Page 66 of Sypher

The air hung heavy with the scent of electronics and a low thrum vibrated through the floor when I stepped into the Trick Pony’s server room and sighed. This was going to take time and patience—two things I lacked, especially with my baby brother’s desperate need for the information locked away in the towering servers. To make my life worse, it looked as if Harbor Security wasn’t the only outfit that bastard had made a deal with—a chilling realization, given the implications. Upon closer examination, I discovered that several of the servers I’d initially identified as potential candidates were not under our organization’s control.

Which begged the question.

Just who in the hell else did that motherfucker contract with?

A few weeks after Danny anonymously sent the FBI damning evidence of the depraved activities at the Trick Pony, Matthew received a call—the chilling ring echoing the gravity of the situation. In the wake of Devlin Scott’s death, the FBI showed no hesitation. Acting swiftly, the Bureau immediately obtained both a search and seizure warrant and an eminent domain order, ensuring immediate service of the legal documents to prevent the occupants and members from vacating the premises before arrests could be made. The moment FBI agents executed the warrants, the lead agent, one Alex McNamara, immediatelyproceeded with the arrest of each and every person inside the building, not wasting a single second. Paramedics transported those in need of medical care to nearby hospitals for evaluation. Agents rode along in the ambulances, gathering comprehensive statements from the patients to aid the investigation.

Every aspect of the operation unfolded with the precision of a finely tuned machine, adhering strictly to the protocols detailed in the Bureau’s field manual, that was until the intrusion of the FBI’s technology specialists into the central server room threw everything into disarray.

As predicted, the moment the FBI’s technological specialists attempted to penetrate the club’s server defenses, they were met with an immediate lockout as well as a simultaneous and immediate breach of their own computer hard drives, a consequence of the club’s advanced security measures. I developed a small, specialized Trojan horse program to address that specific situation. I wasn’t trying to keep people out. It was more about protecting my brother’s tech from those who would seek to obtain it without permission or authorization. It was bad enough that Danny misused his technology for wicked purposes. However, the thought of any government agency gaining control of his program was absolutely terrifying, and I refused to allow that to happen to my brother.

It was expected that we would be called in by the FEDs, given the situation, and we were pleased to be able to assist in any way we could.

Setting my bag down, I pulled out my high-tech lightweight, foldable keyboard, wasting no time plugging in an ethernet cord, before plugging the other end into the server’s mainframe. With a series of pops and cracks, I stretched out my fingers, meticulously cracking each knuckle individually, and then proceeded to roll my head from side to side in a fluid motion, preparing myself for the task ahead.

While Matthew and the others kept the FBI off my back, I worked my magic, quickly circumventing the server’s security protocols. It wasn’t easy, but I was making headway when I breached the core of the mainframe, unlocking access to the club’s files.

Smiling, I looked at my watch and frowned.

Reaching for the small comms in my ear, I whispered, “I’m in.”

“That took longer than I thought.”

“Shut up and do your thing. I don’t know when they will check on me.”

“You know there is a hacking class at MIT you might find beneficial.”

“Shut up, Danny.”

“Just keeping your options open, bro.” My brother chuckled, then cursed, “Shit.”

“What?”

“Someone else is in the mainframe.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, but the fucker is fast. Whoever it is, they are erasing the files faster than I can download them. Fuck! Ace, you are gonna have to do it. Plug in that MicroDrive I gave you and hit enter!”

Quickly doing what my brother asked, I watched in amazement as the files instantly moved from the server’s mainframe to the MicroDrive.

“What about the deleted files?”

“I can recover them. The MicroDrive copies the server’s main frame, programing, everything. Basically, it’s a miniature supercomputer. Once I have access to that, I can recover any files deleted within the last six months.”

“When the fuck did you come up with something like that?”

“Freshman year. Got bored in English class.”

“Jesus fuck, Danny,” I muttered, watching the MicroDrive do its thing when something caught my attention. Using my index finger, I moved the mouse, hovered it over a file, and tapped my pad, opening it up as I read.

Subject: Jackson Kane Baudelaire born June 15, 1988, Atlanta, Georgia.

Mother: Vera J. Canne

Father: Kane ‘Morpheus’ Baudelaire (President of the Brotherhood of Bastards MC)

Date: September 3, 1994, Miami, Florida.

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