The Ragnarok Conspiracy (24 page)

Savas rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure he even knew what that meant anymore. “What, another one? Get back to me after the other twenty-three clear, Manuel. I don't have time for another one.”

“No, I mean a
situation
,” he wheezed out the last word, trying hard to place emphasis.

Savas opened his palms toward him. “OK, shoot.”

“We've been hacked.”

Jordan glanced toward him, his eyebrows raised. Savas stood there stunned for a moment, trying to come to terms with the implications. “What? I thought you said your security setup was like Fort Knox.”

“No, not us directly. Someone hacked into Personnel, Accounting, perhaps a few other departments. I don't know the extent of it yet. Hell,
they
don't even know it happened yet.” Hernandez stood straight up now, hands off his knees, recovering from his sprint to John's office. He saw the confusion in the other two faces in front of him.

“See, they
did
try to hack us, and then when they failed, they tried to go through other internal servers—hack into those, use internal networks to find security holes, break into our stuff that way. Well, that didn't work either, as I've walled us off even from the FBI.”

“You're one paranoid geek, Manuel.”

“Yeah, thanks. So, we're not compromised. But just about everyone I've checked in the building is.”

“How long have you known this?”

“Ten minutes, John. I ran over here as soon as I was sure and had some idea about the extent of it.”

“Well, that's ten minutes too long. You get up to Larry's office. Tell
that bulldog guarding outside I sent you
priority
. Get Larry to write you a get-out-of-Intel-Free pass, and get up to those departments and try to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Timing's what's worrying me,” interrupted Hernandez. Jordan looked over at Savas and nodded.

“I mean, right when we start to get a lock on this guy, this Gunn-dude, we get hacked. And, let me tell you, they were aiming for us, John, following the tracks, I mean, of all the offices and groups. These were black hats on a mission. They wanted us.”

Savas nodded. “Get up to Larry and find out all you can. Track them through this if you can. Maybe we can find out who or where they are.”

“OK. I'm on it. But I'm done running for the day.” Hernandez turned around and walked briskly back down the hallway.

“You think it's Gunn?” asked Savas.

Jordan nodded. “This looks like a pro job, and if there's one thing we know about Mjolnir, it's that they are professionals. Only the connection with Gunn would lead a bunch of skilled hackers to focus on you and your people. In some ways, it's just more evidence that we are on the right track.”

“Not some random cyber attack?”

“Sure, could be. How many of those do you get a month, and how many get this close?”

Savas nodded, then looked up in exasperation. “I was supposed to meet Frank and Matt downstairs—our last hot dog–stand lunch before the new security regs force the carts a few blocks up. At least the food's fast and I can march them back up here. Care to join me before I run back up into this insanity?”

“Sure,” said Jordan. “But I'll go with the potato knish.”

Savas groaned inwardly.
Pork and Muslims, oil and water.
He smiled to cover for his gaffe.

“OK, let's go. I've got to eat something before we go into red alert again.”

It was a sunny, early-October day, crisp and even slightly warm under the sun. Savas stepped out of the FBI building, squinting in the bright
light. If it weren't for all the chaos, it would have been nice to be outside on such a beautiful fall afternoon. Jordan followed him down the stairs to the pavement, his eyes scanning the area, an old survival instinct that would never leave him, no matter how safe the neighborhood. Savas spotted Frank Miller first. That was always easy; the ex-marine was about as wide as a standard refrigerator. Matt King provided a striking contrast. His lanky form, slouched posture, and bookish demeanor set him apart. However, both were equally enjoying the hot dogs on this fine day. Each was looking toward Savas with an air of feigned annoyance.

Miller waved them over. “I thought you said you'd meet us down here at noon, John,” he said, ripping off about half the hot dog and bun, then speaking through a full mouth. “We've been here twenty minutes waiting for you. The hot dogs were getting old, I'm afraid.”

“I thought they weren't biodegradable,” mused King.

Savas smiled. “I'm sorry, guys, but we have a small situation upstairs.”

Both rolled their eyes and groaned, almost in stereophonic harmony. King shook his head. “I think making partner would have been easier than this job. What now?”

“We were hacked.” Savas paused to let it sink in. King nearly choked on his food as Savas continued. “From what Manuel says, half the building was hacked, and actually, we were not, thanks to Jesus's ultraparanoid, super firewall. But someone, according to him, someone good, got into several systems in the building, trying to use those to get to us.”

“To us?” said Miller.

“Apparently, yes, we were the target. Manuel is running around up there trying to get a handle on it, and that is what we all get to go do as soon as we insert those indigestion tubes,” he said, waving toward the hot dog stand. Jordan came toward them, holding a knish.

“Holy shit,” said King. “This is pretty freaky stuff, John. This, and all the Gunn stuff; you think it's connected?”

“Yes,” said Savas. “So does Agent Jordan.”

“I don't think too much of coincidences in this business,” Jordan said.

Frank Miller nodded. “Well, that raises the stakes some. Cops chase robbers, but these guys are scary folk. They chase back.”

Savas was momentarily aware of a flash of light, a movement of red across his chest. Miller, closest to him, focused intently on the red circle. Suddenly, he lunged toward Savas like a lineman about to pummel a quarterback. Time seemed to grind to a stop. Stunned, Savas saw the huge former marine actually become airborne as he dove toward him, his coffee and hot dog seemingly suspended in midair.

There was a soft whizz through the air and a simultaneous explosion of fabric over Miller's shoulder. A cloud of red mist burst into the air. Miller crashed into Savas's chest, smashing the wind out of him and sending them both plummeting toward the hard pavement below. Miller landed on top of him and rolled to the side, clutching his right shoulder. It was soaked red with blood. Savas struggled to catch his breath.

“Ahhh,
fuck!
” screamed Miller, raising himself to a crouch and motioning with his good arm for Savas to stay down. “Keep low, John! Sniper!” Miller gasped out. “Crawl behind that parked van!
Damn!
”

The pavement exploded as several more rifle shots were fired. People were screaming and running in various directions. Jordan had pulled out a pistol and was crouched beside the FedEx van, looking up toward a building across the street.

Miller screamed out, “Damn it, John! Move to the curb, by the van. The shots came from that building across the street!” Miller paused, inhaled sharply through his teeth. “He can't hit you if you move. So move!”

Savas came to himself enough to get on his hands and knees and crawl over to the van. He heard Miller and Jordan talking rapidly.

“I think it's the roof of the corner building,” Miller gasped.

“Yes,” said Jordan, “I saw the gunman. He took two more shots and that exposed him. He ran back from the roof after that. He's either going down through the building or going to hit the fire escapes on the older structure around the back. I think it's the last—too easy to get caught inside.” Jordan looked over at Matt King, who had also taken refuge behind the van and was shaking violently even as he held out a weapon.

“Matt—stay here with John and shoot anyone we don't know or who gets close to him. He was the target, and we don't know if there are other snipers. Meanwhile, call an ambulance for Frank, then your offices. Get some people down here if they aren't already on their way. I'm going after this guy.”

King had only a second to respond with “OK, but…” when Jordan, gun still in hand, sprinted off across the street with his slight limp, leaped onto and across the hood of a taxi barring his way, and was out of sight.

Jordan crossed Broadway—not so broad this far south on the island and down to a one-way street—and ran across the opposite sidewalk, crossing Duane Street and heading toward the corner of Broadway and Reade. People jumped back from him, a sprinting black man dressed in Islamic garb, gun held aloft and pointed toward the skies. Who knew what was going through their minds?
I just hope the cops don't arrest me
, he thought.

He darted around the corner and sprinted up Reade Street, his mending leg stiff and throbbing. Dropping from the fire escape halfway up the block, a man landed on the pavement, hitting hard and catching himself with his hands. As he regained balance, he looked down the street and saw Jordan; their eyes locked. The man turned, drawing something dark from his belt behind his back, and sprinted up the street.
Lost the rifle, heading toward Church Street, armed with handgun.
Jordan sprinted after him.

The figure crossed Duane on the east side of Church, then disappeared, hidden by a building. Jordan sprinted harder. Every second out of sight meant the suspect could be lost. Jordan nearly crashed into a couple pushing a stroller. The woman screamed, but he pivoted out of their way and continued toward Church Street. The alley was in shadow from the buildings, and Church was lit brightly from the sun in comparison. Instinct took over as he approached the corner. He raised his gun, and as he stepped into the light, he crouched and scanned around him.

The crouch saved his life. A retort from a gun sounded as he heard the bullet whiz over his head, a store window next to him shattering,
screams and an alarm filling the air. His prey had waited, expecting a figure the height of an average male to emerge, and in haste had not adjusted his aim properly, missing Jordan by inches. He rolled across the pavement, shielding himself behind a parked car.
Fool!
If the man had used his time getting away and not trying to kill him, he might have escaped easily. Jordan darted up, just in time to see a figure sprinting across the road and heading south.
Chambers and Church subway stop!
Jordan knew where he was headed, and if he made it there, he'd be lost in the underground labyrinth.

Jordan was nearly out of breath when he reached the subway station. He leapt down the stairs, sending one man flying and cursing behind him. When he reached the turnstiles, his heart sank. A figure had jumped them and was racing down the steps. If a train was waiting or came soon, he'd be lost. Jordan darted forward, screaming at people and waving his weapon. It was very effective. He moved through the dividing mass of people in line, jumped over the turnstile to several angry cries, and flew down the steps at a reckless and dangerous rate. His leg was on fire, the pain beginning to distract him. Jordan pushed it away, focusing on the chase.

The subway stop was a flood of humanity, like sardines in a can. He scanned the area, back and forth. He knew he wouldn't be able to see the man he was chasing, but if his quarry continued to panic, he would be doing the one thing he shouldn't in a crowd like this—he would be moving.
There!
He saw first the ripples in the crowd as someone pushed his way forcefully through. The sniper was about halfway to the next stairway, but Jordan knew that this was not his goal. The tunnel wind had begun, indicating an approaching train. In this density of people, Jordan realized that he would never reach the killer in time, and if he got on the train, the odds of continuing the chase successfully would drop precipitously. So he did the only thing he could think of in the moment.

“Allah be praised!” he yelled, springing on top of a bench and brandishing his firearm. “Everyone down,
down
or I will kill all infidels!” He fired his weapon at the ceiling. People screamed, and a great horde of
them dropped straight to the ground. His quarry continued to panic, and instead of dropping as well, concealing himself in the crowd, he reached behind his back to pull out his weapon. Jordan crouched on the bench, steadied, and aimed. The man raised his weapon. Jordan pulled the trigger twice in succession.

Both shots were true. They struck the man solidly in the chest, and he shuddered, disoriented, discharging his weapon into the air and crying out as he fell. Several more people screamed, as did the train brakes as the lead car blasted out of the tunnel and into the stop, a rush of air flowing into the chamber. Jordan leapt down from the bench and raced across as people crouched in terror. He kept his weapon turned on the man but drew it up as he came close.

The gunman had collapsed and was sprawled on his back, blood soaking his chest and sputtering out of his mouth as he coughed. One of the bullets had hit the heart or a major artery. No longer a threat, his gun lay beside his hand on the ground. Jordan felt his stomach turn. The man was near death. His shot had done more damage than he had intended.