Read Online Seven Unholy Days by Jerry Hatchett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerry Hatchett
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switches to be in delivery.”
“Let’s get ready to manually engage Central Grid One.”
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yes sir.”
“Dude, this is some radical code. You need to clue us in on this stuff,” the head cracker said. He had neon green hair and at least a pound of metal in his face.
“I don’t have time to baby-sit you. Besides, you’re the real experts, right?”
Stocky heard the exchange and plodded over to my station. “Honcho, I’d advise you to start cooperating with our people in a hurry.”
“We haven’t been introduced yet,” I said as I extended my hand. “I’m Matt Decker.”
“I don’t want to shake your damn hand.”
“Suit yourself.”
He bent down close enough for me to smell his foul breath. “I can’t wait for the day when I slap a pair of cuffs on your a rrogant ass. And next time you won’t squirm away, you dirty bastard.”
He did an about face and left, his face in a blood-red snarl, the tail of his Armani jacket flapping in his wake. Abdul looked at me with a questioning look but I just shrugged and said, “Let’s get busy.”
It took us twenty-two minutes to make the checks and route all the circuit bypasses needed for a manual override grid engagement. Impressive work. I’d have to speak to Mr. Abidi about a more lucrative future for him when this was over. If he checked out straight, he’d be a bargain at triple his current salary.
It was a risky move but people were in danger and I couldn’t sit on my hands. I sounded the countdown: “Five ... four ... three—”
“Exactly what are you two counting down over there, Decker?” Rowe said.
“While your boys were jacking around, we were getting ready to turn the power back on. That okay with you?”
“You got it fixed?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How’d you pull a bitchrod move like that? We can’t get past the first layer,” a cracker said.
“Imagine that. Go play solitaire, son. Abdul, let’s go. Five ... four ... three ... two ... one—”
The secretary burst through the door waving a piece of paper.
“This better be important,” I said.
“I think you’ll want to read this, Mr. Decker.”
The fax was a printout of an email, forwarded to us by none other than the White House. The sender’s email address was all too familiar:
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
To the President of the United States:
For too long, the United States’ arrogance has offended the world. Now you have only begun to pay. Your country will now be subject to a series of retributory occurrences as punishment for your transgressions and your iniquity. For what you have wrought, you will tremble mightily.
I trust the reach of my power has been aptly demonstrated to all concerned. Any circumvention of my Decree of Darkness will result in consequences more harsh than those you already have in store. Ye have been duly warned.
By the way, what do you think of your splendiferous power grid now?
Rowe was dialing the phone by the time I stopped reading. He apparently had some priority codes that moved his calls through the phone system. “Bob Rowe onsite at Yellow Creek. What information do we have on that email ... yes ... I see ... come again ... well, there’s no need to go looking for him, he’s right here ... hold on.” He cupped the phone. “Decker, seems you were right. The Director just put out a bulletin for you to be located and brought in on the case. They’re patching this call through to him now.” He handed me the phone.
“Matt Decker here.”
“Hold for the director.”
Ten seconds later, he was on the line. “Mr. Decker, this is Keen Brandon, director of the FBI. Have you been briefed on the situation?”
“I haven’t been briefed per se, but I’ve been here at Central since it all began yesterday. I saw the three states drop, I’ve seen two murder victims, and I’ve been here nonstop since shortly after the main
“Let’s get ready to manually engage Central Grid One.”
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yes sir.”
“Dude, this is some radical code. You need to clue us in on this stuff,” the head cracker said. He had neon green hair and at least a pound of metal in his face.
“I don’t have time to baby-sit you. Besides, you’re the real experts, right?”
Stocky heard the exchange and plodded over to my station. “Honcho, I’d advise you to start cooperating with our people in a hurry.”
“We haven’t been introduced yet,” I said as I extended my hand. “I’m Matt Decker.”
“I don’t want to shake your damn hand.”
“Suit yourself.”
He bent down close enough for me to smell his foul breath. “I can’t wait for the day when I slap a pair of cuffs on your a rrogant ass. And next time you won’t squirm away, you dirty bastard.”
He did an about face and left, his face in a blood-red snarl, the tail of his Armani jacket flapping in his wake. Abdul looked at me with a questioning look but I just shrugged and said, “Let’s get busy.”
It took us twenty-two minutes to make the checks and route all the circuit bypasses needed for a manual override grid engagement. Impressive work. I’d have to speak to Mr. Abidi about a more lucrative future for him when this was over. If he checked out straight, he’d be a bargain at triple his current salary.
It was a risky move but people were in danger and I couldn’t sit on my hands. I sounded the countdown: “Five ... four ... three—”
“Exactly what are you two counting down over there, Decker?” Rowe said.
“While your boys were jacking around, we were getting ready to turn the power back on. That okay with you?”
“You got it fixed?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How’d you pull a bitchrod move like that? We can’t get past the first layer,” a cracker said.
“Imagine that. Go play solitaire, son. Abdul, let’s go. Five ... four ... three ... two ... one—”
The secretary burst through the door waving a piece of paper.
“This better be important,” I said.
“I think you’ll want to read this, Mr. Decker.”
The fax was a printout of an email, forwarded to us by none other than the White House. The sender’s email address was all too familiar:
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
To the President of the United States:
For too long, the United States’ arrogance has offended the world. Now you have only begun to pay. Your country will now be subject to a series of retributory occurrences as punishment for your transgressions and your iniquity. For what you have wrought, you will tremble mightily.
I trust the reach of my power has been aptly demonstrated to all concerned. Any circumvention of my Decree of Darkness will result in consequences more harsh than those you already have in store. Ye have been duly warned.
By the way, what do you think of your splendiferous power grid now?
Rowe was dialing the phone by the time I stopped reading. He apparently had some priority codes that moved his calls through the phone system. “Bob Rowe onsite at Yellow Creek. What information do we have on that email ... yes ... I see ... come again ... well, there’s no need to go looking for him, he’s right here ... hold on.” He cupped the phone. “Decker, seems you were right. The Director just put out a bulletin for you to be located and brought in on the case. They’re patching this call through to him now.” He handed me the phone.
“Matt Decker here.”
“Hold for the director.”
Ten seconds later, he was on the line. “Mr. Decker, this is Keen Brandon, director of the FBI. Have you been briefed on the situation?”
“I haven’t been briefed per se, but I’ve been here at Central since it all began yesterday. I saw the three states drop, I’ve seen two murder victims, and I’ve been here nonstop since shortly after the main
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