Christopher Brookmyre - The Last Hack: A Jack Parlabane Thriller
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Published in the UK as Want You Gone
There are no women on the Internet. It is one of the cardinal rules of hacking, and not since Lisbeth Salander famously violated it in Stieg Larssons Millenium series has the maxim been so compellingly broken as in The Last Hack, the new Jack Parlabane thriller from one of the smartest minds in crime fiction, Christopher Brookmyre.
Sam Morpeth has had to grow up way too fast. Left to fend for a younger sister with learning difficulties when their mother goes to prison, she is forced to watch her dreams of university evaporate. But Sam learns what it is to be truly powerless when a stranger begins to blackmail her online. Meanwhile, reporter Jack Parlabane seems to have finally gotten his career back on track with a job at a flashy online news start-up, but his success has left him indebted to a volatile source on the wrong side of the law. Now that debt is being called in, and it could cost him everything. Thrown together by a common enemy, Sam and Jack are about to discover they have more in common than they realizeand might be each others only hope.
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THE
LAST
HACK
Quite Ugly One Morning
Country of the Blind
Not the End of the World
One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night
Boiling a Frog
A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away
The Sacred Art of Stealing
Be My Enemy
All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye
A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil
Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks
A Snowball in Hell
Pandaemonium
Where the Bodies are Buried
When the Devil Drives
Bedlam
Bred in the Bone (published in the UK as Flesh Wounds)
Dead Girl Walking
Black Widow
CHRISTOPHER
BROOKMYRE
THE
LAST
HACK
A JACK PARLABANE THRILLER
Copyright Christopher Brookmyre 2017
Cover design by Pete Garceau
Cover photograph AND-ONE/iStock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.
Printed in the United States of America
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Little, Brown as Want You Gone
First Grove Atlantic edition: July 2017
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication data available for this title.
ISBN 978-0-8021-2694-8
eISBN 978-0-8021-8907-3
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
groveatlantic.com
17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Nick Witcher, Steve Finn and Kerry Fraser-Robinson.
Hes never known such cold, such merciless, pervasive cold. It is enveloping him completely, like the embrace of a wraith, and he is being crushed in its grip.
His limbs are useless, still twitching in spasms, tiny echoes of the convulsions that rendered him helpless, and he can see his stilted, strangled breaths escaping from his mouth as tiny wisps. Pain is still pulsing through him, a pain he can feel from his internal organs to his every extremity. There is a buzzing in his ears, tiny explosions dancing in his eyes like a miniature firework display.
The temperature is so low that it feels as though the air itself is biting him, but worst of all is what lies beneath. The floor is like a giant radiator in reverse, draining warmth from every point of contact, and given he is lying flat on his back, that means close to half the surface of his body.
His assailant is standing over him, staring down from the blank smiling face of a Guy Fawkes mask.
He thinks he sees a fleeting gleam in a black-gloved hand, there for a twinkling, then its gone. Its hard to tell among the flashes hes seeing, the after-effects of the electroshock device.
I want you to know why this is happening to you, and I want you to understand why its happening now.
There is such anger in the voice, an anger that speaks of years of hatred; years of waiting.
Why didnt he see this betrayal coming? How could he have walked so blind into the jaws of a trap?
You thought you had reinvented yourself, didnt you: turned your reputation around. I wanted you to touch that better future. I wanted you to believe you could once again be what you used to before I took it all away.
High on the wall he sees the dark glass of a CCTV camera lens, and with it comes a realisation colder even than the floor. Too late, he understands the significance of the mask, and that it is practical rather than symbolic.
It is the mask that confirms what he thought he glimpsed is indeed a blade.
It is the mask that tells him he is about to die.
I was always afraid that this story would end with me in prison. Turns out I was right.
Not exactly a major spoiler though, is it? I mean, we both already know that part, so its how I got here that really matters.
Im going to tell you everything, and Im not going to hold back to spare anyones feelings. I have to be totally honest if Im looking for honesty in return. Ill warn you up front, though. Much of what Im about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but there are things about me that I need you to understand. Youre not going to like me for some of what I did and said, and the way you personally come across isnt always going to be flattering either, but its important that you get a handle on how everything looked from my point of view.
It doesnt mean I feel that way now, or that I was right to think what I did back then. Its just how it was, you know?
There are a lot of places I could start, but I have to be careful about that. Certain choices might imply Im pointing the finger, and Im not. I know whos to blame for everything that happened. No need for any more deceptions on that score. So Im not going right back to childhood, or to when my dad died, or even to when the police raided the flat and found a shitload of drugs and a gun. Because this isnt about any of that stuff, not really. To me, this all starts a few weeks ago, with me sitting in a waiting room, looking at a human time-bomb.
I know the man is going to explode several minutes before the incident takes place. It is only a matter of time.
He is sitting opposite me in the waiting area, shifting restlessly on the plastic bench, his limbs in a state of constant motion: sudden jerks and twitches beating out a code I can read only too clearly. His head is an unkempt ball of hair, his matted locks merging with enough beard to kit out a whole bus full of hipsters. He looks across at me every few seconds, which makes me scared and uncomfortable, though I know hes not picking me out specifically. His eyes are darting about the room the whole time, not alighting on a single sight for more than a second, like a fly that wont land long enough to be swatted.
I am afraid of catching his eye, so I keep my gaze above him, where a row of posters glare back at me from the wall. They all seem intended to threaten, apart from the ones encouraging people to grass on their neighbours. Were closing in, says one. Benefit thieves: our technology is tracking you, warns another. Do you know whos following you? asks a third. They feature images of people photographed from above at a steep angle, making them look tiny and cornered as they stand on concentric circles. To drive the point home, another poster shows an arrow thwocking into a bullseye: Targeting benefit fraudsters.
I have done nothing wrong but I feel guilty and intimidated. I feel like a criminal simply for being here. I have rehearsed what I am going to say, gone over it and over it in front of the bedroom mirror. I know my arguments, and have tried to anticipate how the officials might respond. I was feeling ready when I left the house, coaching myself all the way here, but now I think Ive got no chance. Im wasting my time. I want to leave, want to run, but I cant. I need the money. I desperately need the money.
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