Part Eight: Tonight they hunt for you.
"Well," said Mick Routledge, joining Bernie at his desk, "This is all a bit fucked up, isn't it?"
Bernie Taylor nodded, and swept aside a pile of magazines.
"You should've been here an hour ago. There were guns and everything. Actually, I think Cutter might've shat his pants."
"Yeah," said Mick, perching on the cleared desk space, "Sasha can have that effect on people. Look, mate, I'm sorry this has gone nuclear but, in my defence, I really thought she might provide a shortcut."
Bernie stared at him, incredulous.
"Your ex-girlfriend...a shortcut? To what, oblivion? Armageddon? Think you might be right, there. What the Hell possessed you, man? I mean, she was always...I'm trying to think of a nice word."
"Toxic?"
"Sure, that'll do. And God knows she definitely kept freaky company, but your new pal Hans is really something else. I don't mean to judge, but I'm guessing he might be a friend of my would-be girlfriend's ex."
Mick frowned.
"Remind me. Is that the date your sister set up? That whole Victims-R-Us number?"
"Deralyn, yeah. I was going to call her when all this kicked off." He paused, remembering the text he'd received, allegedly from Cutter. "Hang on, if Hans and Sasha are right, how did he know so much?" He fired-up another tab on his desktop browser and launched the Intrusion Detection System Test. "More worrying, I suppose, is that he knew you were out for the count."
Mick grabbed a chair and joined Bernie at the computer.
"I thought you were supposed to be researching Sara Ryland."
"Been there, done that. No Facebook, no Twitter, not even Google bloody Plus. Let's just say she's not keen on exposure." He sighed, waiting for the IDST to finish scanning. "Only a slightly different scenario with the guy who might be behind her bloody video."
"Phylos Cade?"
"Yeah, and quite how that name has become common currency all of a sudden is an effing mystery to me."
"You're right," said Mick, "There's nothing but a few random blog posts, but I don't think that's it. Something in that video works like a...a referential trigger. It's subtle, but precise. Hell, it sent me on a Google search that basically led nowhere, too."
Bernie checked the countdown timer on the IDST. Forty eight seconds to go.
"Look, I get it, okay? Psytrophic animensis. It's the 21st century's version of those damned Magic Eye pictures of the '90s. Growing up, my sister had those posters on her walls. All I saw were jazzy messes. I tried 'em with glasses, and without. Nothing. She laughed at me, Mick. Welcome to my fucking childhood."
Mick Routledge tried not to laugh, but failed.
"Sorry, man, but I'm kind of picturing it. Explains a lot, it really does."
Bernie shrugged. Eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two...one.
"Oh, shit," he said. "Not just one hack, but three. Our system's compromised."
Hans Ollen came forward from the doorway, where he'd been stood for the past two minutes.
"That is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected news, Mister Taylor. You can blame us for last night's intrusion, but I'm curious to know the details of the other two."
Mick involuntarily gulped and swivelled round in his chair.
"Been there long?" he asked. Hans patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
"Never long enough, I suspect."
"Okay," said Bernie, checking the intrusion reports. "First hack triggered at 18:36 yesterday, source re-codified from a baseline algorithm via multiple hosts...from Bolivia?"
"That's us," laughed Hans, "I've got a cousin there. Total arsehole. I'm always trying to set him up."
"Second intrusion at 20:12 yesterday, source...unknown?"
"What?" asked Mick. "Surely there's an IP trace, even if it's bullshit?"
"Nope," said Bernie. "It's showing a standardized entry point at 21.04.007.212.PC, but that's been re-flagged as internal, which is...nuts."
"No," said Hans, leaning in towards the monitor, "No it isn't. It's demonstrating his craft. He even signed it. That's...talent." His apparent admiration was undeniable.
"What about the third hack?" asked Mick.
Bernie Taylor clicked on the link.
"That can't be right."
"Why? What's the source?"
"It's a dynamic unshielded IP. I know this, it's Virgin bloody Trains, this morning!" They both stared at him. "Long story," he said, "But I can definitely trace this."
Hans leaned back, and took his mobile 'phone from his pocket.
"Gentlemen, I believe some sort of road trip may be in order."
To be continued...
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