Red awoke with a start. He had fallen asleep in front of his computer screen as it defragged a bunch of coded info. Red was certain said info was useless tax records, but it was good for building experience.
Red was a relatively new hacker, but he had learned from the best. He studied the intricate, pain-staking process of “data procurement” with some of America’s most successful hackers. It had cost him his family’s small fortune (his now-deceased father would have loathed him for this), but Red believed it was well worth it.
And, Red realized with widening eyes, it looked like it was paying off.
Red stared at the lines of information flowing down his screen. This certainly wasn’t tax records.
Red paused the scroller and began to read the words. They were in Latin, but Red knew quite a bit of the language. Red figured out after a bit that these were files concerning a black-budget project. What that project was – or, Red thought, is – was only hinted at by the legendary codename “Majic.”
Every hacker this side of Europe knew what that alleged project was. Red began to sweat with excitement. If this was actual proof of the Majestic Twelve . . .
The screen flashed a bright white for a second. Red instantly recognized it as an attempted system spike. Somebody was onto him. Luckily, Red had nigh-perfect firewalls. The spike merely brought up a red-alert popup in the corner of the computer screen. Red took the hint and immediately copied all the data he could to a floppy disk (which, as his instructors had taught him, could not be imprinted with an anti-exploit virus).
Thanks to an amazingly fast rig, Red was able to burn the info and pop out the disk before another, more powerful spike was sent. Red actually flew back from the electronic surge that shot through his system and fried everything. Everything but the floppy.
Clinging to his prize, Red sighed in relief. He held in his sweaty palms the undeniable truth behind the biggest government conspiracy in US history.
After a few moments of sheer happiness, Red realized that someone had tried to stop him from getting this info. That meant that this information was still being actively guarded. That meant that the US government was still actively guarding this information. That meant that somebody, probably many somebodies, would be coming for him to retrieve this information. That meant that Red was screwed unless he got the hell outta Dodge. Fast.
Red stood up and lunged for his apartment’s door, hastily grabbing his keys and Autumn coat.
***
“The trace was completed.”
Foxtrot Papa Eighty-Two turned away from the computer security personnel as the three men tapped away at ergonomic keyboards, staring at multi-screened computer monitors. FP82 put his right hand to his earpiece and said in a hushed voice, “Subject’s location is 412 South Carolina Street, Indianapolis, Indiana. Engage as you will.”
Somewhere far off in a secluded meeting room in the Chicago Government Building, the members of the Majestic Twelve heard FP82's statement. They immediately made an all-call for the best in their service.
***
Doty flicked the shaving cream off his razorblade. He had been itching for a fight these past few days. His last mission hadn’t satisfied him half as well as the cheap Armanian prostitutes afterwards. He was battleready and triggerhappy, the iconic stone-faced black ops thug.
Then a beeping came from his knapsack. A very special beeping; the kind that meant his ass was needed, and fast. Doty flipped the razor back into its holder, and leapt to his bag. Doty fished out a small electronic communications device, and answered the tone.
“Doty, your abilities are needed in Indiana,” said a face on the miniscreen. Doty was so secretive, he didn’t even have a title. His superiors cut all bullshit, so much so that he was usually on a CIA pickup plane within five minutes of a call.
“Type of mission, sir?” Doty didn’t have any sound vaguely similar to uncertainty in his voice, even though he was asking a question.
“Data retrieval. Pickup at 0800.”
Doty formed his mouth into a grin that would frighten small animals. It would be 0800 in two minutes. This mission was important, he could tell.
The comm device shut off, the shaded face of Doty’s superior vanishing from the screen. Doty’s hideous expression of brutish pleasure had faded as well, and he was now looking around for a shirt. Although it didn’t matter, he thought it might look more suspicious for a shirtless man to leap onto a low-flying plane than a fully clothed man to leap onto a low-flying plane.
Finding his shirt, Doty was out the door within moments, ready to kick ass.
***
“Did you get that?
“Yeah. They’re desperate.”
“That info is sensitive.”
“I know. There’s something more in it. Something bigger than that two-bit hacker found.”
“We have to find him.”
“Thomson, contact Trophy. Tell him I’m going to Indy.”
“Okay Alice. Take Garcia and Poca with you. Good luck.”
“Okay.”
The phones clicked off. It didn’t matter.
The trace was completed.
***
“We’re going to Indianapolis!” Frink proudly exclaimed as he walked into the ground-level hallway where the team was gathered. Frink was wearing a ridiculous fantasy outfit that resembled both a griffon and a mermaid.
“GenConIndy is has arrived, and I must meet old friends,” Frink explained, a part of his costume bobbing with every word.
Bionic snorted. “Why are we coming?”
“Because the Bureau, Illuminati, and the MJ12 have all just contacted me and ordered us to find some hacker and retrieve him,” Frink explained with a pleasant smile.
Johnson shot up from the couch. “We’re going. Now. Fill in the details on the way, Agent Frink.”
“What about Ashley?” Frink asked.
Johnson paused for a moment and explained, “She’ll be having a slumber party. In our basement. I’ll leave fifty dollars for food.”
“That won’t be enough! She’s a teenager!” Frink exclaimed.
“Very well. I’ll leave four hundred dollars. Get ready. Now.” Frink nodded and ran off.
The Team hurried, packed and went on their way within the hour.
***
“So what’d this guy do?” Bionic asked for the fourth time in the car, apparently unable to grasp the concept.
Frink sighed in his increasingly uncomfortable costume. “For godsakes, he stole something from our employers, and they want us to get it back.”
“The part that confuses him is which of our employers wants the stolen stuff back,” Andy said from the driver’s seat. He still had his sunglasses on, even though darkness had fallen two hours ago.
Johnson spoke up form the passenger’s seat. “They all do. The Majestic Twelve, the Illuminati, and Bureau 13 all wish to obtain the stolen data.”
“Naw, naw. What I don’t get is how somethin’ that’s not even real can be so important. It’s not like he stole the president’s friggin car here.” Bionic sighed and scratched his head. “But I don’t really care, so long as I get to blow something up.”
“That’ll most likely be the case,” Andy muttered as he fished a DVD out of its case. “Now, to shut you all up, I’m gonna play Bill Nye the Science Guy Season One for the rest of the trip.”
Bionic groaned and Frink clapped as the LCD screens lowered down from the ceiling of the car and sprang to life.
It was going to be a long ride, Agent Johnson thought privately.
***
Red was getting more and more paranoid by the second. The data wasn’t safe with him. He had to deposit it somewhere. In a safebox at a bank, or something. But where?
He knew he was running our of time. They’d be here any second.
But who were they?
Then he saw one. In the window of the next passenger car on this subway. He blinked, and the dark figure was gone. Vanished.
Red panicked. He spun around, let go of his handle, and pushed his way through a few standing people in the direction opposite the sinister person. By the time he made it to the next car, the train was pulling into a terminal.
Red didn’t care which station it was. He just had to escape. He exited the train as soon as the doors flew open, drawing confused glances from passerby.
They wouldn’t come after me in this public a place, Red thought. They couldn’t kill me here! He looked at the sign. State street. Good. Lots of business after dark. Lots of lights. Maybe even a bank . . .
Red hurried to the escalator and looked up. At the entrance of the terminal, he saw another one. Sunglasses, suit, outline of a gun in the jacket.
Red spun around and walked to the bathrooms. Maybe there was an access hatch in there. Some sort of escape route.
As Red entered the restrooms, he glanced behind him. There was the first figure again. It was a serious, business-looking female.
Red raced into a random stall, praying they would miss him. He stood on top of a toilet, clutching his floppy for dear life. Someone else entered the room. The fluorescent lights flickered. Red knew he was dead.
Footsteps, right outside his stall. He saw the shadow of two dark feet turned toward him. He closed his eyes. There was a kick.
The door burst open.
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