GREY RHODES CENTER

for computer science

Kyle walked through those doors, passing directly underneath the words. Inside, he knew exactly where he was going; he’d spent many an hour in this building during his six years of undergrad and graduate school. Sharma’s office was on the third floor, along with the rest of the faculty offices.

Because it was the last week before finals, the building was hopping. He walked up the main staircase, an open structure made of glass, steel, and brick. Students passed him in the opposite direction, and he wondered how long it would take before someone recognized him.

All of about ten seconds.

A student, about twenty years old and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that read “I’m not anti-social, I’m just not user-friendly,” was the first to ID him. Spotting Kyle while heading down the stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks on the landing.

“Oh my God, it’s you,” he whispered in a reverent tone. He grabbed the shirt of the student behind him. “Look.”

The second guy peered down at Kyle, and his face broke out in a grin. “Ho-ly shit. The Twitter Terrorist, in the flesh.”

Kyle gave them a curt nod. “Hello.” He passed them on the stairs and kept on going.

“Hey, wait!”

The two students did an about-face and followed him. Kyle could already hear the murmurs starting as more and more people noticed him.

Great.

His two “fans” caught up with him, flanking him on each side. “Dude, we studied you in my Computer Security II class,” the second guy said enthusiastically.

“Your attack on Twitter was insane,” the T-shirt guy chimed in. “They said it was the most sophisticated hijacking they’d ever experienced. Even the FBI couldn’t stop it.”

“So what’s your secret?” the second student asked. “Smurf attack? Ping of death? SYN flood?”

“Lots of single-malt Scotch,” Kyle said dryly.

The T-shirt guy laughed. “So cool. You are a legend.”

Time to set the record straight. Kyle turned around at the top of the stairs and faced them. “Okay, kids—listen up. Cyber-crime isn’t cool, it’s stupid. And you know what else isn’t cool? Being convicted by the U.S. Attorney’s Office and going to prison. Trust me, that will come back to bite you in the ass in ways you can’t even fathom.”

The two students looked at each other. “Dude, you sound like one of those lame public service announcements,” the second student said.

“Except for the ‘ass’ part,” the T-shirt guy said. “You’re probably not supposed to swear around youths. We’re very impressionable.”

“You’re over eighteen,” Kyle said. “That means you’re not youths in the eyes of the law.” He looked them over. “I’d say you’d both last about a week behind bars. Three days if they stuck you in maximum security.” He rubbed his jaw, pretending to think. “And how do you feel about showering with twenty muscle-bound and tattooed guys, most of whom are gang members, murderers, and drug dealers?”

The T-shirt guy swallowed. “Do they at least give you shower shoes?”

Kyle glared.

“Just a joke,” the student said with a nervous laugh. “Hacking is bad. Prison is bad. Got it.” Then he looked around and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ping of death, right? Come on—it’ll be our little secret.”

“Just keep it clean,” Kyle grumbled under his breath, turning and leaving them both on the landing.

Sharma’s office was located in the southeast corner of the building, an office Kyle had visited several times during his tenure as a grad student. He slowed as he approached the door, steeling himself for a setdown.

He knocked on Sharma’s open door and saw the professor seated at his desk, on the phone. Now in his late fifties, there was gray in Sharma’s black hair, which had crept in over the last nine years, but everything else was the same—collared shirt and sweater vest, neatly organized desk, Vivaldi playing softly from the speakers on the shelves behind him.

He hung up the phone and peered at Kyle through wire-rimmed glasses. “That’s the second call from a faculty member I’ve received in the last two minutes, asking if I’m aware that the Twitter Terrorist is in the building.”

“What did you tell them?”

Sharma stood up and walked over. “That I was thinking about hiring you as an adjunct professor. To teach a course in ethics.” The corners of his mouth twitched as he stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, Kyle.”

“You, too, Professor.” Kyle silently exhaled.

Sharma gestured to his desk. “Have a seat. I followed the news reports about your case, obviously. I always said you would be as big as your father someday—although I’d envisioned you’d take a different path.”

Kyle took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Sharma’s desk. “It was a mistake,” he said simply.

“Oh, you think?”

When Sharma said nothing further, Kyle cocked his head questioningly. “That can’t be it. I sat in four of your classes, Professor. Where’s the rest of the lecture?”

“You get the abridged version, since you’re no longer a student. Except I would also add that whatever you plan to do next with your talent, I hope that it’s something legal. People don’t always get second chances.”

“Perfectly legal,” Kyle assured him. “I’m starting my own consulting business, actually.”

Sharma appeared intrigued. “What kind of consulting?”

“Network security. Fortune 500 companies. I’ll go in, assess clients’ security weaknesses, and develop the tools they need to prevent both internal and external threats.”

“In other words, you’ll teach them how to protect themselves from people like you,” Sharma said.

“I certainly plan to capitalize on the notoriety of my conviction, yes,” Kyle acknowledged.

“The Twitter Terrorist uses his powers for good instead of evil.”

“Something like that.”

Sharma looked at him cautiously. “And how can I help you with this?”

Kyle leaned in, eager to get down to business. “It’s simple, Professor. I just need the names of your two best hackers.”

With a laugh, he held up his hands when he saw Sharma’s expression.

“I swear—totally legal.”

AFTER REASSURING SHARMA, again, that his intentions were honorable, Kyle got the names of the two students the professor felt best met his qualifications. Then Sharma went one step further and e-mailed the students, asking if they were interested in learning more about a “unique opportunity.”

“The rest is up to you,” Sharma said, shaking Kyle’s hand in the doorway of his office. “Good luck with everything. And next time, don’t make it nine years before you come back around.”

And just like that, Rylann popped into Kyle’s head. Again. Only this time, it wasn’t naughty naked shower images—instead, he thought about the way her amber eyes lit up when she teased him.

It wasn’t just the sex, he knew. It was the quips and jokes, too, and the way talking to her for fifteen minutes captivated him more than an entire night spent with most of the women he’d dated over the last nine years. He simply liked…being around her.

Christ. Somebody obviously needed to check the pockets of the orange jumpsuit he’d left behind at MCC. For his balls.

“Thank you, Professor. For everything,” Kyle said, refocusing on work and the matters at hand.

Two hours later, he waited in a small, empty classroom, standing by the windows and looking out at the campus as he waited for the first candidate to arrive. He turned around when he heard the door open.

A man in his early twenties with curly red hair, wearing khaki pants and a button-down shirt, walked into the room. He saw Kyle and stopped. “Okay…not exactly what I’d been expecting.”

Kyle walked over and introduced himself. “Kyle Rhodes.”

“Gil Newport.”

Kyle gestured to the table by the window. “Please, have a seat.” He figured they could skip the preliminaries. “I assume you know who I am?”