by Julie James
Thus, with no small amount of uncertainty, Kyle turned off the highway and drove to the northeast side of campus. The Department of Computer Sciences was in Urbana, an impressive minicampus befitting its status as one of the top computer science programs in the country.
He parked at the main building on Goodwin Avenue and climbed out of the Mercedes. Before him stood an impressive, ultramodern 225,000-square-foot structure made of glass, copper, and steel. The computer science building had won awards from both the Illinois Engineering Council and the American Institute of Architects for its skillful use of natural light, open spaces, red iron interior, and internal terraces—all of which had been made possible by a $65 million grant from the man whose name had been etched proudly over the main entrance.
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…be
ing 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?”
Gil glanced around the room—what he was looking for was anyone’s guess. “You may assume that, yes,” he said cautiously.
“I asked Professor Sharma to put me in contact with you because I’m putting together a team of specialists for a business venture.”
“What kind of business venture?” Gil asked suspiciously.
“Security consulting.”
“Of course.” Gil did air quotes. “Consulting. Got it.”
“No air quotes. Actual, real consulting.” Kyle couldn’t tell whether Gil seemed more or less interested upon hearing this. “Professor Sharma says that you’ll finish your master’s degree this semester and that your thesis focused on intrusion detection and verification of secure systems and protocols.”
Gil raised an eyebrow, looking almost comically sly. “You seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Rhodes.”
Kyle tried to fight back a smile. “I hate to disappoint you, Gil, but this is one hundred percent legit. I’m starting a network security consulting business, and I have a position available for someone with your skills. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to tell you more.”
Gil paused. “You really are serious.” He looked Kyle over. “No offense, but you’re kind of a wild card. And I’m already entertaining six job offers—six very lucrative job offers.”
Kyle dismissed this with a wave. “If I decide you’re qualified, I can pay you more.” He’d known going in to this venture that he might have to pay top dollar for quality talent given his checkered past.
“You don’t even know what salaries the other companies offered me,” Gil said.
“I still know I can pay more,” Kyle said. “If you’re worth it.”
Gil looked almost offended by that. “Oh, I’m worth it.”
Kyle held his gaze, throwing down the gauntlet. “So show me.”
AN HOUR LATER, Kyle was waiting on the second of Sharma’s suggested candidates—a twenty-one-year-old graduating senior named Troy Leopold, whom Sharma had described as “brilliant, with an inquisitive mind.”
Right on time, a guy in his early twenties with spiky jet-black hair and wearing leather studded bracelets, ripped jeans, and black eyeliner walked in. He didn’t seem fazed in the slightest when he walked over and introduced himself to Kyle. “Troy Leopold. Excuse my casual appearance—if I’d known I was going to have an interview today, I would have worn my polo shirt and khakis.”
Kyle grinned, immediately liking him. “I’ll try to overlook it.”
They took a seat at the table, and Troy dove right in. “I think I should be straight with you. Whatever this interview is, it’s very cool that Professor Sharma suggested my name. But…” He paused, as if worried he might say something offensive.
Kyle chuckled. “Trust me, Troy, whatever it is, I’ve heard it all before.”
Troy gestured to Kyle’s tailored pants and shirt—standard business-casual attire. “I don’t exactly see myself in the corporate world. You know, working for the man.”
Kyle blinked. Nine years ago, he’d been in Troy’s position—except instead of leather studded bracelets and guyliner, he’d worn flannel shirts and construction boots. Now he was the man.
“Wow. I’m suddenly having one of those moments when I realize that I’ve turned into my father.” Kyle clapped his hands together, moving on. “How about this—before you make any decisions, maybe you’d at least like to know what you’d be doing for Rhodes Network Consulting. If I were to hire you.”
Troy nodded politely, clearly humoring him. “Fine. Hypothetically speaking, what would I be doing for Rhodes Network Consulting?”
“Well, other members of the team, including myself, will be creating secure operating systems for our clients. Obviously, the only way to confirm that those systems are airtight is to have another member of the team test them for vulnerabilities.”
Troy’s expression reflected his surprise. “You want to hire a hacker?”
“I was thinking we’d call the position ‘security analyst,’ but in essence, yes—you would be a professional hacker.”
Seeing the gleam of interest in Troy’s eyes, Kyle continued on. “Professor Sharma says you’re brilliant and ambitious.” He leaned forward in his chair, speaking earnestly. “Nine years ago, I was given the opportunity to learn from the best in the industry. It wasn’t the path I’d seen myself taking at the time, but one I have no regrets about following. Today I’m here, giving you the same chance. Maybe it’s not for you—but speaking from personal experience, you won’t know that until you try.”
Troy spoke cautiously, thinking this through. “And what if it turns out not to be for me?”
Kyle shrugged. “Give me a six-month commitment. If it’s not working out, you can walk away after that. No hard feelings. We both know I can find plenty computer geeks out there who would be thrilled to have this job.” He went in for the kill, knowing exactly the last button to push. “After all, those are my systems you’d be trying to hack into. A chance to beat the Twitter Terrorist at his own game.”
Troy said nothing for a long moment, then his lips curved up in a slight smile. “Can I dress like this at the office?”
“Troy, three months ago I was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit and gym shoes without laces. I think it’s safe to say we won’t be putting on too many airs at Rhodes Network Consulting. Just don’t scratch up my keyboards with those spiked bracelets.”
Troy smiled at that. “Deal.”
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, Kyle was once again staring at cornfield after cornfield on I-57, heading back to Chicago.
The day had been a success.
He wasn’t ready to throw out his shingle quite yet—he may have been good, but he needed more than two smart guys with computer science degrees and zero practical experience on his team. He still wanted to hire at least one person with several years in the field for a management position—the guy in Seattle he’d made an offer to had turned him down—and an administrative assistant, too. Also, he needed to implement phases one and two of his marketing strategy. He had a comfortable amount of start-up capital and was prepared to get more by selling the penthouse if need be, but that wasn’t going to last forever.
Tonight, however, he simply wanted to enjoy his accomplishments, especially since it had been a long time since he’d felt this excited and pumped up about work. For years he’d thought about striking out on his own, of stepping out of his father’s shadow, and finally that was about to happen.
The sun had just begun to set as Kyle approached the city, the impressive Chicago skyline welcoming him home. He was in a celebratory mood, and thought about dropping by Firelight to knock back a few victory cocktails with Dex. Going as far back as grad school, that had always been his default—hanging out at Dex’s bar—whenever he’d been in the mood to kick back and unwind.
Interesting, then, that his car stayed on Lake Shore Drive and drove past the exit that would have taken him to Firelight.
He had a rough idea where he was going, since Rylann had previously mentioned that she lived in Roscoe Village. At the stoplight at Belmont Avenu
e, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. The beauty of text messaging, he realized, was in its simplicity. He didn’t have to try to explain things, nor did he have to attempt to parse through all the banter in an attempt to figure out what she might be thinking. Instead, he could keep things short and sweet.
I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU.
He hit send.
To kill time while he waited for her response, he drove in the direction of his sister’s wine shop, figuring he could always drop in and harass Jordan about something.
This time, however, she beat him to the punch.
“So who’s the brunette bombshell?” Jordan asked as soon as he walked into the shop and took a seat at the main bar.
Damn. He’d forgotten about the stupid Scene and Heard column. Kyle helped himself to a cracker and some Brie cheese sitting on the bar. “I’m going to say…Angelina Jolie. Actually, no—Megan Fox.”
“Megan Fox is, like, twenty-five.”
“And this is a problem why, exactly?”
Jordan slapped his hand as he reached for more crackers. “Those are for customers.” She put her hand on her hip. “You know, after reading the Scene and Heard column, I’d kind of hoped it was Rylann they were talking about. And that maybe, just maybe, my ne’er-do-well twin had decided to stop playing around and finally pursue a woman of quality.”
He stole another cracker. “Now, that would be something.”
She shook her head. “Why do I bother? You know, one day you’re going to wake up and…”
Kyle’s cell phone buzzed, and he tuned out the rest of Jordan’s lecture—he could probably repeat the whole thing word for word by now—as he checked the incoming message. It was from Rylann, her response as short and sweet as his original text.
3418 CORNELIA, #3.
He had her address.
With a smile, he looked up and interrupted his sister. “That’s great, Jordo. Hey, by any chance do you have any bottles of that India Ink cabernet lying around?”
She stopped midrant and stared at him. “I’m sure I do. Why, what made you think of that?” Then her face broke into a wide grin. “Wait a second…that was the wine Rylann talked about when she was here. She said it was one of her favorites.”
