Digital Horizon

#HACKER book 3

By Sherry D. Ficklin

THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Digital Horizons

Copyright ©2016 Sherry D. Ficklin

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-63422-188-7

Cover Design by: Marya Heiman

Typography by: Courtney Nuckels

Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

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For the hackers, the rebels, and the weirdos.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Acknowledgements

About the Author

The dense air swirls around me, tearing at my clothes and hair. Using the old bench, I step up onto the splintered wooden railing of the dock, struggling to keep my balance as the storm rages around me. My bare feet and exposed legs take the brunt of the chill. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have at least changed out of my pajamas before driving all the way down here. Hurricane season has only just begun, but already a massive storm is rolling its way up the coast. It’s not here yet, but it will be soon; I can feel the weight of it in my bones. Below me, it’s too dark to see the water, but I can hear it, churning like a tempest. There’s no moon or stars tonight, no lights from the distant boardwalk. The storm has closed down this part of town. Storefronts have plywood covering the windows and the normally welcoming neon lights hang solemn. I take a deep breath, the bitter salt air filling my lungs. I’m cold. And it’s not because of the wind, or the faint spray of seawater, or even the fear of falling into the darkness.

It’s because he’s gone.

Grief does funny things to a person. It strips the flavor from food and the warmth from the sunlight. Maybe I didn’t feel it as sharply when Mom died because we were expecting it—dreading it—for months beforehand. The shock of Dad’s passing is all the same pain magnified a hundredfold, sharpened into a knife thrust deep in my chest. It drowns out the voices telling me how sorry they are for my loss. It drowns out the platitudes and the genuine concern. It drowns out the whispers of she’s so young and what will she do now?

But mostly, it blurs the line between being asleep and awake, because they both feel exactly the same. Sleepy and disconnected. Numb. Cold.

Even now, standing here, I’m not one hundred percent sure any of it’s real. It’s only the goose bumps breaking out across my arms and legs that make me think it might be. Closing my eyes, I focus on the swell of the surf below me. I’ve stood here once before, on this very dock, confident that I could take the plunge and survive. But now, I know exactly the opposite.

The beach is barren, and though I can’t see them, I hear the red flags whipping in the breeze. It’s a warning that the water is unsafe—that the undertow is too strong to swim against. I can smell the bitterness of the exposed seaweed that you only get at low tide, which means the water below has receded, exposing the bare legs of the dock, caked with barnacles and starfish.

I should feel afraid. But I don’t. The sadness is too deep, too thick, to let any other emotions seep in. I know that if I jump now, I will die.

Part of me wants to get down, to step back, even as my legs quake with the effort of keeping me up. But I don’t. I hold my ground. Because another part of me is begging to just let go, to find some way—any way—to stop the hurting.

I feel the rail under my feet tremble slightly, heavy footsteps reverberating across the boards. The wind carries a familiar scent to my nose, and I know without having to open my eyes what it is.

Cole.

I’d walked out of the house in the middle of the night, leaving him snoozing heavily in the old chair. I didn’t want him to follow me—didn’t want him to see me like this.

I lick my lips. I’d been wrong about not being able to feel anything other than grief. Apparently, shame is an option too. And it hits me full force when he speaks.

If you wanted some fresh air, you could have just asked, he says, his voice taut. Farris?

I breathe again. This time, it feels like being punched in the stomach. I don’t know what to do, I call out over the raging wind. I don’t know how to keep going. I just want…

What? What do you need? He’s desperate now; I can hear it. I feel him take another step closer to me, and I involuntarily jerk. He stops. I’m here. Just tell me what you need. What can I do?

Opening my eyes, I turn, looking at him over my shoulder. He’s in his rumpled blue T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, his dark hair disheveled.

My mouth is dry, and I have to lick my lips again before I can speak. Everything is crashing down around me like shattered glass, slicing me to ribbons. I told you once that I didn’t need to be saved. But I think I was wrong. I think I need to be saved after all.

He nods, holding up a hand. Then save yourself.

I shiver, a chill driving up my spine and making me shake even harder. I wrap my arms around myself. Voices beat against the insides of my skull. Voices of doubt, voices of fear.

What will I do? Where will I go? What happens next? Did I remember to tell him that I loved him? Did he know how much I admired him? Why? Why? Why?

What’s the point of anything?

Cole makes it sound so simple, so easy. But it’s not. It’s just more pain, more suffering. Sniffling, I shake my head. I don’t know if I can. I don’t even know how to start.

He cocks his head to the side. Of course you do. You just take my hand. You climb down off that ledge, and you go home. If you can’t walk, you let me carry you. Just for a little while. Until you’re ready to stand on your own again.

My jaw clenches as another wave of cold wind blows across my skin. My breathing grows ragged, gasping for air. The voices are so loud. Louder than the waves, louder than the wind. Louder than the sound of my own heart racing in my chest.

Then, in a shockwave of realization, the sounds disappear. There’s only one voice now, and it sounds so much like my father that hot tears spill down my cheeks.

I don’t want to die.

The wind stops suddenly, like the world is holding its breath. Looking up, I see the silvery moonbeams shining through a break in the black clouds. For the briefest moment, I think it might actually be a miracle or a sign. But then I realize it’s something much better.

It’s the eye of the storm.

And it’s all I need. To remember that I’m just standing in the storm. But storms come and go. Eventually, the storm will pass and the light will shine through again.

Reaching out, I take hold of Cole’s outstretched hand and let him help me down. He scoops me up in his arms, carrying me back to my car.

SIX WEEKS LATER

I set my cup of coffee down when the doorbell rings. None of my friends bother with it, they just waltz right in, and it’s too early for them to be here anyway.

When I open the door, it takes me a full second to process the identity of the person standing in front of me. He no longer looks like the mild-mannered substitute teacher I’d met nearly two months ago. Now he’s every bit a Marine, from his digital camouflage cap to his polished black boots.

Miss Barnett, he says by way of introduction. He opens his mouth to say more but before he can, I open the door fully and wave him inside.

Looking a little taken aback, he pulls off the hat and tucks it under one arm, stepping inside. I jerk my head for him to follow me to the kitchen.

"Would you like a cup of coffee? I ask, refreshing my own.

He shakes his head. No, thank you.

I take a seat across from him, waiting for him to begin his spiel as I tap a single fingernail on the side of my mug.

You don’t seem surprised to see me, he says, his tone wary.

I take a sip of my coffee, raising one eyebrow but giving him nothing else.

I’m sorry; maybe you were expecting someone else? I’m…

I cut him off. You are Captain Clayton Oswald. You graduated top of your class at the Naval Academy, did your basic school in Quantico—where you excelled in computer science and program security—then you went on to study for six months at the National Intelligence University, in Bethesda, Maryland before being transferred here to Cherry Point Air Station.

He tosses his hat on the table, sitting back just a bit. His expression is more bemused than surprised. You seem to know quite a bit about me, miss.

Farris is fine. Call me crazy, but I like to be on a first-name basis with any guy in the habit of rummaging through my underwear drawer. I take another sip of coffee, staring him down over the mug.

He straightens, his face growing concerned. I’m not sure what…

I cut him off again. Your cologne. It’s very distinct. When you showed up in my class, I knew I’d smelled it before. Didn’t take too long to figure out it was you who broke into my house—twice. What were you looking for anyway? I hold up a hand. No, wait. Don’t answer that. I genuinely don’t care. But I’m really curious why you showed up at my door today of all days. Surely, you know I’m about to leave for my father’s funeral.

He purses his lips together before answering. I’m here with a proposition for you.

I have a boyfriend, but thanks, I quip.

He sputters, his face flushing, and I grin in spite of my irritation.

Not that kind of proposition, he says finally, composing himself.

Sitting back, I fold my hands across my stomach and lock my fingers. I’m listening.

Truthfully, part of me had been afraid he was here to arrest me for hacking that stupid satellite. Cole had been right. It was a bad idea, but I’d been too out of my head to listen. So far, nothing had come of it. But I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And now that shoe is sitting at my kitchen table, looking entirely flustered and kind of ashamed.

Good. He should be both.

What do you know about the DIA?

I tap on my mug again, mentally balancing the pros and cons of being entirely forthcoming. Depends. Do you mean The Defense Intelligence Agency or the Denver International Airport?

He offers me a smug look in response.

Fine, I say. I know it’s the central hub for all the military’s information and security systems. I know they do everything from developing firewalls to code breaking. And I know that the NSA is their bitch. My turn. What does any of that have to do with me?

Asks the girl who hacked a Turkish Satellite and found the malware that brought down a forty-million-dollar jet.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, I say, taking a drink.

He puts his palms flat on the table. Here, let’s do this. I’ll stop denying searching your house and you stop denying being a hacker, okay?

My mouth twitches at the word. I don’t like the term hacker. And for the record, you guys had already hacked that satellite. I just jacked your feed.

Have you ever heard of the Information Dominance Corps?

I must admit, that’s a new one for me. I shake my head. No, but you guys do love your acronyms, don’t you?

The side of his mouth twitches, and I think he might actually crack a smile. We’re the new kids on the block in the Military Intelligence community. All the funding and resources of the DIA, but running independently in each of the separate services.

So the Navy has one, the Air Force has one. I wave my hand. And so on.

He nods. Our computer information operations are… He hesitates, searching for the right term.

I jump in to help. Outdated? Woefully lacking? An international joke? Being spanked by China and Russia?

He opens his hands, as if to agree without words. We’re trying something new. Let’s put it that way. And I’d like to invite you to be a part of that.