by D. B. Goodin
“I had a gander at some of the orders for extra muscle, or hacking talent from region boards, and I couldn’t immediately find anything. I was about to give up when my mate Murdo rang. He lives near Glasgow, and I asked him if he had received any recent interesting orders for hacking or muscle, and Murdo did receive an order for some perimeter guards in Edinburgh.”
“What is a perimeter guard?” Hunter asked.
“It is another term for a Darknet Market, but it really refers to a special fence for particular items and services.”
“Interesting. Continue,” Hunter said.
“Murdo got a special order for three hacker elites to add to his perimeter guard in Edinburgh,” Torin said.
Three elite hackers normally wouldn’t be needed unless the customer had a lot of cash—and a need for them, Hunter thought.
“Thanks, mate!”
“No bother. Remember, you owe me one—or was that two?” Torin laughed as he severed the connection.
With Jony’s help, Hunter could get the names of the hacker elites that Murdo mentioned by doing some old-fashioned open-source intelligence (OSINT), or reconnaissance work. Two of the hackers used the same unencrypted email address for the correspondence (a rookie mistake), and all of them used their own hacker call signs.
“It looks like these elite hackers are connected to an estate just north of Edinburgh,” Hunter said.
“Atta boy! I knew you could do it,” Jony said.
“Do what?”
Both men turned around in unison. Dahlia stood rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“I will let you do the honors, mate,” Jony said as he slapped Hunter on the back.
“It took a bit of work, but Jony and I—”
“Hunter did the work,” Jony interrupted.
“We found the person behind the hacks,” Hunter said.
Dahlia looked at both of them as if they were speaking another language.
“What do you mean? We know who is doing the hacks. Gregor!” Dahlia demanded.
“That is correct, D, but there are other factors at play,” Jony said.
“Like what?”
“A third party has made it their priority to make sure that Black Iris and the Collective are at war with each other.”
“You still haven’t told me who this third party is,” Dahlia said.
“Are you familiar with Jeremiah Mason?” Jony asked.
Dahlia thought for a long moment before answering.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Jeremiah’s daughter, Melissa, was recording the events at the Shadow Dealers,” Hunter said.
“This is dubious. We don’t know why he is trying to cause Black Iris harm, only that it is ongoing,” Jony said.
“What is the organization called on the Dark Web?” Dahlia asked.
“They call themselves the Timeslicers. They have been unknown to most organized hacker groups until now,” Jony said.
“Then I suggest that we make finding out who they are our top priority—besides winning the war with the Collective, that is.”
“Speaking of that, we might want to host a parley. It may be of mutual benefit to share information on this one,” Jony said.
“No way!” Hunter said.
“I don’t want to reveal our hand just yet. Let’s do our best to verify any suspected Collective attacks. These Timeslicers may try to send us chasing after ghosts,” Dahlia said.
“Consider it done, Mum,” Jony said.
“I think I need to pay the Timeslicers a visit,” Hunter said.
“Good idea. Be discreet. We can’t afford you getting caught, or worse,” Dahlia said.
Hunter grinned. “I don’t plan on getting caught.”
“Wait—I have something for you.” Dahlia left for a moment and came back with a leather pouch. She opened it to show Hunter.
“I know you adore the intimacy of a close kill, so I will lend you my recon kit.” Hunter opened the kit. It contained a small metal syringe with some vials of clear liquid. Mum’s knockout juice, Hunter thought. “Or I can lend you my tranquilizer gun. Your choice.”
“This will do nicely,” Hunter said, smiling.
Dahlia’s phone buzzed. It was an old friend. “I need to take this,” she said. “Report back as soon as you can, Hunter.” Then she walked out of the room.
Chapter 12
Although several clouds obstructed the sky, the Sultan still enjoyed his view out the window of his private jet. “
We will land in less than twenty minutes. Please ensure that everything is secure as we begin our descent. It will get bumpy. We will arrive in St. Pierre soon,” the captain said.
The Sultan’s satellite phone rang.
“Tout est prêt!” a man on the other end of the phone said.
“Oui Monsieur. Non, merci!” the Sultan said in a perfect French accent.
The Sultan smiled. Everything was in place.
Forty minutes later, the Sultan was taking in the bleak-looking countryside from the comfort of a limo. With any luck, he would be at the docks in another twenty to thirty minutes. From there, it was a ninety-minute boat ride to the island. He would soon have his prize. He opened the large envelope he had in his briefcase. A detailed dossier with a pretty teenaged girl perched at a computer. The younger generation was always looking at a device. Trusting in that was the girl’s undoing, the Sultan thought.
Soon, he would have his own hacking weapon. Black Iris was turning into a liability. They couldn’t keep anything secure anymore, and his information was too valuable to entrust with just anyone.
Three hours later
The Sultan left one boat for another. He boarded his yacht. A feeling he could not place washed over him and settled in his belly. He was giddy, like a kid receiving a prize.
“We have kept your prize safe, Your Highness,” Seymour said in a raspy voice. He led the Sultan to the back cabin, where Jet was tied to a chair in front of a table.
“Cut her bonds,” the Sultan demanded.
“My Sultan, she’s dangerous. She tried to slit my throat!” Seymour said.
“You deserved it. Now untie her. I wish to have a civilized conversation with my guest,” the Sultan said.
Jet looked up at the newcomer who wore a white robe, had a trimmed beard, and looked like he was from the Middle East. His voice wasn’t what she expected. He had a British accent.
Seymour looked at Jet and cautiously untied her as if he were untying a lion; he didn’t want to incur any more injuries. The Sultan looked at her for a long moment and then opened a folder.
“Do you know why I’ve gone through the trouble of meeting you?” the Sultan asked.
“For your harem?” Jet said.
The Sultan regained eye contact and then smiled.
“I have several of the most beautiful women in the world in my harem. You are pretty, but that is not the real reason you are here,” the Sultan said.
“Josephine (Jet) Smith, a.k.a. JetaGirl in the Colossal Machine, and JetaGirl on several online forums, including some on the Dark Web. Although you were careful not to reveal any personal information on any of the Dark Web sites, your repeated use of your call sign made the correlation easy enough. Other than that, you left no online footprint for my people to track. Your work on the Dark Web crawler is impressive. You could index some secret information on the Deep Web, including some of my own.”
Jet said nothing as he revealed this information. Now she regretted ever sharing the code on a Prog-hub page.
“You could achieve something that many experts—including my own—previously thought impossible: creating a map of the Deep Web, with its many entry points into the Dark Web,” the Sultan continued.
“Why go through the trouble of kidnapping me?” Jet asked.
“When you didn’t want to cooperate with my associate, we had to hasten to secure your cooperation. I’m under a clock.”
The Sultan produced a piece of paper from the folder an
d slipped it over to Jet’s side of the table.
“This is a standard contract. It states that for your services for a week, you shall receive a lump sum payment of fifty thousand dollars,” the Sultan said.
Jet hadn’t been expecting this.
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
“Then I shall have to be more persuasive. Think about it—but think fast. I will need a decision within the hour.”
The Sultan stood, said something in Arabic to one of the men standing guard, and then proceeded to leave.
“Wait!” Jet said.
The Sultan stopped and looked down at Jet expectantly. “I’m listening.”
“Before we begin, I need to contact my friends, to tell them I’m alright.”
The Sultan looked at Jet skeptically.
“At least let me tell my mother that I’m okay!” Jet said in a pleading voice.
The Sultan pointed at the paper. “Sign. Then I will allow you to contact your mother; however, have you thought about what are you going to tell her? You’ve been gone for a few days.”
Jet looked confused, and then hurriedly signed the paper. The Sultan nodded to one of his men, who immediately produced a phone and handed it to Jet.
“Call from this line,” the Sultan’s man said.
Jet called her home phone: no response. She tried her mother’s cell and left a message. “Hi Mom, this is Josephine. I know you’re probably worried, but I ran into Cassidy at the coffee shop. We decided to go back to her place in Milford. I have mixed feelings about seeing Dad right now, but I will be back soon.” The man grabbed the phone from Jet and ended the call.
“She is not going to believe me,” Jet said.
“I’m sure you’re motivated enough to be convincing. Or perhaps you would rather spend more time with Seymour and me. I’m often away from the boat, so Seymour would be happy to look after you,” the Sultan said.
Jet cringed.
“Now that we understand each other, I don’t think we need the restraints,” the Sultan said.
“What and who do you want me to hack?”
“I have a unique problem. The caretaker of some of my crucial data is under attack. I want to ensure that we neutralize their attacker,” the Sultan said.
“You could have hired any hacker for this. Why me?”
“You’re the only hacker with Spiderjet, which makes it possible for you to map certain segments of the Dark Web,” the Sultan pointed out.
“Wait, Spiderjet is a crawler, which means it can index websites on the Dark Web, but that portion of the internet is vast. It would take a lot of computing and network resources to even put a dent in it!”
“I have access to several high-speed network links attached to two quantum computers. Will that help?”
Jet stared at the Sultan for a long moment.
“For real?” she asked.
The Sultan picked up his cell phone. He dialed, and after a moment, began speaking. “A young lady friend of mine will be calling you for access,” he said. “You have full authorization to give her anything she needs.” He handed the phone to Jet.
“Hello,” Jet said.
A man with a thick Russian accent replied, “Are you the young lady friend?”
“Yes.”
“How many qubits do you need?”
Jet had heard of quantum computing, and she knew that a “qubit” was a measurement of quantum information, but didn’t understand its significance. She hadn’t the slightest idea how many qubits she would need for decryption, so she asked a probing question.
“How many qubits are available?”
“Over five thousand,” the man replied.
“Then I will take four thousand.”
“That is too much for what you need!” the man said in irritation.
“I need additional qubit memory for error correction. I also need some qubit power to crack any encryption I encounter,” Jet said.
“You will be set up within the hour.”
Jet handed the phone back to the Sultan.
“I need some supplies,” Jet said.
One of the Sultan’s bodyguards—a tall man with wide arms and no neck—approached Jet. He slapped down a notebook and a pen.
“You write words, I get items,” the man said.
Is this guy for real? He talks like a caveman, and he looks like one, too, Jet thought.
“This would be faster if you would just give me my laptop,” Jet said.
“Not possible. Your belongings will be kept safe, even from you,” the bodyguard said.
Jet made a list, and then handed it to the man. The list read:
A laptop with a minimum of a core i7 processor with 32 gigabytes of DDR5 RAM, one terabyte flash storage drive, and a gigabit Ethernet adapter.
Bootable USB flash drive with Hally Ninex (Hacking Edition) version 3.3.1. (I need this version of the toolset, not the latest build.)
One gigabit wired Ethernet connection. If only wireless is available, then a sustained throughput of 500 megabits-per-second or higher is needed.
Unrestricted access to the internet to download any tools I require.
My cell phone for multi-factor authentication (MFA) or an RSA or equivalent access token.
Several twelve-packs of some energy drink. Even vintage cans of Bolt are welcome, or Creature Energy drinks.
Plenty of American snack foods (lots of savory and salty).
The tall, hairy caveman in front of her took one look at the list, scratched his head, and then left the room.
Two hours later
The tall man came back with a big box of stuff.
He got most of what I’d asked for. Impressive, Jet thought as she looked through it.
The only item missing was the MFA, and Jet was about to call the bodyguard back in when she saw a brand new cell phone, still in the package. She opened the phone. It was a burner, but she didn’t mind. She powered it on and received an error that read, No SIM card found.
“Crap, where is it?” She looked through the packaging again and couldn’t find it. She called the bodyguard back in.
“Where is the SIM chip?” Jet asked.
The bodyguard gave her a blank look.
Why did the Sultan hire this simpleton? Jet thought.
“Can you please get the Sultan?” Jet asked.
Several minutes later, Dr. Randy appeared.
“The Sultan isn’t available at the moment. What can I help you with, dear?” Dr. Randy said.
“Yeah, I need a SIM chip for this phone,” Jet said.
“Phones are out of the question until the Sultan releases you. Nice try, my dear. All you need is a Wi-Fi connection for the MFA to work. But you knew that,” Dr. Randy said, smiling.
Argh—that’s what I get for trusting the simpleton.
As the daylight hours waned, deep shadows made the cabin dark and menacing. Jet looked out her small porthole window. Where am I? In all the confusion, she’d forgotten to ask. She thought about her parents. My absence must be worrying them, Jet thought. A pang of regret stabbed at her heart. She pushed these thoughts away to focus on the immediate tasks at hand. Dr. Randy poked his head into her cabin.
“Do you have everything you need? What progress have you made?” Dr. Randy said.
Jet was busy typing away. She blanked her screen when Dr. Randy appeared.
“I’m fine, Doctor. I’m only just getting set up here.”
“I know you want to be with your family. The sooner you satisfy the Sultan’s hacking needs, the sooner you will be home,” Dr. Randy said.
She only nodded in response. The doctor left.
Jet continued the software verification process. All the tool versions were wrong. I told that moron to get Hally 3.3.1, not 4.4.3! Jet thought. Oh well. Better get to work!
Jet felt a wave of tiredness wash over her. She opened one of the Bolt cola drinks that the caveman had brought and downed it in two giant gulps.
She tried going to some
trusted mirror sites she often visited when she needed a new build.
Blocked! They must use a proxy, Jet thought.
She pulled up a terminal window and ran the commands to bring up the network interface settings. Jet received the following error: Administrative or superuser privileges required. Jet frowned. How in the hell do they expect me to get any hacking done when I can’t control my system? Jet’s face lit up. The lookup cache should be accessible.
Jet typed in a few more commands, and the content of the machine’s address resolution protocol (ARP) interface was accessible. From here, she could determine how her machine could access the internet. From there, she ran additional commands to interrogate the services running on the gateway. The service she was looking for, proxyd, was running. It even listed the version: FriendlyProx 8.0.1. Jet smiled, knowing from experience that this version of FriendlyProxy could be beaten with a few simple tricks. Jet pulled up Banshee, the default browser program that shipped with Hally.
Time for my bypass, Jet thought.
She typed in the IP address for the gateway followed by a colon and the number 8080. The browser rendered a crude picture of a banshee holding a globe. Jet clicked on the URL search bar again and then typed in the mirror site it had blocked earlier. I’m in!
“Thank you, FriendlyProxy’s weak-sauce security,” Jet said.
Jet spent the rest of the evening reloading the operating system from an archive build site. The creators of Hally only kept the latest versions of the bootable code on their website. Archived versions were only available from mirror sites. She pulled the relevant pages that contained the correct hash values from the internet archive sites. If she got owned, it would not be due to her lack of diligence.
Jet’s eyes were getting heavy; she dozed off several times while completing her configuration. She looked at the bed. It had been a long time since she’d slept without restraints.
Sleep—maybe for a short while.
She lay down.
Several hours later, Jet awoke to a rocking boat. She shot upright, and a sharp burst of pain coursed through her arms. Several thoughts entered her mind at the same time.
