by D. B. Goodin
She is in pain. Why am I letting her suffer?
“Is she in pain?” Jeremiah asked.
Ash paused before answering. “Not in the traditional sense. The pain she thinks she feels are mental memories that she has. The operation was a success. All neural pathways are active and working. I think she is functioning fine—”
“She seems to experience pain!” Jeremiah insisted.
“Pain is just electrical signals in our brains telling us that something is wrong. She is in pain, but she is not human anymore. She is beyond that now. She is Delta.”
What have I done? Jeremiah thought.
Chapter 19
No sooner had they docked the boat in Agadir, Morocco, than Dr. Randy entered Jet’s cabin.
“Are you ready?” he asked her.
“This soon? I didn’t think the Sultan would be ready the minute we docked,” Jet said.
“How is your arm?”
Why does he care? Jet thought.
Before Jet could respond, Dr. Randy unwrapped the sling that immobilized the arm. Jet winced. It still hurt as much as it did when she was in the hospital. The sling was only part of what kept her arm from moving. A cast protected the arm from further damage. But sometimes the skin under the cast got irritated, itchy, or just uncomfortable.
Seymour’s attack didn’t help matters.
“Let me know how it feels as I move it,” Dr. Randy said.
“Okay.”
Dr. Randy examined the arm. Jet winced as he stretched it and checked for swelling.
“How does it feel now that your arm is free from the sling?”
“Better, but it still hurts when I stretch it,” Jet said.
“How long has it been since you broke it?”
“Mid-November.”
“I’m glad the arm is healing. There is no permanent damage. The Sultan is not yet aboard. How do you feel about the presentation? Do you need more time?”
I just want this to end! Jet thought.
“I’m ready when the Sultan is,” Jet said.
“I will send for you once the Sultan is ready,” Dr. Randy said, then left the cabin.
About an hour later, a young boy summoned Jet. Jet thought of him as the “cabin boy,” because he was often carrying a tray of food or other things for various crew and honored guests.
“Dr. Randy asks if you are ready,” the cabin boy said.
“Be right there.”
When Jet tried to leave, the cabin boy helped her with her various computer accessories.
The yacht featured a conference room with enough space to hold at least eight. The room even had a projector. There, the cabin boy assisted Jet with setting up the computer—but she did most of the work. The cabin boy just provided the heavy lifting.
Dr. Randy entered. “Are you ready?”
Jet responded with a thumbs-up from her good hand. Dr. Randy motioned, and the Sultan entered along with Seymour and several others she didn’t know. She didn’t wait for introductions. The Sultan didn’t have time for them, anyway.
“The information you gave him was insufficient, and you weren’t available, so I have had to perform my own operational intelligence on the off-site data storage company you gave him. The name ‘Black Sea Hosting’ doesn’t exist,” Jet said.
“What do you mean? I just deposited some data a little more than a week ago,” the Sultan said.
“The company has a web page, valid company information, verifiable on databases that check for business ratings, but that is far as it goes. I could trace all of its financial records to another company: Blackhawk Computer Services in the Grand Cayman Islands. From there, things get a little murky,” Jet said.
She paused for emphasis. The Sultan motioned her to continue.
“After some additional snooping, I located an IP address for Blackhawk. The interesting part is that nothing external really communicates with that IP—not an email server, no discernible web traffic, nothing. Then I checked the logs from the internet service provider and found a permanent MORP relay route from Blackhawk, which is irregular.”
“So? This proves nothing,” said another man, who resembled a mobster.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t catch your name,” Jet said.
“Tony Gratzano, but you can call me Grazie.”
“Well, Grazie, it is suspicious that Blackhawk has a direct link to the Dark Web. No legitimate company that I can think of has that.”
Grazie shrugged.
“Most companies have lots of traffic associated with the various services like email, websites, etc. Hell, most employees check their social media accounts at least once a day from work,” Jet continued.
Jet noticed the Sultan’s intense stare. When she’d first met him, she’d been afraid, but now he was her only ticket out of this place.
“Can someone tell me why Blackhawk would go to such great lengths to keep their IP clean?” Jet asked.
“Client security. They are an off-site storage company, what else?” Grazie said.
No one else took the bait.
“It was a rhetorical question. The answer is, nobody does. There are plenty of security companies that store client data. These companies have security researchers on the Dark Web looking for threats against their clients. However, none of these companies has their infrastructure integrated with the Dark Web. That’s not only irresponsible—it’s impractical to secure,” Jet said.
“The little lady has a point,” Grazie blurted out.
“Okay, I would call this an interesting finding, but this is not the most interesting.” Jet said. “The secure facility that houses the Sultan’s most precious and secure documents is offline. No one should be able to access them. The physical location is a mystery, but what if I told you it was in the Black Sea?”
The Sultan’s eyes seemed to widen.
Jet looked at the Sultan and said, “I don’t know anyone in this room. How much do you trust these people with the documents in the secure storage facility?”
“Those documents are for my eyes only,” the Sultan said.
“Then I suggest that you clear the room!”
The Sultan looked around the room and nodded.
“Do as she asks. Everyone leave,” the Sultan said.
Seconds later, she was alone with him.
“Let me show you something interesting.” Jet brought up a document that listed the Sultan’s real name as Nasri Zubayr Hadad. She displayed other documents that listed some of the sensitive projects in the United States, the Middle East, and Europe.
The Sultan stared at the screen.
“The details of the hack are all here if you want me to explain it to your lackeys,” Jet said.
“Give me all the details.”
“What assurances do I have that you will keep your end of the deal?”
“Turn that off.”
Jet shut off the projector. The Sultan clapped, and a tall, middle-aged man entered. He was dressed in a suit, wore glasses, was balding, and looked like the most miserable man on the planet. He handed the Sultan a folder, who passed it to Jet. She opened the folder with her good hand: a passport, student visa, and airline tickets with her name on them. She noticed that her date of birth was backdated a few years, but otherwise it looked perfect. Her breath caught when she saw the last document: a check for the amount of $50,000, made out to her.
“I always keep my promises.”
The Sultan said something to the man in the suit. Seconds later, his entourage returned.
“Shall we continue?”
The rest of the presentation was exhausting. Jet went over the remaining points describing how it had been possible for Jet to hack the Blackhawk offline servers. She explained that the facility was offline, and she could figure out an employee list by doing some surface web internet searches. Jet even revealed the administrator’s name: Byron Kowalski. She described stalking his internet activities to reveal his employment history, social media, personal pictures (
including some of questionable taste). She connected him with the actual construction of the Black Hosting Site. She even pulled up the purchase records of the hardware.
“From there, it was easy to determine the critical vulnerabilities specific to the hardware. The tricky part was tracing his online activity to see if he had downloaded the patched code. He hadn’t, so I exploited the manufacturer’s server to include my own very special patch. Whoever installs it will get a free JetaGirl-approved keylogger that will send me whatever they type. As a special bonus, a small package will also be installed to search for very specific items based on patterns. I also programmed the package to find specific information about the Sultan. I even slowed the update process to gather the information,” Jet said.
“You said the update process was offline. How did you get that information?”
“Well, like most creatures of habit, Byron wanted to finish his champion poker tournament. After all, his pot was in the six-figure range. With his computer back online, I could dump the important parts of his computer memory to my jump server. The hardest part was downloading it all in time with the slow satellite connection you have on this boat,” Jet said.
She felt a grin forming on her face, but she tried her best to remain poker-faced. The room fell silent. Dr. Randy’s mouth was wide open, and the Sultan didn’t appear to have an expression, but Jet thought she noticed the muscles in his jaw clench.
All in a day’s work. The bastard should give me a bonus, Jet thought.
“Will you excuse us, dear? Please wait in your cabin. I believe you have some packing to do,” the Sultan said.
She started gathering the computer and folder.
“Leave those. We will bring them to your cabin,” Dr. Randy said.
What the hell? Jet thought when she’d returned to her cabin. She hadn’t expected that reaction, she could feel the tension in the room before the Sultan asked her to leave.
The folder! I should have grabbed it. Yes, you should have, dummy, her internal voice scolded.
Jet looked out the window from her cabin; the sun was setting. They have been in there a long time, she thought. Jet went back to the section of the boat where the conference room was located. It was empty. She also checked to see if they left her computer and folder. Nothing! Jet was about to return to her cabin when she ran into Seymour.
“Hello, dear,” Seymour said.
Jet glared at him but said nothing.
“The Sultan took his group of business associates for an early dinner. They should be back soon.”
Seymour looked at her.
“Do you need any help packing?”
“No! Stay away from me,” Jet said.
“Very well, my dear,” Seymour said as he left.
Something wasn’t right. The Sultan has made no moves to get her on a plane. She explored the boat. Perhaps the cabin boy could take her to the Sultan or Dr. Randy. She found the cabin boy near the kitchen. He was carrying a sandwich on a plate.
“Can you take me to Dr. Randy?” Jet said in a slow, deliberate voice. The boy seemed to have limited English, so she wasn’t sure he understood the question. The boy’s eyes widened.
“Randy, follow,” the boy said.
Jet followed the cabin boy to the rear of the vessel. The boy entered a cabin there, but she stayed in the hallway. She could make out two voices: Dr. Randy’s and Seymour’s.
“How do you want to contain the situation?” Seymour said.
“As gently as possible. She is injured, but a fighter,” Dr. Randy said.
“Should I use the chloroform again?”
“I think that is too harsh. We need to use something a little less invasive,” Dr. Randy said.
Jet’s heart leapt into her throat. I’m not letting those bastards hurt me again!
She went back to her cabin and found a small backpack that she had been using to hide protein bars, water bottles, and other supplies. She grabbed it, added her remaining clothes, and left the cabin. Nobody was visible in the cabin. Had the Sultan given his crew the night off?
She made her way to the deck. The cool breeze against her face was refreshing. Jet put on a sweater. She could see that the boat was still docked. She made her way down. The marina was unlike any other. It looked industrial. Several large, metal containers were visible. At the end of the dock, her exit was blocked by a large iron gate. She tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Boxes were stacked along each side of the gate. She climbed up onto one of the boxes, which was very difficult with her arm. From there, she noticed that the top of the gate had pointed metal barbs. “Damn it!” she hissed. The lack of light made reconnaissance difficult. She heard distant voices coming from the other side of the gate. Time to hide.
After some backtracking, Jet found a space between a box and the other side of the gate, which she ducked into.
“I’m glad you enjoyed your meal, my friend,” the Sultan said.
“It was wonderful,” another man said. She thought it might have been Grazie, but she wasn’t sure.
“Is she onboard now?” a man with a heavy accent said.
“She is, and has found the key to help our friends at Black Iris,” the Sultan said.
“After she does what you ask, then I can add her to my collection?” the accented man said.
“We will see about that,” the Sultan said.
They never intended to release me! Jet thought with alarm.
She heard a loud clanking sound, followed by a squeaking that could only be the gate.
What are they doing?
After almost a minute, the voices resumed.
“We’re going back up to the boat, Tony. Make sure you lock the gate before coming up,” the Sultan said.
Jet only heard Tony’s fumbling with the gate now.
She decided to make a move. She got up from her hiding spot. Tony—or Grazie, as she thought of him—was trying to rewrap the chain around the gate. He had gotten something stuck and was trying to straighten it.
“Screw this!” Tony shouted, then turned and froze.
“Is that you, little lady?” Grazie asked.
“Does the Sultan have any plans for releasing me?”
“Yeah, sure he does. Just not now. He says that you still have work to do.”
Jet flushed; a well of emotion overcame her. Fear, doubt, and then anger poured into her.
“Let me go!” she yelled.
Grazie laughed. “Now, why would I do that?”
She had a sudden painful memory of Jake grabbing her. Then she remembered the words of her tae kwon do instructor: Focus on the power of the kick. There is nothing else but that kick. Jet went from standing still to performing a roundhouse-style kick that struck Mr. Grazie square in the head. He went down.
“Whoa, why did—”
Another kick. This time it was easier because he was on his knees. She heard a snap, then a thud. He was no longer moving, or breathing as far as Jet could tell.
What have I done? I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted him to let me go!
She stepped around him and started pulling on the chain with her good hand. It clanked as it hit the metal portion of the gate. Then she remembered her training: slow, deliberate breaths. The chain felt lighter now. She continued this process until it was free from the gate. She heard a loud metal screech as she pushed it open.
Freedom!
Jet stood there for a long moment. Why was she feeling conflicted when freedom was this close?
She heard some yelling in the distance behind her, which snapped her out of her thoughts. She took action: she ran.
Jet didn’t have time to survey the area. She kept running. Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it would burst. She snatched a brief look behind her. Flashlights of several men bobbed like lures in an angry ocean of fear and self-doubt. She ran around container after container, the landscape reminding her of the ports she had seen near Milford and Newport. Once, her father had taken her to see a giant ai
rcraft carrier. She had marveled at the floating city; its multiple layers, alcoves, and all the potential hiding spots fascinated Jet. She had asked her father if they could play hide-and-seek.
She found no hiding spots anywhere she looked, and the men were gaining on her. Judging from the shouts and obscenities she heard, they weren’t happy either. She could see two metal buildings on opposite ends of a narrow alley, just wide enough for a normal-sized car. It was dark, so she slowed a little. It would not do her any good to invite opportunities for additional injury. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The men were still behind her but coming at a slower pace.
Are they searching the containers? she wondered.
The narrow alley ended, and she was in a wide-open space now. Jet could see a gate on the other side of the yard. She wouldn’t have been able to see that much if the moon hadn’t been out. She started sprinting toward the open gate as fast as she could, her adrenaline fueling the process even more. The gate was maybe a hundred feet away when several lights turned on all around her. She kept running. Jet was almost there when a long vehicle stopped just in front of the gate, blocking it. She tried slowing, but tripped and then slammed into the van, falling to the gravel below. Three men emerged from the vehicle. One man had a large metal box, and another was holding a stand. A third man was holding a large machine gun. It looked like something out of a movie.
“Stand aside, miss, we have business with the boys down yonder,” a burly man said.
The man had a southern American accent. The men moved around her, setting up the gun just behind some piece of machinery. She looked back. At least twenty men had given chase. Many of them looked like the cabin boy from the boat. Some were dressed in robes, others looked like longshoremen. The newcomers opened fire. It was an awful sight to behold. Bullets tore through the men like they were paper dolls. She looked up as limbs separated from bodies. Blood sprayed from decapitated men. It sounded as bad as it looked. Jet tried turning away, but couldn’t. She was fixated. Jet wept, and she wasn’t sure if it was for the men or what was happening to them. She felt lost.
