a baseball cap.
“What the hell?”
“ J ohn , you’d better come with me.”
Cohen stood in his doorway, a sharp glint in her eyes. Savas prepared for the worst. “Another attack?”
She shook her head. “Something different. But I think related. Media across the country, maybe worldwide, is being hijacked. It’s cable, network, online streaming sites like YouTube and Hulu. It’s systematic.”
“Systematic? The worm?”
“Don’t know. But this sure sounds like something it could be up to.”
Savas sprang from his chair and followed her into the floor’s common room. Normally a place for coffee and a break from work, the small space was packed as agents and staff stared up at a flat-panel screen. A strange black-and-white image of a headless man in a suit took the place of all programming on nearly all stations. Savas and Cohen stood outside the door looking in.
A man’s voice came up over the din of buzzing conversation. “That's Anonymous!”
Cohen turned to Savas. “He’s right! I knew I had seen it before.”
“Anonymous? Those kids who do social justice hacking?”
The voice of Lightfoote startled them from behind. “Kids, maybe. No one really knows who they are, how they organize, where they are. A few caught were high schoolers. Others older. Some established, even corporate. They’re everyone and no one. The name really does mean something. Unknown, distributed anarchy. Probably why they never achieved anything really big.”
“Until now, maybe,” said Savas as he started at the disconcerting image.
“Uh oh, there it goes,” said Lightfoote.
The screen pixelated horribly, and then locked onto another video feed. The crowds at FBI, in Times Square, and in millions of homes across the nation stared at two rows of chairs in a dark room. Harsh lighting fell directly on those seated in the chairs, the space behind them and to their sides too dark for any details to be made out. The men and women were tied to the seats, their arms and legs lashed with rope, gags in their mouths, and terrified expressions on their faces as their eyes darted.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Cohen. “The abductions.”
Savas felt his stomach drop as he began to recognize faces. The CEO of GE. Congressmen. The Chair of the Federal Reserve. Luminaries in business, finance, and politics. What the hell was happening?
Lightfoote spoke. “I’m going to the basement. They’ve compromised major digital distribution hubs. I bet it’s the worm. We might be able to catch it in action and see what it looks like!” She darted from the crowd and headed toward the stairway.
A mask appeared in front of the screen. Black-and-white, smirking, a thin goatee etched across the upper lip and chin. Savas had seen it before. It was a symbol of underground resistance to established powers—the mask of Guy Fawkes.
“Greetings sheeple of America, Europe, and beyond,” came a digitally distorted voice. “We are Anonymous and today is a day of judgment.”
The masked speaker stepped back from the camera. The figure was of indeterminate frame and size, dressed in a black suit and tie. It walked confidently toward the double row of hostages. Their eyes looked hopeless and panicked.
“Already we have targeted some of the worst criminals in our malignant society. Robber barons, plutocrats who pull the strings of the drugged masses. The architects of a feudal world increasingly of a few elements of royalty standing on the backs of millions of slaves.”
“Jesus,” said Savas. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed. “Yeah, Angel. You got anything on this? Location?” He grimaced. “I know there hasn’t been time! But what I’m seeing—it’s not good. I think these people are in danger.”
The masked man continued. “Today, as a taste of things to come, we again pass judgment on a group of criminals whose status in society is the only thing separating them from the mafia. Because in their greed they have killed
“What the hell?”
“ J ohn , you’d better come with me.”
Cohen stood in his doorway, a sharp glint in her eyes. Savas prepared for the worst. “Another attack?”
She shook her head. “Something different. But I think related. Media across the country, maybe worldwide, is being hijacked. It’s cable, network, online streaming sites like YouTube and Hulu. It’s systematic.”
“Systematic? The worm?”
“Don’t know. But this sure sounds like something it could be up to.”
Savas sprang from his chair and followed her into the floor’s common room. Normally a place for coffee and a break from work, the small space was packed as agents and staff stared up at a flat-panel screen. A strange black-and-white image of a headless man in a suit took the place of all programming on nearly all stations. Savas and Cohen stood outside the door looking in.
A man’s voice came up over the din of buzzing conversation. “That's Anonymous!”
Cohen turned to Savas. “He’s right! I knew I had seen it before.”
“Anonymous? Those kids who do social justice hacking?”
The voice of Lightfoote startled them from behind. “Kids, maybe. No one really knows who they are, how they organize, where they are. A few caught were high schoolers. Others older. Some established, even corporate. They’re everyone and no one. The name really does mean something. Unknown, distributed anarchy. Probably why they never achieved anything really big.”
“Until now, maybe,” said Savas as he started at the disconcerting image.
“Uh oh, there it goes,” said Lightfoote.
The screen pixelated horribly, and then locked onto another video feed. The crowds at FBI, in Times Square, and in millions of homes across the nation stared at two rows of chairs in a dark room. Harsh lighting fell directly on those seated in the chairs, the space behind them and to their sides too dark for any details to be made out. The men and women were tied to the seats, their arms and legs lashed with rope, gags in their mouths, and terrified expressions on their faces as their eyes darted.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Cohen. “The abductions.”
Savas felt his stomach drop as he began to recognize faces. The CEO of GE. Congressmen. The Chair of the Federal Reserve. Luminaries in business, finance, and politics. What the hell was happening?
Lightfoote spoke. “I’m going to the basement. They’ve compromised major digital distribution hubs. I bet it’s the worm. We might be able to catch it in action and see what it looks like!” She darted from the crowd and headed toward the stairway.
A mask appeared in front of the screen. Black-and-white, smirking, a thin goatee etched across the upper lip and chin. Savas had seen it before. It was a symbol of underground resistance to established powers—the mask of Guy Fawkes.
“Greetings sheeple of America, Europe, and beyond,” came a digitally distorted voice. “We are Anonymous and today is a day of judgment.”
The masked speaker stepped back from the camera. The figure was of indeterminate frame and size, dressed in a black suit and tie. It walked confidently toward the double row of hostages. Their eyes looked hopeless and panicked.
“Already we have targeted some of the worst criminals in our malignant society. Robber barons, plutocrats who pull the strings of the drugged masses. The architects of a feudal world increasingly of a few elements of royalty standing on the backs of millions of slaves.”
“Jesus,” said Savas. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed. “Yeah, Angel. You got anything on this? Location?” He grimaced. “I know there hasn’t been time! But what I’m seeing—it’s not good. I think these people are in danger.”
The masked man continued. “Today, as a taste of things to come, we again pass judgment on a group of criminals whose status in society is the only thing separating them from the mafia. Because in their greed they have killed
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