stretched before circling his desk. His mother had bought the device for him the year before she died.
“Sitting is the new smoking. You jog every morning, but that doesn’t mean you can sink into your office chair for the rest of the day.” She’d pointed at the watch as she chided him. “That will remind you to walk away from your desk and look around once in a while. If you sink any farther inside yourself, I’ll have to send a search party in there after you.”
Mal smiled at the memory. She was always trying to push him out of his comfort zone. He hadn’t made it easy for her. Miss you, Mom. She’d been so bossy. She’d also been so right. The mandatory breaks from the computer made him more productive. He did a few jumping jacks to get his blood flowing and clear his mind as he stared at the view outside his office window.
Touré Security Group was in a corporate complex in a sleepy neighborhood not far from Antrim Lake, where he and his brothers did their six-mile morning runs. The asphalt parking lot was ringed by young linden trees, firepower nandina bushes, and vibrant red, gold and purple coleus.
After twenty-five jumping jacks, his watch vibrated against his left wrist again. He’d completed another hour toward his stand goal. Satisfied, he drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and returned to his laptop with a renewed determination to nab the hacker.
“No more chasing after you through network operating systems that turn up empty.” But before he could enter a command thread, a message appeared on his screen.
Who are you?
What the... Malachi’s fingers froze above his keyboard. The hacker had sent him a message. How? One of those breadcrumbs must’ve been a hack that led them back to his laptop. Malachi grabbed his head and squeezed his eyes shut as a series of curses exploded in his brain. He gritted his teeth and shoved his irritation aside. Sitting up, he glared at his screen.
The hacker had repeated the message.
Who. Are. You?
He sensed their anger and frustration as though they were sitting right next to him. Malachi grunted. “You wanna play? Let’s play.” Perhaps his fingers hit the keyboard a little harder than necessary.
Who are you?
He waited for a response. It didn’t take long.
You’re not with Buckeye Dynamic Devices, are you? But you’re not the hacker.
Malachi frowned, narrowing his eyes at the message. He responded.
What game are you playing? You’re the hacker.
Liar! Who are you and why are you here? Are you after the formula?
What? He mouthed the question before typing.
What formula?
His cursor blinked at him indecisively, poking at his impatience.
Finally, the hacker responded.
We need to meet.
Good idea.
Buckeye Dynamic. Half an hour. They won’t have you arrested if you answer their questions and agree to stop infiltrating their systems.
A longer pause.
You haven’t a clue. Cakes and Caffeine Coffee Shop on Old Henderson and Godown. Thirty minutes. Come alone. I’ll enlighten you.
He raised his eyebrows.
Enlighten me about what?
Meet me and find out.
Oh, really?
How will I identify you?
How will I identify you?
Malachi rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. This hacker was straining his patience. Cyber experts were a suspicious group, but this was next level.
I’ll be reading The Gospel & the Geek by Bernadine Cecile.
Another long pause.
Thirty minutes. Alone.
Malachi logged out of the system. He grabbed his dark gray sports coat from the back of his chair and Bernadine Cecile’s book from the shelf above his desk. On his way out, he paused at Jeremiah’s office. “I need you and Zeke.” He didn’t respond to the concerned frown that settled on his younger brother’s chiseled features. Instead, he crossed over to Hezekiah’s office. He addressed both men. “The hacker’s asked to meet in thirty minutes.”
Hezekiah looked up from his computer. His thick black eyebrows rose. “That was quick.”
Malachi held up a hand. “They found me.”
Hezekiah frowned, exchanging a look with Jeremiah. “Where’s the meet?”
“Cakes and Caffeine Coffee Shop on Old Henderson.” Malachi shrugged into his jacket. He only had thirty minutes, and it was a fifteen-minute drive from their office.
“I’ll come with you.” Jeremiah started to return to his office, probably for his coat.
Malachi caught his upper arm. “I’m supposed to go alone.”
Jeremiah held his eyes. “Screw that. We can sit at separate tables.”
Malachi felt a smile curve his lips. “I don’t think the hacker will miss the family resemblance.” Looking at Hezekiah and Jeremiah was like looking into a mirror, except Jeremiah still had a full head of tight, dark curls. He and Hezekiah had shaved their heads a couple of years ago. Male-pattern baldness wasn’t a joke. Malachi felt Jeremiah’s bicep tighten under his palm. He let his hand fall away.
Jeremiah’s features stiffened. “You’re not going into this without backup.”
“I agree with Jerry.” Hezekiah stood behind his desk. “Come on, Mal. This person hacked a defense contractor. Who knows what they’re capable of, how many of them are involved? Who knows anything about them? Your plan was to track the hacker and turn the information over to the client, not to confront them.”
“New plan.” Malachi checked his watch. He was running short on time. “You know where I’ll be and when. I’ll text when I get there. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t wait for their response. Malachi jogged down the three winding flights of stairs and across the polished gray concrete flooring of the black-and-silver lobby. He pushed through the front glass doors into the parking lot and got into his black four-door SUV.
Malachi exited the lot and merged with traffic, nudging the engine of his car a bit above the speed limit. He wanted to get to the coffee shop before the hacker. That way, he could survey the customers to see whether the hacker had brought backup. He could also select a seat that allowed him to monitor the full space. But for all he knew, the hacker had been sending messages from the café. He had to be aware of all possibilities. He couldn’t walk in unprepared.
The scent of fresh coffee and warm, sweet pastries struck Malachi as he entered the shop. He adjusted his hardcover copy of Bernadine Cecile’s book, holding it in his right hand so the cover was visible.
The café was full, a testament to its popularity. He did a thorough scan of the room as he strolled to the counter to order a coffee, his third of the day. Sunlight poured in through lightly tinted windows set into the stark chalk-white walls. A stone fireplace stood in the center of the dark hardwood flooring. A handful of retirees were culed up on fluffy armchairs beside it, reading books or newspapers while nursing hot drinks.
Scarlet-and-gray booth seating lined the café’s perimeter. Cushioned gray armchairs and cozy dark wood tables were positioned around the room. Several customers occupying those booths and tables were working on laptops. Some were working alone. A few groups seemed to be collaborating. None of the patrons appeared to be waiting for anyone. No one seemed to be looking at him. Then what was causing that prickling sensation along his spine?
He paid for his coffee, then filled the porcelain mug at the self-serve station. The uncomfortable feeling got stronger. He chose a booth bench in a corner of the room close to the rear exit, which gave him a clear view of the space and a quick out. Pulling his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he sent a text to Hezekiah and Jeremiah: Arrived. Waiting.
He tucked his phone back into his pocket. Placing the book faceup on the edge of the table, he picked up his coffee.
“Mal?” The scents of roses and powder had preceded the soft, hesitant, feminine voice. Their familiarity stopped his breathing and clouded his mind.
He shifted on the gray cushioned bench to look behind him. Shock surged through him like an electric current. He wanted to stand, but his legs ignored him. He tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t work.
Grace Blackwell.
Seeing her standing in the archway that led to the café’s restrooms, his body reacted as though they hadn’t been apart for four long, miserable years. She could’ve stepped out of the dream that was never far from his mind. Maybe he was having it now. He took in her pale silver scoop-neck polyester blouse and slim black slacks. A lime-and-black knapsack hung from her right shoulder. Her dark brown hair was longer and gathered into a ponytail. That was different. Her face and figure were slimmer. There was an air of tension around her that hadn’t been there four years ago.
“Grace.” His body stiffened as he waited for her to disappear. She didn’t. “What are you doing here?”
Her long-lidded cinnamon eyes dropped to the book on the table. She lifted it for a closer look before holding up the cover for him to see. “I’m meeting you.”
His thoughts scattered to the wind. “You’re the hacker?”
