Daemon

  Boerner was talking again. Gragg looked down.

  “Your phone ist useless. Only Vi-Fi vill vork here.” His expression grew decidedly less friendly. “Move ze car forvart.”

  Gragg put his phone away. He shifted the car from reverse back to drive. He took a deep breath, then took his foot off the brake. The Tempo rolled forward. Gragg realized someone might see his headlights from the road—so he kicked them on. Then he flicked on his high beams.

  Up ahead an exterior light kicked on at the cinderblock building.

  Boerner growled. “Drive benees zi light.”

  As Gragg’s car rolled forward, he crossed the tree line and was suddenly in a well-lit, muddy clearing in front of the cinderblock building. There was another vehicle there—a badly smashed VW Vanagon with Louisiana plates.

  As Gragg’s Ford Tempo rolled into the clearing, he felt the tires bog down in deep mud. In a second he was up to his axles in it and stuck like a fly on flypaper.

  “Oh fuck…” Gragg groaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pounded the steering wheel. What had he gotten himself into? He should run.

  Boerner spoke again. “Mein freund.”

  Gragg looked down at the laptop.

  Boerner took another puff on his cigarette. “Zis ist fun, yes?” Boerner paused a moment. “Ist zis you, mein freund?”

  The console window populated with Brian Gragg’s full name, social security number, age, birth date, last known address, mother’s maiden name—a huge piece of his life. The adrenaline of pure, high-octane fear swept through Gragg. He almost screamed in terror. He honestly could not remember a time when he’d been more afraid. This machine knew who he was. It knew his real fucking name.

  Boerner barked angrily, “Ist zis you? Answer!”

  Gragg fearfully typed No in the console window beneath his personal information and hit ENTER.

  Boerner loomed again. “If zis is not you, I haf ozzer names. But if you lie zu me, I vill find out. Und zer vill be no mercy. Answer again. Ist zis you?”

  Gragg pondered Boerner’s cold eyes, then typed Yes and hit ENTER.

  Boerner relented and went back to smoking. “Gut. Now ve may begin.” He put one hand behind his back and started pacing. “Run your Vi-Fi scanner again. You vill see a new netvork. You must gain entry zu it. Do not attempt zu leef here before you do. Auf wiedersehen.” Boerner swept out of the room. The moment he did, the 3-D iron grate snapped shut behind him. Immediately after that, the game shut down without warning, leaving Gragg staring at his computer desktop.

  Gragg rubbed his forehead. This was a nightmare. At least he wished it was, but since it wasn’t, he figured he’d better get down to business. Boerner wanted to see what Gragg was made of? Okay. Gragg launched NetStumbler again. The SSID for the Houston Monte Cassino server was now gone. In its place was a new Wi-Fi access point with no SSID at all.

  No doubt this one was going to be tougher. Gragg opened the NetStumbler logs and checked each entry. The new AP was running Wi-Fi Protected Access—WPA—a form of wireless encryption. Damn. He was hoping it would be WEP-encrypted. That would take only seconds to defeat. WPA had no structural flaws. It was as strong as its passphrase. But that would be the test, then, wouldn’t it? Hopefully, the phrase wasn’t more than eight or nine characters. Gragg would need to sniff the key exchange messages between the adapter and the access point, then crack the key off-line with a PSK dictionary (which he had on his laptop). He could use Air-Jack to force the key exchange by broadcasting a disassociate message. Gragg slumped in his seat. Hopefully there would be some client exchanges to monitor. But if this was a test, then that was the only correct answer. So fuck Boerner.

  It was going to take some time to crack the key, though. Gragg pulled out the DC-to-AC adapter and plugged it into his car lighter, then plugged his laptop into the new AC power source. He launched Asleap, a program for grabbing and cracking wireless key exchanges. He could see the network clearly enough. He sent the command to de-authenticate every user on the new network and prayed to the freaking gods that some client connections were present.

  Thirty seconds later, two authentication exchanges occurred to reconnect the clients. Gragg started breathing again. He now had an encrypted hash that Asleap was working the dictionary to decrypt. He was on his way.

  Gragg leaned his driver’s seat back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d ever get out of here alive.

  Chapter 17:// Succubus

  Jon Ross hopped out at the front entrance to Alcyone Insurance. He opened the rear passenger door of Sebeck’s Dodge Durango and grabbed his laptop bag from the backseat. It was Sebeck’s personal car and reeked of his aftershave. The interior was immaculate, devoid of personal touches like Kleenex holders or errant CDs. It had the brutal cleanliness of a military barracks, and by revealing nothing about Sebeck it revealed a lot.

  Ross looked from the backseat into the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Sebeck. “Well, Pete, again, my condolences on Deputy Larson. And I wish you the best of luck on the case.”

  Sebeck just stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sebeck’s cell phone started ringing.

  Ross slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. “It means that I’m done. The Feds have this under control.”

  “Don’t even try that bullshit on me, Jon. Go get some sleep.” He motioned for Ross to get out, and he unfolded his phone as he pulled away from the curb. He smiled grimly as he saw Ross flip him off in the rearview mirror. Then he answered the phone. “Sebeck.”

  A woman’s voice said, “Nothing can kill you, can it, Pete?”

  He felt his pulse accelerate. It was her. When had he last heard her voice? How long ago? This phone line is tapped. “Cheryl, I’m heading to the office. Call me there.”

  The line went dead. Sebeck stowed his phone, then drove a couple of blocks. He pulled over in a residential area, then looked in the rearview mirror. No one watching. He got out and opened the tailgate of the Durango. Sebeck reached down into the spare tire well and came up with a bright red prepaid, disposable cell phone. He closed the tailgate, looked around again, then got back in the Durango and plugged the phone into his car lighter. Moments later the little phone chirped, and he grabbed it.

  “God, it’s great to hear your voice. Things have been crazy. We lost two men today. I’ve got more in the hospital.”

  “I know. I caught the news in the terminal at O’Hare.”

  “You’re in Chicago?” He knew better than to ask too much.

  “No. Westwood.”

  “At the company suite?”

  “You’ll come meet me.”

  “Oh God, baby.” Sebeck sighed. “This is a really bad time. This Daemon thing is—“

  “You survived, Pete. I’ll make you remember why you want to be alive.”

  That she would. Sebeck was quiet for a moment. Cheryl Lanthrop was the most beautiful woman he had ever been with. Her predatory sexuality made it even harder to resist. It was unfair that he should be expected to resist a woman like her. He had convinced himself that even his wife would understand.

  Still, it was a bad time to disappear. But they could reach him by phone, couldn’t they? The Feds would probably be busy tearing apart CyberStorm’s network all night. And Sobol’s estate? Hell, there were hundreds of police surrounding it. If he got caught, no man alive would think less of him.

  He hesitated. “I’m just…” He couldn’t find words.

  “Only you know what you want, Pete.”

  He already knew he was going. He was someone else entirely with her. His responsibilities faded away. His goals were here and now—the conquest of her. And that’s what it required: conquest.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Wilshire Boulevard between Beverly Hills and Westwood Village was a canyon of tony high-rises one row deep. The buildings seemed out of place in Los Angeles, as though someone had grafted a piece of Manhattan’s Upper East Side to L.A.’s suburban grid. This was the location of Ch
eryl’s corporate condo.

  Cheryl was some sort of medical executive. In one of his fits of curiosity about her, Sebeck had run a background check. She had a surprisingly benign past; good premed education, clean credit, no criminal record. Her employer sold and installed complex medical diagnostic systems, and she traveled the world consulting on multi-million-dollar deals. She had money—the type of money Sebeck could only dream about. And she had perks, like the corporate suite at this copper-roofed faux French provincial tower.

  Sebeck still had a parking card, so he was able to avoid the doorman. His face was still in the news, and he wasn’t anxious to be seen in the vicinity.

  As he exited the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he peered both ways down the hall to be sure no one was in sight. As he approached Cheryl’s door, Sebeck noticed it was slightly open. He looked around warily, then nudged it in. Cheryl stood beneath a halogen spotlight near the entryway. She wore a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps. Black stockings with garters, visible below the hemline, wrapped her long legs and shapely, shoeless feet. Her auburn hair sparkled in the light. She smirked and curled a finger at him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Worth losing everything for.

  Sebeck moved toward her, closing the door behind him. He knew better than to expect consolation from her. What they shared was different. Just before he reached her, she pirouetted and ducked her head low, bringing a roundhouse kick straight at his head. He saw it coming and grabbed her leg just in time. The impact sent him back against the wall.

  She followed it with an open-hand karate punch toward his face. He ducked back, releasing her leg. “No bruising! Cheryl—“

  “Shhhh.” She put a painted fingernail to his lips.

  Sebeck took the moment to grab her wrist, twisting her arm around her back. He brandished handcuffs seemingly out of thin air. She quickly tried to clear his legs out from under him, but he blocked her legs. Their shins slammed together, and he bore down on her to fling her to the floor. He felt her strong, lean body resisting, and then finally throwing him over her. He landed hard on the carpeted floor.

  Struggling for breath, he managed to hiss out, “We’ve got to be more quiet—”

  She let out a tigress growl, kicked the handcuffs away, and landed a few vicious punches to his abdomen. His tightened stomach muscles dampened the blows.

  She smiled playfully and lightly bit his ear. “You goddamned pig.” She grabbed him in a headlock and started a chokehold.

  Perfume mixed with sweat filled his nostrils. Adrenaline filled his veins. If this wasn’t love, then it was something nearly as good. He felt his consciousness begin to fade. He smacked his open hands against her ears, and she dropped the chokehold in an instant, grabbing her head in pain.

  He rolled over, kneeling next to her. “Baby, did I hurt you?”

  She looked up, one eye and half a mischievous smile visible behind a curtain of auburn hair. He saw his mistake too late, and her open hand shot like a jackhammer into his solar plexus. He doubled over in pain as she leaped over him, moving for the handcuffs.

  She had a thing for cops—and he was probably one of several she had flings with around the country. He didn’t care. She was a sexual hand grenade with the pin pulled out, but he could never manage to resist her. Whatever this said about him didn’t matter. Cheryl was here, and the whole world could go screw itself.

  He heard the clinking of the handcuffs coming up behind him, and he swept one hand back, grabbing her elbow. He shot the other arm up and grabbed her beautiful hair. It was a cheap shot, but effective. He made sure to grab enough of her hair to use as a rope. He twisted it tighter and finally yanked her head down toward his. He felt her struggling, and her open, pouting lips brushed against his.

  He twisted her arm and pulled her around in front of him. Now she was really struggling, but he used all his prodigious strength to dominate her. All her skill had not been enough. He had mastered her. He heard her moan softly as he wrenched the handcuffs from her hand. In a moment he had forced her to her knees and slapped the cuffs over one wrist. She struggled mightily one last time, but he forced her head back down using her hair as a leash. The cuffs went over the second wrist, and he felt her sigh and settle back onto her knees.

  He came up behind her and smelled her perfumed hair. Her lips brushed against his cheek.

  “Is there a problem, officer?”

  Across Wilshire Boulevard, directly opposite the building, a camera lens in a darkened room reflected the streetlights. The camera clicked and whirred as Sebeck and the woman passionately kissed.

  Anji Anderson raised her eye from the camera lens. She let an aroused breath escape as though she had been holding it for a while. She had no idea why The Voice felt this was news, but it had already been worth the trip.

  Chapter 18:// Abyss

  Wrecked county and federal police vehicles came under the glare of a mercury vapor searchlight. The bomb disposal robot’s arm panned to reveal more carnage. A thousand feet away, a spectator in the control trailer whistled softly at the video image. A murmur went through the assembled agents. Special Agent Ellis Garvey released his hold on the joystick and awaited instructions.

  The FBI’s Critical Incidence Response Group (or CIRG) had taken over operations for the siege of Sobol’s estate, but Steven Trear still had nominal control of strategy. He knew that he had to get this situation under control quickly, or it would be taken from him just as he had taken it from Decker.

  Trear put a hand on Garvey’s shoulder. “Bring us up to the mansion’s front door.”

  The lawn mower–sized robot turned in place on rubberized treads and started moving across a blood-streaked debris field of plastic car bumpers and shattered glass, toward the mansion’s front steps. Along the way the robot passed a crushed and twisted version of itself. It was the robot brought in by Guerner’s team the day before. Garvey’s camera lingered on the image. Ominously symbolic. Trear cleared his throat, and Garvey nudged the joystick again, sending the robot forward.

  He halted the robot at the base of the mansion’s front steps and raised its camera arms—shining the bright lights into the yawning, black maw of the doorway. The door was still wedged open.

  A score of federal agents in the command trailer craned their necks to see the monitors.

  Trear nodded to Garvey, who took a breath and eased the left joystick forward. The little robot’s motors whined as it inched up the stone steps.

  Before long it moved warily through the front door and into the foyer, where some type of fearsome technology had assaulted Guerner and his team. Washington wanted more information. The robot’s camera arm panned the room. Glass from a shattered vase littered the tiled floor—along with vomit and specks of blood.

  Someone in the back muttered, “Jesus.”

  One of the bomb squad guys leaned in. “Look for transceivers or sensors on the walls.”

  Garvey started panning the walls with the camera lights.

  It looked like a classic Mediterranean, but there was a lot more than paintings and sculpture alcoves along the winding stairs. Near the ceiling an array of mysterious, white plastic sensors lined the walls.

  Trear called out. “Guys, what are we looking at?”

  A deafening silence filled the darkened trailer. In the glow of the camera monitors Trear looked for Allen Wyckoff, an FBI senior systems analyst who always seemed to know what he was talking about. Although there were bomb squad agents and a couple of computer forensics experts on hand, this wasn’t a bomb and it wasn’t software. It looked like a system. “Wyckoff. What am I looking at here?”

  Wyckoff was just a silhouette in the darkness, except for the lenses of his round glasses, which reflected the monitor images. “Those are standard motion detectors…also what looks to be infrared sensors…I have no idea what that is…. The round pod might be a transmitter of some sort.” He turned toward Trear, and the monitor reflections disappeared from his glasses. “Sir, we’re goi
ng to need to analyze this video. There’s a lot of technology there I’m not familiar with.”

  Trear looked around at the assembled experts, who were silently nodding in the dark. “So no one can tell me how the bomb disposal team was incapacitated? No guesses?”

  The agents exchanged glances in the shadows.

  Garvey ventured, “Should I keep going?”

  Trear nodded. “Get us into the server room.”

  Garvey took another breath and eased the joystick forward again.

  The robot moved easily across the floor toward the center doorway at the back of the foyer. The mercury light revealed a long hall with stone tile flooring and embroidered rugs. Mission-style furniture braced the walls here and there along the length of the hall.

  One of Garvey’s team spoke from the console nearby while examining blueprints. “We want to take the next hall on the right. Then it’s the second door on the right.”

  “Got it. Turning.” Garvey turned the robot in place and shined the camera lights down a short side hall. It led into the recreation room toward the back of the house. Garvey panned the hallway, examining the walls and ceilings. More of the mysterious sensors lined the walls. It was dark except for the lights on the robot.

  “Cellar door, second on the right. It should lead down to the server room.”

  Garvey brought the robot forward, then moved to a second set of controls to activate the robot’s arm. The mechanical hand slid into camera view and swiveled once to align with the lever door handle on the cellar door. The arm moved forward, grabbed the door handle, then depressed it.

  Suddenly the camera image jolted wildly and shouts of alarm filled the trailer. In a moment all the screens were filled with snow.

  Trear pushed forward. “What just happened?”

  Garvey’s hands hovered over the useless controls, his mouth open in shock. He turned. “I don’t know. I…”

  “Do we have any signal from the robot?”

  Garvey and his assistant checked the console and shook their heads. Everyone was talking again.