Page 125 of Until the End

“Nothing stated in the media, which isn’t surprising. Important people who don’t travel with a security entourage tend to keep their schedules classified. The general public doesn’t learn about functions they’ve attended until the media coverage comes out.”

The schedules were classified. “What type of servers would the schedules for congressmen and senators be kept on?”

“What do you mean?”

He tried to recall the terminology Henry and Kit had used. “Type 1 encryption? Block cipher?”

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

“What about the architectural plans for the new supermax? The security information? Would it be on that kind of server as well?”

“Absolutely. Nothing less than gold standard for the new supermax.”

Gold standard. That was exactly what Henry had called it.

It made sense now. The test Bravo had given to the Outliers was either to hack the schedule of a government elected official—someone important and high-ranking, who’d attend the opening of a supermax—or it had been to gain security access codes for the prison itself. Maybe both.

A chill spilled down his spine as a disturbing thought popped into his head. “Willow, CONTRA84, Goliath Coders, Outliers. Can you think of anything those groups have in common?”

“Those are the top three hacker groups on the list of possible domestic terrorist cells posing a grave risk to national security.”

Reality slugged him with even more proof of who Sanborn really was. Had it been that obvious? The clues right in front of him? “In what order? One through three.”

“The way you mentioned them. CONTRA84. Goliath Coders. Then Outliers.”

The same order Bravo had approached each.

Had Sanborn put them on a sick hit list? Tested them, had them do his cyber dirty work, them eliminated them as threats?

How many different objectives was he trying to accomplish with this madness?

“Give me the address of the new supermax.” As Castle programmed it into the satnav, he said, “Let whoever is leading the mission at the water plant know that I need backup. Then contact the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and see if anyone from there is going to the ceremony. If so, warn their aides. There’s about to be a terrorist attack.”

41

Supermax Facility, Belle Haven, Virginia

3:05 p.m. EDT

“Foxtrot,” Bravo said low beside her, wearing a wig under his ballcap and a glued-on mustache. “This will kick off fast and hot. Ensure our exit route is clear and meet me in the west corridor of Section 10 in five minutes. Mark the time.”

She checked her watch and set a silent timer to vibrate at four minutes. “Time marked,” she said, following operational protocol like a dutiful soldier.

Ashley smoothed her hands down her crisp security guard uniform, checked the regulation Glock that she’d been given, now holstered at her side, and worked her way through the small crowd. It was mostly politicians and high-ranking individuals in the intelligence community who had a vested interest in the completion of the classified prison and in ensuring that future occupants never saw the light of day.

The real staff was at a bare minimum, present only for the dog and pony show of cutting the red tape and providing background decoration as canapés were eaten over chitchat. Since the facility was supposed to be more safely guarded than the Hole, there was no press coverage.

Low-profile event. Absence of Secret Service. No nosy reporters. Sanborn had done his homework, as was to be expected, and picked the perfect occasion when it would be easy to funnel two individuals away from the herd.

Ashley swept the route for their exit through the building, trying to anticipate when and where on their egress Bravo would make his move to try and kill her. But she wasn’t going to let him succeed. They way he’d brutalized her all those years ago demanded a reckoning, and Ashley was going to have it today. She checked her cell again. No service.

Sanborn had their entire team using military-grade high-power portable jammers, outfitted to resemble the walkie-talkie on her hip. That must’ve taken months of planning. The jammers blocked all signals: cell phone, LoJack, Wi-Fi, and GPS. He didn’t want any calls getting in or out. Not until this was finished.

At the outer door, Ashley stopped.

Lo and behold. Castle skulked across the lawn. Slippery, that one.

Precisely what she was counting on when she’d swept Westcott for trackers as ordered…and missed the one in her posterior hip muscle.