“Can’t say that I have,” Gary said. He didn’t add that he wouldn’t have noticed anyways, let alone cared. It was easier to just wipe a drive and re-image. “What kind of antivirus are you running?”
“Proprietary. Very secure. The whole system is. It’s one of our selling points. I’ve never seen the problem you’re having on any of our systems. Ever.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m lead engineer,” Elamin said. “I architectured most of it. That’s why I came out. I usually don’t do house calls.”
A sudden thought occurred to Gary. “Hey, you aren’t looking for any IT people, are you?”
The doorbell rang.
“Excuse me,” Gary said and jogged to the door. He grabbed the knob then paused. “Who is it?”
“Delivery for Wexler.”
Gary put his eye to the peephole and saw the distorted image of a middle-aged man staring back at him with sleepy eyes under a blue cap. A large panel van was parked in the drive behind him. Sleepy Eyes held up a pen.
“Okay, hold on,” Gary said and the opened door.
He took the pen and was about to scribble his name on the electronic clipboard when another truck pulled to a stop. A muscular, deeply tanned woman leapt out with a package tucked under one arm. As she jogged up the path to the front door, more delivery trucks pulled up outside, brakes squealing, filling up the cul-de-sac. Drivers piled out, some balancing multiple packages in their arms.
“Here ya go,” said the tan woman before placing the box down and hustling back to her truck. She had to hop to one side to make way for the other deliveries.
“Sir, if you’ll just sign,” said Sleepy Eyes.
“Wait,” Gary said, “I didn’t order all this stuff.” His eyes went wide as the drivers crowded forward and placed their deliveries on the ground in front of him.
What the hell is going on?
CHAPTER 15
Brown Mustard
Dante sat at his workstation and the monitors sprang to life. He opened a browser and searched for cybercrime. Scrolling past the links for security companies and lists of cyberpunk movies he found what he was looking for. He clicked on the link for fbi.gov.
An image of a hooded figure appeared in front of a map of the world, their fingers hovering over a ghostly keyboard, the requisite rainfall of 0s and 1s trailing down behind him. Dante scrolled down through the blocky bold headings and bullet points of the most commonly perpetrated cybercrimes. Network intrusions, ransomware, identity theft. Scanning the page, he kept scrolling past an image of a silhouetted online predator, then down to brightly colored cartoon animals smiling and waving from inside a grid of squares. At the bottom of the page under an FBI seal were links to everything from the Ten Most Wanted to a guided tour.
How the fuck do you get in touch with the FBI?
The door opened and Naomi stepped in. Her mouth was compressed in a thin line and she stood stiffly, hands clenched at her sides. “Dante…”
“Hold on,” he said without looking at her.
Scrolling back to the top, he clicked on the little home icon. A list of headings appeared, including icons to social media. Next to the Facebook logo was an email icon and he clicked on it. A subscription page for FBI updates opened.
No contact info.
He pounded the desk in frustration. “Goddamn it all!”
“Dante.”
“What?” he said, turning to glare at her.
“It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out, alright?”
“How? How could we figure this out? It’s my face and…everything else in that video, not yours.”
She held his gaze, eyes flashing briefly. “I’m already on top of it. I’ve crafted an email about the incident.”
“The incident? The fucking incident?”
“Dante,” Naomi said, her voice firm. “I know you’re upset but you need to keep it together.”
He turned away and stared back at the screen. Breathing deep, he tried to slow his racing heart. “The thought of so many people seeing it, the employees, our clients.” He glanced at her again. “Abigail.”
Her hands slipped up to his shoulders and began kneading the knots that had tightened there.
“I know,” Naomi said. “We just need to get out in front of it as best we can and move on. This is going to be a thing for a while, though.”
“It’ll probably go viral.”
“It’s on Twitter and Instagram, Facebook. I’ve already informed them all. The links will be removed soon. I released a statement on all our social platforms. Something else will come up soon and it’ll be gone.”
“But not forgotten,” Dante said. “Not for a long time.”
He could handle the inevitable jeers from some of his staff and business partners, but the thought of Abigail possibly seeing this someday made his stomach clench. Not for the first time he was glad she’d never wanted a phone. All her friends had them of course, but Abigail said she didn’t need one as long as there was paper for her to draw and songs to sing. She was like her mother that way, quiet, more comfortable out of the way, observing.
An old argument with Michelle charged into his head. Once the baby came, she said, he needed to slow down, be home more. He accused her not understanding what constant pressure he was under to deliver. She smiled at him in a sad, knowing way, as if she had a secret. The old memory infuriated him and exhaled, the air coming out in a hiss. Naomi felt the tension jump back into his shoulders and her hands fell away. She walked to the door and turned, hand on the knob.
“Read over the email I wrote and let me know if you approve so I can send it out to our clients.”
“I’m sure its fine,” Dante said. “Send it out. We should probably get in touch with certain people personally, as well.”
“Already on it. As soon as the email goes out, I’m on the phone along with the producers for each account to handle any questions personally.”
“Thanks, Naomi,” Dante said with a thin smile.
“You’re welcome,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Dante turned his attention back to the screen and saw what he hoped was a way to contact somebody with a badge. He moused over to the words “submit a tip” and clicked. Underneath, another bold heading were links to forms and finally what he was looking for: a phone number. He knew the chances of talking to an actual human being were slim, but he hated the thought of filling out an online form.
Dante pulled out his phone, punched in the number and waited. It rang twice before connecting. A prerecorded female voice thanked him for calling the FBI and began to list menu items. A series of clicks interrupted and he pressed the phone tighter to his ear, trying to make out what the voice was saying when it cut out.
Dante sighed and considered pounding the desk again.
A series of strange sounds chittered and he pulled the phone away from his ear. The sounds ceased and the phone rang again before connecting.
“Tell me you didn’t forget the brown mustard,” said a gravelly, female voice.
“Excuse me?” Dante said.
“Who’s this?”
“Dante Ellis. I called to make a harassment report.”
“Oh, I thought you were one of the interns. I can’t eat pastrami without brown mustard. You? Never mind. How’d you get this number?”
“I called the number on the website and was connected to you,” Dante said.
“That’s strange. This is my private phone. Try the main number again.”
“Hold on, do you deal with cybercrime?”
“Well, yes. Special Agent Boucher, Cybercrimes Division. But you’ll have to make a formal complaint before your case can be evaluated. If there is merit to the claim then it is assigned to an agent who’ll then schedule an interview. Listen, just call back. I can’t connect you from here.”
“Someone sent a video of me having sex with a donkey to all of my contacts.”
There was a long pause on the othe
r end. “Safe to assume it wasn’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“Sounds like a deep fake then,” Boucher said.
“A deep fake?”
“Yeah. A piece of software developed several years ago, clearly for the good of all humanity. Somebody named Goodson or Longfellow or something. It uses machine learning to create a map of a face from a series of images and video, then applies it to another person. They use it in movies, phony political messages, fake celebrity porn. Some are really bad but others can be quite convincing. When this whole deep fake thing started, there was one of president Obama you’d swear was real.”
“Somebody put Obama in a porno?”
“God, no!” Boucher laughed. “Just him giving a statement or something.”
“Yeah, I think I remember seeing that.”
“They’re all over the place now. Do a search on YouTube. Celebrity face swap videos with people doing voices. Swapping one actor with another. There’s at least a dozen phone apps, too.”
“So, can you help me?” Dante said.
“You said you’re being harassed. What else has happened besides the video?”
“I got a threatening text when I dropped my daughter off at school this morning.” Dante repeated the quote to agent Boucher. “Then the video was sent out a few hours later.”
“So, here’s the thing,” Boucher said. “Criminal cyber harassment has gone way up over the last few years. We got a backlog a mile long. It’s started to get pretty bad for some folks. There’s a retired lady out in San Bernardino that gets deliveries she never ordered, calls all day and night, and her car has been towed several times. She’s been swatted by the police at least twice.”
“Swatted? You mean when the cops smash down the door and rush in?”
“Exactly. Cops get a call about somebody armed and barricaded in their home they’re legally required to respond.”
“What can I do?” Dante said.
“Let me put you in touch with a guy who specializes in cyber security, Dmitry Molchalin. He’s got a company called Shadow Trace that deals with this sort of thing.”
“You said criminal cyber harassment. My case isn’t criminal?”
“You know who’s harassing you? Or have a suspicion of who it might be?” Boucher asked.
“Well, no, not really.”
“What does ‘not really’ mean? Do you have any estranged family members, ex-lovers, disgruntled workers, business associates that may consider you an enemy…?”
“No one in particular,” Dante said. He wasn’t ready to name names to an FBI agent quite yet.
“I see.”
“It’s a tough industry, but it’s business, not personal.”
“What do you do?”
“Advertising.”
“Right. Well, in my experience, Mr. Ellis, business is very personal. But without a suspect, directs threats, identity theft or stolen money then it’s not criminal.”
“A donkey sex video isn’t a crime?”
“Depends on the state. But deep fakes aren’t illegal, Mr. Ellis. At least not yet.”
“Great.”
“Get in touch with my guy Dmitry,” Boucher said. “Let him dig around. It’ll cost you, but he can get you some answers or at least halt any further intrusions. Or wait six months to get your case assigned.”
“If cyber harassment is way up then why does it take so long?” Dante asked.
“Cyber terrorism. So much easier to get funding for that particular boogeyman than deep fake donkey shows.”
CHAPTER 16
Fresh Fish
Briana let the warm water wash over her, letting it ease the tightness in her neck. She tilted her head back, sweeping her hair away from her face and sighed. Looking up at the water drops collecting on the shower ceiling, she let her mind drift.
What am I doing here?
This place was so different from home. Mom had already been right, in a sense. Briana had barely stepped out of a taxi before those two guys pegged her as new in town. Briana recalled her mother’s lecture over dinner the night before she left.
“Everyplace has a heartbeat,” Virginia said. “The heart of our home beats slow, not exciting enough for you as I well know. But it’s steady and strong. Always will be. This place you’re going, it has a heart too.”
“Mom, please,” Briana said.
“You’re going to hear what I have to say!” she said, slamming the table. Silverware clinked.
Briana went stiff, unblinking.
“Virginia,” her father warned.
“Leland,” Virginia said, glaring at him until he glanced away. Briana was proud of him. He lasted almost a second.
“Briana,” her mother continued, softer now. “The heart of this place you’re going, it’s not well. Oh, it beats fast and hot and makes everything fresh and exciting. But it’s sick. So very, very sick. It attracts the weak and corrupts them. It’s like cancer of the soul.”
“There’s…other reasons why I’m going,” Briana said, looking at her father. The muscles in his jaw tensed, but he stayed silent.
Virginia went on, undeterred. “They have cameras everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Places you wouldn’t expect. Inside toilets.”
“Mom.”
“I saw it on the news. Everyone livestreams everything. All people out there think of is themselves, and they use naïve, young girls for all sorts of terrible things. Use them up and throw them away like trash. Girls like you, far from home. Fresh fish, they call them.”
Briana shook her head. “That’s me. A fresh fish with soul cancer.”
“You’re a whore in training,” Virginia said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
“Virginia,” her father said again, voice firmer. He waited until Virginia focused on him, meeting her gaze with a quiet intensity of his own. “The lord has a plan for all of us. You’re no different. When we first met you were young, confused. Estranged from your family. Your father. Looking for-”
“Oh, save it for your flock, Reverend,” Virginia said, reaching for her wine. “We ain’t in church.” She emphasized her words with an exaggerated southern drawl, sipping noisily before setting the glass down again with a thud. Her hands shook as she smoothed down the table cloth. Leland looked like he’d been slapped across the face.
“Mom,” Briana said, sliding her hand over to grasp her mother’s. “I need to do this. For me.”
Virginia withdrew her hand, avoiding her daughter’s eyes. Her lips were pressed tight into a bloodless line as she blinked away tears. Briana looked to her father again but he sat silent and withdrawn, eyes locked on his hands.
Briana watched the inner turmoil play out over her mother’s face, hoping for a break in the storm. But the older woman stared at the table cloth, refusing to meet her gaze.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Briana said, her voice caught as she left the table.
Virginia’s shrill cry called after her. “Run away, Briana. That’s what you do. Just run away.”
The pipes squealed and the water went cold, pulling Briana out of her reverie. She squeezed her hands into tight fists, focusing on the pain as her nails dug into her palms.
What’s wrong with me? I did it. I’m here. I’m really here!
Another thought intruded. What about Mark?
She’d always love him. How could she not? He’d been her first everything. First kiss. First love.
A low, ragged voice intruded her thoughts.
You cheating bitch!
She placed a hand to her cheek and squeezed her eyes shut. He’d been so different that last time he’d come back from deployment. Thinner, meaner. Eyes hard, like black marbles. Mark had been back for two weeks before he’d even called her, then he’d shown up drunk to her apartment, raving, tearing at her clothes in a frenzy before dropping her with a blow to the jaw. She’d awoken in the middle of him thrusting and moaning, eyes wild, sweat dripping off his face. A drop fell into her eye.
/> It burned like battery acid.
He’d been the one to cry afterward, sobbing against her like a child as she smoothed a hand over his coarse hair, whispering that everything would be alright.
Her hands had been so cold.
Briana pressed her clenched fists against her head. She was just another one of those girls now. One day, you think you’re in love, and the next you’re Googling how to cover up bruises.
Pipes shrieked as she spun the knobs and the water pattered to a stop. Pulling the shower curtain aside, she stepped out and shivered. She wrapped a towel tight around her body, gazing around the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. White tiles, sink, toilet. Foggy mirror. Something just didn’t feel right though.
Were there cameras in here, like Mom had said? Would Leish really do something like that?
Briana took a quick peek in the toilet. If there was a camera there, she couldn’t see it. She thought of that release she’d signed and cinched the towel tighter. Hadn’t there been a news story about landlord who’d spied on his tenant? A beam of light from where he’d scratched the silver off the backside of a bathroom mirror gave him away.
Leaning over, Briana flicked the light switch off with a finger. The room plunged into darkness. Light from under the door shimmered in the mist but there was no beam from the mirror, no staring eyeballs.
God, Briana. Get a grip, she thought. Mom’s right. You really are a fresh fish.
She heard a soft skittering and flicked the switch on again. The little dragonfly drone was perched on the sink, its beady eyes twitching. Briana took a step back as it lifted off and hovered, coming close to her face. It swooped low and disappeared through the gap underneath the door. Briana swallowed, her throat tight.
She didn’t want a dragonfly drone anymore.
Opening the door a crack, she peered down the hallway. No sign of the drone. She started to ease the door shut when she saw it. It was a tiny blotch on the ceiling out in the main room, too far away to see if it was still watching her. Slipping into her room, she closed the door behind her. She grabbed a pair of jeans and an oversized sports jersey from her suitcase and pulled them on under the watchful eyes of a cackle of plush hyenas.
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