Page 73 of Hacking the Holidays
INTRUSION BLOCKED.
Sam glanced over at me.
I smiled.
He smiled back, but it was forced.
Just then, a thought crystallized in my mind, sharp and opportunistic.
Sam’s main computer at the library—the desktop at his desk—was sitting over there completely unguarded while he focused all his energy on me and my laptop in the conference room.
Oh, Sam. Rookie mistake.
Time for a little counter-offensive.
Operation: Hack Sam’s Desktop Computer.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.
My fingers moved on instinct, launching a remote access protocol aimed at the library’s internal network. If Sam’s desktop was connected—and of course it was—I could slip through the back door while he sat four feet away, completely oblivious.
A couple of clicks. A few commands. Credential spoofing. Exploiting the trust relationship between networked devices.
Bingo.
I was in.
My expression remained perfectly calm, but inside I was doing cartwheels. Olympic-level gymnastics. Victory laps around my brain.
This was it—the holy grail. Sam’s work computer, where he kept everything related to his Good Sam operation. The files and communications that are too risky to store on anything portable. The evidence I needed was right there, waiting. Even the gateway to his files in the cloud started at his desktop.
A few more clicks, and the three folders on his desktop appeared: Santa, ProjectGive, and BadBoys. I’d seen these folders the day he’d talked me into being his elf for the first time. I had no interest in the first two folders, but BadBoys?
That was surely the jackpot.
I was almost positive it was his hit list of corrupt targets he was stealing from. Everything I needed to either save him or bury him.
My pulse hammered as I moved the cursor.
I double-clicked.
My screen went black.
I blinked, then tapped the touchpad.
Nothing.
No. No, no, no.
I jiggled it frantically.
Had my laptop frozen?
Had Sam pulled a trick out of my playbook?
Out of nowhere, a message appeared on my screen, typing out one character at a time, like something straight out of a thriller movie:
YOU ARE TRESPASSING.
