“Be careful with that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your phone,” said Tansy. “Be careful.”

Although everyone in the hotel was, by nature, a tourist, the guy who Tansy shared an elevator with actually looked like a tourist. He screamed it. Soft and pasty with a stereotypical flyover-country stupor. Half in the bag at 8 p.m. A promotional Las Vegas t-shirt that was most likely a freebie from some off-Strip buffet.

Another dead giveaway was that he was using his phone.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, holding on to the railing as the elevator started to move again. He seemed a little unsteady, but otherwise coherent.

Tansy thought he’d cut him a break. Or at least try to educate him, if it were possible. He seemed like a nice guy. Wedding ring. Family man. Maybe he could pass along a warning to whomever he was staying with. “Did you know there’s a hacker convention going on this weekend?”

“No,” he said, still flipping through something on his phone. “I did not know that.”

“They’re all here at this hotel,” said Tansy. “Probably in the thousands.”

“So? What’s that got to do with me?” The man couldn’t be bothered to look up from his screen. A gun could’ve been pointed at his head and he’d offer no reaction.

“It has to do with your phone,” said Tansy. “Are you using Wi-Fi right now?”

“I dunno. I’m just checking mail.”

The elevator slowed down to a stop.

“I’d suggest you hold off on that,” Tansy said as the door slid open. “They’re looking for people like you.” He stepped aside to make room for two other guests. “Anyway, just a tip. You do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, I’ll do whatever I want,” he said. “Thanks.”

Stupid civilians. Even when you were nice and tried to warn them. . . .

“So, yeah,” said one of the new guests, bringing their conversation aboard the elevator. “I tell ya, it was pretty bizarre. And it kept happening again this morning until I had to just turn it off. Couldn’t even check the NASDAQ, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe there’s some weird interference or something,” his friend said. “Like, maybe the signals got crossed with someone else?”

“What? What the hell are you trying to say, Bob? Signals?”

“Well, I dunno,” the man mumbled sheepishly. “Some kinda interference?”

“Interference wouldn’t make it spell out things to me. It was telling me stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like DEFCON fail? What the hell is that?”

Tansy stayed quiet, having already done his good deed for the day. Besides, it sounded like a warning would be too late for Mr. DEFCON Fail. Oh, well. Collateral damage.

“DEFCON . . . sounds familiar, though. Is that a casino? Or a bus tour?”

“Yeah, I thought I saw signs for it in the lobby.”

Tansy looked over to the tourist who was still on his phone, completely oblivious to what should have been an illuminating conversation. And then he looked at Bob and his buddy who had just wrapped up their conversation by taking out their own phones. Damn, he wasn’t just in an elevator with “normies,” but idiotic ones at that. What was the point in saying anything?

The elevator finally reached the convention level and Tansy was happy to step off, leaving the three sheeple behind with their vulnerable, unprotected devices. Now, standing at the foot of a large open hall, he looked around at the swarming hordes of techies. Hackers. His people. They were clustered around the various trade tables that lined the convention space. Most were dressed business causal, which for hackers meant jeans and black hoodies. Of course there were exceptions, the odd red-dyed mohawk or suit and tie—either of which were likely the loose disguise of a federal agent.

Tansy waded through the crowd, immersing himself in the temporary fantasy world of DEFCON. Despite the nerdiness of the tech world, the convention offered a festive, if not rowdy atmosphere. There was the throbbing bass of dubstep music, the professional wandering of scantily clad bodies, and the free-flow of glow-in-the-dark cocktails. This was all for the casual attendee, the part-timers, the audience. A glitz and glamour which kept things interesting for hobbyists and vacationers. It wasn’t for the more hardcore of hackers, the professionals, who were invisible even at a hacking convention. Instead of parading around with drinks or shopping at vending booths, the real hackers were sequestered away at the various shadowy satellite locations, the secret war rooms and bunkers located up and down the Las Vegas strip. There they’d huddle in small groups, in dark rooms, hunched over rows of laptops, working, hacking. That was the real purpose of DEFCON.

The secondary purpose was to sell shit.

“Hey,” came a voice from a nearby vendor booth. “Yo. Stanton.”

Tansy, hearing his birth name, looked over at the booth belonging to Hackwise, a cybersecurity product developer. A familiar face stared back at him, an unhappy face hid partially behind large, Bono-esque sunglasses.

“Where the hell were you?” he asked. “You’re three hours late.” The man looked like a typical juice-head gym rat. Barbed wire tattoos across skin that had become leathery from excessive naps in tanning beds across the midwest.

“Late for what?” said Tansy, walking over. “I’m on at nine.”

“You’re late for our table. We’ve been open all day.”

“So?”

“So, you’re our spokesperson.”

“I never said I’d man your table, Ross.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Why do something nice, right?”

“Well, what do you think I am? A salesman?” Tansy looked over their table. They had a laptop open, running a viral warfare scenario. It was mostly just scary imagery for people who didn’t know any better.

“Hey, Stanton,” said another, nicer Hackwise guy. “Ready to go on?”

“Sure.”

“You nervous?”

No, he wasn’t nervous. He’d used up all his nervousness back on the battlefield, in the trenches and caves of Afghanistan. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by an unarmed crowd of acne-scarred hacker geeks.

“I don’t care if he’s nervous,” said Ross, Hackwise’s junior development manager. “I’m just glad he’s here. Mr. Greco was shitting himself thinking you weren’t gonna show up. Got a lot riding on your presentation tonight.”

Tansy sat in one of the empty chairs behind a table of anti-virus products. “There was a security delay at McCarran,” he finally said, sighing. He brought his hands to his face, cradling his head in exasperation. It had been a very long day. “They had us wait on the runway for four hours.”

“What?” said Ross. “I never heard about that.”

“Probably some attack by one of your competitors.” Tansy straightened up and drew his hands away from his face. A smile had been hiding underneath. “Trying to sabotage my appearance tonight.”

“Well, I bet there’s a lot of sabotage going on. Some not so friendly, either.”

“Yeah, you’re damn right,” said a random person who was browsing the wares on their table. “I heard the guys at BlockCore got doxxed.”

As a general rule, even the black-hat hackers were supposed to play nice at DEFCON. A big part of its usefulness was that it offered everyone a chance to see how vulnerable they actually were, while not paying too big of a price for it. It was a gentleman’s agreement. For those unfortunate enough to get hacked, their punishment would usually only go as far as public shaming. There was a giant electronic board in the lobby for this purpose, a live-updated List Of Shame for those who’ve been hacked. And more importantly, how they’d been hacked.

“Well,” said Ross, digging through a box of t-shirts. “What size are you?”

“Nah, it’s okay.” Tansy was uninterested in a free Hackwise shirt. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Ross started laughing. “Listen to this guy. He says it like I’m doing him a fuckin’ favor.”

“Well, why would I want your stupid shirt?”

“It’s for your presentation. Come on, use your head.”

It was Tansy’s turn to laugh. “You think I’m wearing that up there?”

Ross threw a blue shirt at him. “Hell, yeah, Brother. Represent.”

Tansy snatched it out of the air and threw it back.

“Hey,” said Ross. “That’s why we gave you so much money.”

“You gave me money because I saved your ass. Your product was. . . .” Tansy waited until a customer had moved from the table before continuing. “Before I came along, your product was a piece of shit. No offense.”

Ross didn’t reply, just tucked the t-shirt back into the box and slid it under the table. What else could he have done? What could he say to the hacker who could have all but destroyed their company in a single weekend?

“You gave me hush money, Ross. Let’s be honest and call it like it is.”

“Alright,” Ross muttered. “Maybe.”

Tansy looked down at his suit, brushing some lint off his lapel. “You’re lucky I’m even here doing this.” He straightened up his tie. “Anyways, I better get ready.”

“Do us proud, Stanton,” Ross groaned.

“I will.” Tansy stood up and brushed the creases from his jacket. “Hold off on your breaks for the next hour or so. Should be a big crowd here after the talk.”

“That’s the idea.”

The real idea was to control his public image, to show that Tansy had cashed in and gone corporate with his skills. It was the perfect front—a boring job with the establishment, being bought out by a cybersecurity software developer, of all things. And now he’d be paraded up on stage as rep for Hackwise. The ultimate castration for a hacker.

Which was exactly the message he wanted to send.

The money wasn’t bad, either. He couldn’t argue with that.

It was all just another trick in a long line of misdirections. Like always, no one knew the real story, nor the real Tansy. No one, that was, except for a small, tightly knit group of brothers-in-arms known as DARC Ops. They were former military men taking on the most dangerous and exciting “civilian” work imaginable. He had no qualms about being accepted in that cybersecurity firm. It was a privilege and an honor.

“Stanton Morse? From Hackwise? Right this way, sir,” said one of the organizers, holding open a door to the backstage greenroom. It was exactly how Tansy liked to be identified in public. Stanton, not Tansy. Hackwise, not DARC Ops.

“Could I ask you somethin’ real quick?” asked the organizer, closing the door behind them. He had an old, leathery face from too much Nevada sunshine. A white, wispy goatee. On his bare arm was a faded tattoo of an eagle standing on a length of barbed wire. The man began to speak again, saying, “So, I got this podcast . . .” but Tansy was too distracted by that god-awful tattoo. The eagle had fucking horns on the top of its head. “. . . about hackers and all that. Could I interview you real quick?”

“I’m kinda busy right now.”

“Yeah, I know, but after your show, real quick?”

Tansy pushed through the doors in front of him, happy to escape into the crowded greenroom, where, he hoped, no more podcasters lurked. At the last minute he slipped a pair of glasses from his back pocket—just one more barrier between him and anyone from the tradeshow circuit he bumped into while in the field. It was amazing what a pair of dark-rimmed glasses could do; just ask Clark Kent.

“Good luck, Mr. Morse,” said a young lady as she hooked up a wireless microphone to his lapel. She then slid a little square receiver pack against his pants, hooking it on his rear waistband. When they made eye contact again, her cheeks were pink with blush. “You’re on in two minutes,” she said before looking away. It was a shame his speech was only minutes away.

And two minutes later, he was on stage, in front of a crowd of thousands.

“I’ll make this short and sweet,” he said after a mild applause. “Tonight, from this very stage, I’m going to hack a police car.”

The crowd erupted in a roar of cheers. It was like tossing dirty rags onto a fire, talking to hackers about sabotaging anything that had to do with authority.

“To all the undercover law enforcement in the audience,” he said, drawing a solid round of booing. “To all the Feds here tonight . . . just sit back and enjoy the show because it’s too late to do anything. And the sad part, ladies and gentlemen. . . .” He clicked for the next slide, a set of statistics projected on a blue background. “The sad part is that even if I gave law enforcement a better warning, say a month, they still wouldn’t be able to stop what I’m about to do tonight.”

He took a few steps across the stage, pacing himself and his message, letting it all sink in.

“We’ve compiled data for the last two years on law enforcement’s cybersecurity efforts. And as you can see on this slide, they’re—quite frankly—crap. Police departments around the country are, on average, five years behind the latest trends and developments. Five years, people. That means that five years down the road, they’ll be just starting to address the kind of stuff we’ve been talking about here this weekend. Now, of course, I’m expecting that to change after this presentation, for at least one specific topic.”

A new slide appeared. The heading read, “Hacking an LVMPD Squad Car.”

“For better or worse, cars are becoming increasingly computerized. Increasingly entwined with software. But is it being done responsibly? Hackwise would say no. In fact, for how tightly entwined cars and computers have become, the cooperation between auto manufacturers and the cybersecurity community is practically nonexistent. So why is that? Why haven’t you noticed any representatives from the car companies here this weekend? They have no booths, no talks. No representation here at all. Do they not care? I don’t know. But maybe they’ll care a bit more after tonight.”

Tansy pulled a phone out of his pocket, smiling to the crowd, which responded in mild amusement. He made a call, asking someone on the other end if they were ready. And then he asked the crowd if they were ready.

Not only were they ready, but the crowd had become noisily impatient. Perfect. He had them just where he wanted them.

Ending the call with another mischievous smile, Tansy continued his talk. “Although police cars are less vulnerable than civilian vehicles, they are vulnerable nonetheless. The most straightforward hack would be to insert a dongle in the OBD2 port. The only problem is that you’ve got to gain physical access to the inside of the car. Now, I know that’s not too hard for some of you, but. . . .”

There was a quick round of laughter from the audience.

“But seriously, sneaking into a squad car is not exactly a cakewalk—that is, being able to leave once you’ve gotten inside. And to leave without cuffs around your wrists.” He waited for a few chuckles to fade away. “Hackwise was first able to get around this by compromising the car while it was getting repairs. While it was at the shop. That’s the first level of hacking. And that’s one hack we’ll give away for free. So you’re welcome, LVMPD. Make sure to vet your mechanics. And make sure the garage’s computer system has Hackwise protection.”

Tansy walked to a table at the side of the stage. “But we were able to find other ways, other options that we won’t mention right now. And these are strategies that only Hackwise can protect against.” He bent over a laptop and began working, typing, his hands feeling a little shaky on the keys. Why, he didn’t know. He was confident that everything would work out. It always did.

But what if it didn’t?

Unlike the previous experiments, he wasn’t at the controls.

“Okay, if you’ll just direct your attention to the screen here. . . .” The projected slideshow turned off and was replaced with a live video feed from the hotel’s parking lot. “What you’re seeing is a live shot of the hotel exterior.”

There was a sudden commotion from the audience. Tansy squinted through the bright lights to see several large groups of people, mostly photographers, getting up and heading for the exits. Probably on their way to check out the parking lot. At least, he hoped that was their reason for leaving.

He looked back down at the computer screen, unhappy with what he was seeing. A red blinking dot meant his team had lost contact with the vehicle.

“Before we go any further,” said Tansy, trying to buy some time, “I’d just like to clarify that LVMPD has designated a specific off-duty car for us to attempt this on. We’re in no way hampering or obstructing law-enforcement officers in the line of duty. Also, for reasons of road safety, the car has been parked somewhere in the parking lot. They said if we drove it on any actual roads, they’d charge us with a whole slew of things, so. . . .”

Buying time, buying time. . . . What the hell was taking them so long?

Tansy had tested out the exact experiment, himself. He’d done it countless times, all of them working without a single hitch. He looked off the side of the stage to Mr. Greco, who had insisted that Tansy—er, Stanton Morse—be the front man. The face, with someone else taking over the role of keyboard jockey. Now it seemed the old man was regretting his decision. From the stage, Tansy could see him nervously picking at his cuticles. Tansy was about to start doing the same. But instead he brought his fingers back to the keyboard of his laptop.

If it was necessary, he’d take over the operation and perform it manually from the stage. It wasn’t ideal. But he could probably make it a seamless transition, like it had been planned that way all along. After all, he was the face of the operation. Right, Mr. Greco?

Tansy looked over to Mr. Greco, who had now disappeared. Maybe he’d fled back to his room, scrambling around to find his heart meds.

“Okay, we’ve made contact with the vehicle,” said Tansy. It wasn’t an outright lie because they had made contact with it. An hour ago.

“And we’re using our, um . . . our technique.” He cleared his throat. “So, another aspect, um. . . . So, Hackwise not only protects against cyber attacks, but it logs each attempt. Right as the attack occurs, information about its type and source gets logged onto an SD card for later inspection. Which means that law enforcement will finally have a sense of—”

The blinking red dot turned solid green, and Tansy could finally breathe and talk normally again. “Alright,” he said with a big grin. “It looks like our team is ready to rock.”

The room went quiet. An awkward quiet as if the audience expected the whole experiment to implode at any moment. There were sounds of coughing, and a few chuckles. And then the room descended into complete quiet once more. In the silence, Tansy could almost feel the audience’s attention focusing in on the screen. His attention had certainly been focused on the screen, and maybe a little too intently, as his left eyelid began twitching uncontrollably. Luckily, the audience was too far away to notice.

But what about the cameras? DEFCON was recording each presentation to add to a DVD. Shit. Everyone would see his fucking eyelid and how—

Fuck. They’d all see how miserably he’d failed in getting the—

The car!

Finally!

It began like the crack of thunder, the spreading applause of a satisfied audience as they watched a police cruiser roll onto the screen, its lights flashing brilliantly against the flashbulbs of an unseen mass of photographers.

It worked.

Hackwise looked great.

Mr. Greco, if he was still alive, would be happy.

Tansy bowed to the sustained applause, enjoying a wave of relief. And then a different kind of relief washed over him. The knowledge that he could now get the hell out of Vegas.