Code of Conduct (Cipher Security Book 1)

by Smartypants Romance

“Shane – no!” I yelled.

  Quimby swung back around and fired wildly. I leapt forward to try to take him down before he could shoot again, but I’d hung too far back and I couldn’t reach him in time.

  Shane had dived out of the way of his first shot, but she got up and tried to tackle Quimby again. She missed, but Oscar didn’t, and he took Quimby down. The handgun fired again, harmlessly, and by then I’d made it to them and punched Quimby in the jaw before kicking the gun out of his hand.

  I dropped a knee on Quimby’s chest and grappled with his flailing arms. Oscar was barking furiously as Quimby tried to buck me off of him. I was bigger and stronger, but he seemed to have the strength of a madman.

  “Call the police!” I shouted at Shane, who I assumed was somewhere behind me still on the ground. But then she stepped past my shoulder and into my line of sight. She stood directly over Quimby’s head and pointed his gun at his face.

  “You were going to shoot my dog,” she said in a voice so calm it sounded laced with ice.

  “Where’s my money, bitch!” Quimby spat at her, hatred shooting from his eyes like laser beams. I’d gotten one of his arms under control and was still wrestling with the other one.

  Shane leaned down and pressed the barrel of the gun directly against Quimby’s forehead. That got his attention, and he stilled.

  “You cheated. You got caught. You forfeit half. That’s the deal.” Her voice was filled with loathing, and the look in his eyes was murderous.

  Oscar stood over Quimby and snarled so menacingly I was worried he would attack.

  “Give me the gun and get Oscar under control.” I spoke quietly to Shane, and my voice seemed to cut through the haze of rage that shone in her eyes. She glanced at Oscar’s rigid form, then handed me the gun so she could pick up his leash. She tugged him backward, but his growls were relentless. I stood up slowly, but my aim never wavered from Quimby’s face.

  And then we were surrounded.

  “Police! Drop your weapon! NOW!”

  It wasn’t until we’d been put into individual interview rooms at the station that the adrenaline finally began to wear off. I sat alone at a table and wished Shane were next to me. I needed to see her, to know that she was alright. I took a deep breath and willed my hands to stop trembling.

  The door opened and a uniformed officer entered the room. “Gabriel Eze,” he said, pronouncing my name correctly. I nodded. “You may want to call a lawyer,” he continued.

  My eyebrows arched up. “Because Dane Quimby attempted to kill my partner?”

  “Mr. Quimby says you and your girlfriend robbed him of five hundred grand.”

  I reached into the inside pocket of my coat and the officer’s hand went to his gun. I looked coldly at him. “I was searched before I was left alone in this room, Officer.” I pulled out my business card and slid it across the table to him.

  “I am a security officer at Cipher Security. Please feel free to call Quinn Sullivan to confirm.”

  The police officer sighed and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “That’s what your girlfriend said too.”

  “She’s my partner. You should believe her.” I used my poshest accent, and even I could admit it sounded intimidating.

  “Quimby says you jumped him in the park and rolled him for more money than the five hundred k you already stole.”

  “I jumped Quimby with his own gun?”

  “Officers on the scene said you were standing over him with the gun.”

  “I’d just disarmed him.” It wasn’t the first time I’d said those words and likely wouldn’t be the last.

  “He said he started carrying it after you stole his money.”

  “Where is Quimby now?” I asked calmly.

  “Interview room, just like this one.” The cop had remained standing, but when I leaned forward, he took a step back.

  “Keep him away from Ms. Hane. He went to that park to kill her, as the two shots he fired at her can attest.”

  “Ballistics has the gun now,” the officer grumbled.

  “Call Mr. Sullivan, please.” I struggled to maintain a polite tone.

  He bent to retrieve the business card from the table and then backed toward the door. “Far as I can see, the only reason a little guy like that would go after a big guy like you is if you did something to deserve it.”

  I wanted to roar with frustration, but I kept my voice calm. “He didn’t go after me. He went after Ms. Hane. I followed the sound of her barking dog and found him holding the gun on her.” I was nearly quivering with tension at my need to see Shane and the effort it cost me to keep it invisible to Officer Just-doing-his-job.

  “Yeah, well, it’s his word against yours,” the officer said smugly, “and I’m guessing he’s got right on his side.”

  Right, or white? I didn’t say it because I didn’t have to. So instead, I did what I’d learned to do when fists and education and power didn’t work – I smiled. I’d been told that my smile could be quite disconcerting. Apparently it was cold and flinty and fueled all manner of fears, and the officer was gone before the door had finished closing behind him.

  Which meant I was out of my seat and across the room in time to catch it with my foot. I needed to find Shane. We’d gone to the station separately because an officer had stayed with her as she took Oscar back to her apartment, and the police had said they needed to interview me. I hadn’t even thought to text O’Malley before they took my phone and put me in a room, and my only excuse for such thoughtlessness was pure adrenaline.

  When Shane had rushed Quimby in the park, I’d gone right back to the moment I’d tried to take Jackson down instead of trying to talk him down. I’d been so certain Quimby’s bullet had hit Shane like Jackson’s shot hit me that I’d half-expected Quimby to turn the gun on himself next.

  I opened the door to the interview room next to the one in which I’d been placed. It was empty, but I had the vague sense that I could smell the vanilla and amber scent Shane wore. Hopefully she was no longer being questioned.

  I found Quimby sitting alone in the next room with a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He stood up quickly when I opened the door, and we faced each other across the room. “Stay away from me,” he said.

  “Your wife has your money. Leave the P.I. out of it.” I glared at him, and he took a step back.

  “I heard you call her Shane, and I know where she walks her damn dog. How long do you think I’ll actually be here, and how fast do you think she can run?”

  I knew exactly how fast Shane could run, but she couldn’t outrun a bullet, and I wasn’t quite willing to trust Shane’s life to the American legal system when any idiot could get a gun permit in this country, and the one in front of me already had one.

  “What does Karpov have on you?” I asked him quietly.

  Quimby blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said sharply. But he wasn’t nearly the actor he thought he was, and his fear stank of sweat and desperation.

  “Go after Shane, and we go after Karpov,” I said as I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me with an audible snap.

  Sullivan was just coming down the hall with the officer next to him. The cop’s eyes went wide when he realized that I had just come from Quimby’s room.

  “Hello, Gabriel,” Sullivan said darkly.

  I nodded at him. “Thanks for coming.”

  “My wife sends her greetings,” he said, with a glance at the wall clock. It was after three in the morning, and I suddenly remembered that the Sullivans had a young baby.

  “Why are you out of your room?” the officer asked.

  I ignored him. “Where’s Shane?” I asked Sullivan.

  “Van took her home. He’ll stay outside until you get there, or I can leave him on until morning if you think you’ll need it.”

  I didn’t like anyone else but me protecting Shane, but I appreciated the security for her. “I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  He tu
rned and we headed down the hallway. “Get your phone and I’ll see you outside,” he said before he walked out of the station. He hadn’t spared the officer another glance, and the guy scowled.

  “You didn’t say you worked for Quinn Fucking Sullivan,” he said in disgust.

  “You’re right, I didn’t use the expletive. And that’s the only thing you’ve been right about so far tonight.” I retrieved my phone from the duty cop and then turned to face the angry officer. I felt my composure finally slip. “I’m sure Mr. Sullivan mentioned his desire to see Dane Quimby arrested for attempted murder, but just in case he didn’t, this is your gentle reminder to Do. Your. Fucking. Job.” I punctuated my words with another smile, then pocketed my phone and left the station.

  Sullivan waited for me in a black SUV, and I climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Quimby is terrified, and it’s not just the money. We need to find out what Karpov has on him,” I said without preamble.

  “Alex says whatever Karpov’s got isn’t online, which means there’s a hard copy or a drive in a safe somewhere. He and Shane are working remotely tonight to find out everything they can about the man.” Sullivan’s cultured voice delivered information in a near-monotone. I found it almost soothing because it required no second-guessing.

  “What happened to the tracker we planted on Quimby’s car?” I asked.

  “We don’t know. Something in the Tesla’s autopilot system may be interfering with the signal. Greene’s working on that too.”

  A taxi drove past, and I watched the headlights paint shadows on the pavement. Sullivan broke the silence after a few blocks. “I understand you moved into the building where she lives.”

  “I did.” I refused to get defensive.

  “I’d like to set up a secure server in your place for remote work. I have it in my building of course, but as long as Quimby stays in custody, I don’t feel Ms. Hane needs or would appreciate the security that comes with an apartment there. Obviously, keeping Quimby in custody is the priority.” He drove in silence as I processed his words.

  Give Shane a secure network from which to do her work, put it in my apartment, and guess where she spends her time?

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said sincerely.

  “I’ll send someone over tomorrow.” Sullivan pulled up outside our building and turned to me. “Cipher takes care of its own, Gabriel. Ms. Hane is proving herself to be one of us – you don’t need to do this alone.”

  I met his eyes with a nod and reached for the door handle. “Please apologize to Mrs. Sullivan for me.”

  Sullivan snorted in what I could only assume was his approximation of laughter. “She heard about the lemon drops night Sandra and Kat had with Shane. She told me to invite you both to dinner when you’ve decided you’re willing to be seen together in public.”

  I stared at him. “I suddenly find myself terrified to meet your wife.”

  He glared at me. “You should be.” Only the smallest hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth softened the scowl in his words, and I thought Mrs. Sullivan must be a remarkable woman indeed.

  Sullivan drove away as I entered the lobby of our building. Van Hayden stepped forward into the light from the shadows of the stairwell.

  “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.” I knew my voice was frosty, but my ability to care had diminished with every hour I’d spent apart from Shane.

  “Yeah? How’d he get the drop on her then?” Hayden crossed his arms and glared at me. He had about two inches and twenty pounds of muscle on me and was used to being the biggest man in the room, while I’d spent my life not fighting with men like him.

  I took a step forward, deliberately within his reach. “I won’t be questioned by you, nor will I accept your judgment. It seems I don’t fit your idea of who I should be, but I find I don’t particularly care.” I took another step forward, now too close. “So thank you for being here when I couldn’t, but I’m here now, and I’ve got this.”

  His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, and I was close enough for those signs of anger to matter, but I had my own frustrations to deal with, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he chose to swing. After a moment that stretched into two blinks, and then five, he finally took one step back. It was enough, and I went up the stairs without a backward glance.

  40

  Shane

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” – Dan O’Malley

  I’d called Jorge to stay with Oscar while I was at the police station, and he’d been curled up with the furry beast on my couch when I got back. I tried to make him go home, but he just went and got his laptop and joined me at the dining table.

  I made Skype introductions between Jorge and the Hacker, and we both heard the keyboard clacking as soon as Alex had Jorge’s full name. The kid impressed Alex by giving him a couple of dark web sites to search for Jorge’s signature, just so he didn’t waste time going down all the mole holes by which my friend traveled through the internet.

  Of the three of us, I was the least adept at the dark web, but they both seemed to appreciate my instincts about both Quimby and Karpov.

  From my internet research, I knew Karpov was in his thirties and tended to dress like a country club golfer in khakis, topsider shoes, and colorful name-brand shirts. His parents were Russian immigrants, he was an only child, and he’d gone to private school before ultimately graduating from Harvard. He’d served in the military and then used family money to partner in a video gaming company – strange career divergences in an otherwise unremarkably privileged upbringing. His most recent position was on the board of directors of a far right political “news” organization, which seemed to land him in the photo ops sections at swanky conservative fundraisers. From everything I could find about his current politics, Karpov stood firmly in the populist camp touting ideas of nationalism that were fueled by fear and distrust.

  Video game development had seemed an odd choice for a nationalist, until I started poking around Reddit and 4Chan.

  “Gross,” I said as I stared at the four-year-old threads.

  “What?” Jorge looked over at my screen. He made a face. “Careful, I’ve heard the viruses are catching down there.”

  “What did you find?” The Hacker’s disembodied voice reminded me that I was sitting with some significant brain power, and testing my ideas out loud had merit.

  There was a quiet tap on my door, and Gabriel opened it to step inside. I was unbelievably relieved to see him, as the unicorns and rainbows in my smile probably indicated, but I managed to keep talking like a rational person as I waved him in.

  “You know that gaming company Karpov was a shareholder in a few years ago?” I said to the Hacker’s image on my computer screen. I could see the big Stormtrooper Sugar Skull print in the shadows behind him.

  “Yeah,” he said without looking at me. “He sold his shares four years ago when he partnered with Quimby.”

  “The gaming company didn’t make sense with the rest of the stuff we know about him,” I said, including Gabriel in my gaze, “until you look at the message boards.” Gabriel had gotten a bottle of sparkling water from the kitchen and refilled my glass before filling his own.

  The clacking of keyboards told me the other two weren’t just going to take my word for it, so I took a sip of my water and mouthed “thank you” to Gabriel while they caught up.

  “Oh, right,” said the Hacker.

  Jorge’s voice held just a touch of excitement. “He used the gaming company to reach all the white nationalist bottom-feeders in their basements. Damn! The guy’s been playing a freaking long game.”

  “Stir up the basement-dwellers, then use the fear-mongers on the right to double down on the message through the news outlets, and suddenly Karpov’s controlling a whole lot of information flow,” I said in awed disgust.

  “Well, this is interesting.” The Hacker’s voice had no inflection, but the pause in his typing was approximately as loud as a shout from the rooftops.


  Gabriel moved into sight of my screen, and his motion must have caught the Hacker’s eye because he glanced up. “Good, you’re there.”

  Gabriel sat in the chair next to mine. “What did you find?” he asked.

  “Karpov seems to have set up at least a dozen other 4Chan accounts under different names that he used to contribute to the conversations he, himself, stirred up. A couple of those troll accounts were eventually made moderators, so in effect, he was the controlling voice.” The Hacker’s attention had gone back to his computer screen, and I had the sense that video Skype was not his favorite. I left him on camera out of spite.

  Then Jorge piped up from his seat on the couch. “Those moderator accounts were more than just information. Karpov was using them to direct black ops on major media outlets, Anonymous-style.”

  “What do you mean, Anonymous-style?” I asked.

  “Anonymous is a decentralized international hacktivist group that’s been operating since maybe about 2006?” He glanced up to my screen where the Hacker gave a curt nod. “Anyway, Anonymous puts out the call to run ops on international targets like ISIS in Operation Charlie Hebdo, or pedophile rings in Operation Deatheaters, and any hackers who want to participate can join in.”

  “It’s far less organized than that, but much more insidious as there’s no centralized head of operations,” the Hacker added.

  “Have you done ops for Anonymous?” I asked him.

  He made eye contact with me through the camera on his computer for exactly one second before he turned back to his computer screen. “I’ve found two ops – not associated with Anonymous – that Karpov seems to have directed – one against Al Jazeera, and one against AP.”

  “They also tried one against the DOJ, but they couldn’t get in,” Jorge added.

  “What does any of this have to do with what Karpov might have on Quimby?” Gabriel growled.

  “We’ve been all over Karpov’s known storage sites, and have found nothing,” Alex explained to Gabriel.

  “So we go to his house and office and search there,” Gabriel shrugged.