Cyberjihad

New York City

Monday, November 28^th, 7:58 AM EST

26 Days, 16 Hours, 2 Minutes until Cyberjihad

I have the information to nail that son of a bitch to the wall, Christopher Moran thought, pulling a floppy disk from his breast pocket and rotating it between his fingertips. He stared through the taxi’s dirty window with eyes that ached. The view of the financial district appeared and disappeared between the buildings as the cab made its way downtown. Glancing up at the rearview mirror, he saw the cabby’s eyes watching him.

“Rough weekend, my friend?”

Christopher glared out of his window. “You have no idea.”

Christopher had grown suspicious of the consultant hired to help with BIG’s (Bond Index Group) computer installation. Big also, were the troubled business unit’s computer problems. The root cause of project delays and complications pointed toward the consultant. Still, this left one unanswered question. Why had the consultant modified BIG’s network hubs? This was way beyond the scope of the project and even so, it was not their responsibility. Christopher tried to confront him, but was met by marked arrogance. This sparked a fire within Christopher, which drove him to thoroughly examine everything twice until they were dead charred embers. He had poured over the computer configuration and log files until headaches from eyestrain pounded his temples. The past weekend’s efforts were just as fatiguing, but in the end, productive. He slipped the floppy disk back into his pocket and smiled. He had the consultant nailed.

The taxi turned the corner as vapor peeled off the pavement and formed a dreary mist three feet into the air. The East River’s polluted water, seeping into New York Harbor, capped one end of the street. At the other end sat a brown, sandstone House of God with a neo-gothic spire that was dwarfed by the skyscrapers surrounding it. A black wrought iron fence with spear shaped pickets enclosed the church grounds. Weather-beaten gravestones, many of them hundreds of years old, lay banded in tight rows across the landscape.

The cab double-parked next to a livery limousine halfway up the street and Christopher handed the driver a ten. “Keep the change.”

Wading through the mist, he crossed the street toward the billion-dollar Money Center Banking and Security Holdings building that dominated the skyline. The upper floors of the forty-seven story building had glass enclosed turret offices that gave the occupants a panoramic view of the city. Christopher wove through the throng of Wall Street suits as he approached the entrance, two revolving doors flanked by five-story granite columns. The acronym MCBASH crowned the doors in gold letters.

Screeching tires spun on the damp pavement behind him. He turned, but it was too late. The wheels of the yellow cab caught and the sedan careened off the street and up onto the sidewalk, smashing into a coffee vendor’s silver cart. Christopher felt adrenaline course down his spine as the muscles in his body clenched. He stretched his arm out like a running back fending off a tackle. It would be his final move. The car bulldozed the wagon into Christopher and pinned him against a pillar. The impact hurled the merchant from his cart and he fell unconscious at the curb. The cabby jumped out of his mangled wreck and rushed over to Christopher.

“Allahu Akbar!” he cried.

Blood dripped from Christopher’s mouth and ears like oil from an engine’s blown head gasket. The cabby slipped his hand inside Christopher’s jacket and removed the floppy disk as a crowd began to form.

“I’ve got to get help,” he yelled to nobody in particular as he pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared.