Exploited (Zero Day #1) Read online

  Exploited is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by A. Meredith Walters

  Excerpt from Aftermath by A. Meredith Walters copyright © 2017 by A. Meredith Walters

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Aftermath by A. Meredith Walters. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399593383

  Cover design: Jae Song

  Cover photograph: Zastavkin/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Preface

  Chapter 1: Hannah

  Chapter 2: Hannah

  Chapter 3: Mason

  Chapter 4: Hannah

  Chapter 5: Mason

  Chapter 6: Hannah

  Chapter 7: Mason

  Chapter 8: Hannah

  Chapter 9: Hannah

  Chapter 10: Mason

  Chapter 11: Hannah

  Chapter 12: Hannah

  Chapter 13: Hannah

  Chapter 14: Hannah

  Chapter 15: Mason

  Chapter 16: Hannah

  Chapter 17: Mason

  Chapter 18: Hannah

  Chapter 19: Hannah

  Chapter 20: Mason

  Chapter 21: Hannah

  Chapter 22: Hannah

  Chapter 23: Mason

  Chapter 24: Hannah

  Chapter 25: Mason

  Chapter 26: Hannah

  Chapter 27: Mason

  It’s Only the Beginning

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By A. Meredith Walters

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Aftermath

  Preface

  A string of numbers.

  A click. A code.

  Done.

  I slip inside and I thrill at not being noticed.

  But are you really looking?

  Would you realize I was the one creating the chaos? That your life is being ruined by the woman you fuck in wrinkled sheets that smell like sweat and detergent?

  That she taunts you as she smiles? False promises, sweet as you devour them. One at a time.

  I thrive on the chase.

  You get high on the chasing.

  You think I’m running.

  But I’m not.

  I’m standing right in front of you, waving my hands, screaming into the wind.

  I’m one step ahead.

  You’re two steps behind.

  And once I’m inside, I’m omnipotent.

  Power like this can last for only so long.

  Before it crumbles into dust.

  Numbers.

  Codes.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Hidden in plain sight.

  But what will I do when you finally see me?

  And what does it mean that I hope you do?

  Chapter 1

  Hannah

  I wanted to look good.

  Normally I didn’t care about things like that. I was confident in my appearance without being conceited.

  I wasn’t what you would call “conventionally pretty.” I had been told before that my face was “unique.” I had never failed to get a man’s attention—when I desired it. I didn’t bother with overexamination of my looks. I didn’t spend hours staring at my reflection in the mirror, bemoaning the shape of my nose or the set of my eyes. I had other things to worry about. Other things to be concerned with. Whether a man found me attractive certainly wasn’t one of them.

  Until today.

  With wispy dark hair and wide blue eyes, I was content with what I saw in the mirror. However, I had made it my mission over the years to not be someone people noticed when I walked into a room.

  Vanity had taken a backseat to survival.

  I ran the brush through my hair for the hundredth time. My scalp burned from the abuse. It was unusual for me to wear my hair down, but today I would.

  Because today was different.

  I coated my lips with an extra layer of the gloss that I had bought at the drugstore the night before. I didn’t wear makeup. I had never really needed it, nor had I ever been interested in learning how to apply it. I gooped it on my mouth and hoped it didn’t look as if I had been playing makeover with a five-year-old.

  I ran my finger along my lips, rubbing off the excess. Not bad. The gloss was a nice touch. Maybe I’d have to start wearing it every day.

  I straightened the collar of my modest pale yellow blouse.

  I pursed my lips in the mirror and narrowed my eyes at my reflection. Maybe the yellow wasn’t a good choice. It made me look sallow. I didn’t want to look ill.

  My phone rang and I let it go to voicemail. It was my mother. She called every Monday morning. Had since I’d left for college eleven years ago.

  Have a great week, Han! You can tackle any problem! You’re smart. Capable—

  “And gosh darn it, everybody likes me,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

  I knew Mom’s weekly affirmations were more about her than they had ever been for me. A reminder that she wasn’t completely failing as a parent.

  I hesitated, contemplating calling her back. Sure, I silently mocked her Suzy Sunshine fakeness, but I also could use the pep talk.

  I was strangely nervous. I didn’t do anxiety. I had learned to compartmentalize it a long time ago.

  But this morning was about pushing myself. I wasn’t a people person. I didn’t socialize. This was going to take some effort.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed my mother’s number.

  “Han! I’m so glad you called me back! I’ve gotten so used to talking to your voicemail, we’ve become old friends,” my mother said with a chuckle, and I swallowed my groan at her comment.

  “I’m just on my way out the door,” I said, not giving her the apology I knew she wanted.

  The balance between a healthy relationship and full-blown dysfunction was a fine line for my mother and me. We had never been particularly close. I could admit my dad had been my favorite. But we had tried to bridge the gap in the years since the man we both loved had passed away. We were awkward together, still floundering with our roles in each other’s lives, even after twenty-seven years.

  You’d think we wouldn’t suck so badly at being a family by now.

  “I just wanted to tell you to have a good week. And to remember that you’re important,” my mother remarked in her chipper tone.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, grabbing a sweater from the back of my closet and trying to find the ballet flats I had bought only a month ago and hadn’t worn yet.

  “Charlotte was asking about you last night. It’s been awhile since you’ve been by to see her.”

  Then I felt it. The guilt. I knew she’d hit me with it sooner or later.

  “I called her over the weekend,” I mumbled, knowing it wasn’t good enough.

  Never good enough…

  “It’s not the same, Han, you know that. She had a rough couple of days. Her seizures were particularly bad—”

  “I’ll go by after work this we
ek. Tell her that I promise.” My stomach clenched and I felt sick at the thought of seeing her.

  My Char…

  I could hear my mother’s heavy, burdened sigh in my ear. Noisy and full of silent condemnation. “Okay. I’ll tell her.”

  “I’ve got to go, Mom.” I slipped on my shoes and turned off the light in the closet. Talking about Char was the reminder I needed. Even if I didn’t want to face it.

  “Okay. Just remember—”

  “Smile and the world smiles with you. Yeah, I’ve read that one before.”

  “Don’t make fun, Hannah.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I love you.” I wished I could soften at her words. I wished I could say them back the way I was supposed to.

  I wasn’t programmed that way. Not anymore.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  I hung up the phone, not feeling any more confident or assured than I had before the call. I should have known better.

  I walked into the hallway and out to the living room. Past bland walls. Undecorative white trim. Builder basic. Nothing fancy.

  Nondescript furniture. No extraneous knickknacks or crazy throw pillows.

  One lone framed print on the wall. A photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. It wasn’t there because it held some sort of special significance but because it had looked pretty on the shelf at Target.

  There was nothing in my house that screamed “Hannah Whelan.”

  Who was she?

  You wouldn’t be able to tell anything from the boring gray carpet and battered oak end tables.

  I had a thing against personalizing.

  There was most likely some kind of psychological meaning behind my inability to truly inhabit the space I lived in. It probably wouldn’t even take a therapist to figure out what my issues were.

  It was hard to make a space uniquely your own when you wore so many different hats.

  I went into the tiny galley-style kitchen. It was bright, at least. The sun shone through the grimy windows, unimpeded by the threadbare sheer hanging over the glass. It was the happiest room in the house. Which wasn’t saying much. I grabbed a Pop-Tart and broke it in half, shoving a piece in my mouth.

  Without thinking, I opened my laptop and wiggled my finger over the mouse.

  I had been up too late last night. I should have gone to bed before midnight. Big days required early nights. But as always, I’d gotten sucked into things. It was easy to do when you were on a crusade.

  I glanced at the time on my phone. 8:02.

  I had some time before I needed to leave.

  And there were things more important than my job. More important than my reason for wearing lip gloss.

  With a familiar giddiness, I logged on to my computer. I entered a long, convoluted series of numbers and letters that no one would ever be able to figure out. I was paranoid about passwords. I had learned to be.

  Once on my home screen I fired up my IRC client.

  I found the channel I needed.

  No one else would have been able to find it. Mostly because they weren’t looking for it.

  It was amazing how easy it was to hide in plain sight.

  8:03 Are you ready?

  My stomach clenched and I quickly typed out a response.

  8:03 2100. All set.

  I waited. And waited.

  A thrill went through my veins. My fingers tingled as I stared at the screen.

  8:05 2100. Downtime should last at least fifteen minutes. Backup servers compromised.

  My mouth was dry as my fingers flew along the keyboard.

  8:06 DDoS will be swift. Setup in place.

  There was no response.

  ***T0x1cwrath has quit IRC***

  I logged off and closed my laptop. I loved this feeling—the before.

  Anticipation.

  My heart fluttered and my palms were sweaty.

  It was the biggest high without the crash landing. I would never get sick of it.

  I looked at the time. 8:30. I lost time so easily. If I didn’t leave now, all of the lip gloss and hair brushing would be wasted.

  I thought briefly about tonight. About all the things I had planned. I hated having to leave the house, go to work, talk to people I didn’t care about.

  I wanted to log back in to my computer and slip inside another world, where I was the most terrifying, amazing thing there was.

  It was my addiction.

  Power. Anonymity.

  The relentless chase.

  But it was another day. An important one for a lot of reasons.

  I grabbed my keys and left the kingdom where I ruled.

  And I became a new Hannah.

  —

  I lingered in my car for almost twenty minutes outside Nan’s Coffee Shop. My leg was cramping up and it was uncomfortably warm, but I waited until I saw a monstrous dark blue Lincoln Continental, circa 1987, pull into the parking lot. The driver circled for a few minutes, trying to find a place to fit the giant boat of a car.

  It sat low to the ground and reminded me of something a drug dealer would drive. I half expected to hear pounding bass and see puddle lighting on the underside.

  It finally parked. Beside me.

  My mouth went suddenly dry and my heart sped up. I absently smoothed my hair again and watched the man driving the druggie deluxe get out of the car.

  “Damn,” I murmured to myself.

  Close-cut blond hair. Strong, chiseled jaw. Broad shoulders. And tall. So tall I’d have to crane my neck to look at him.

  He was not the sort of man you expected to drive a lowrider. I instantly respected that about him.

  I licked my lips and felt the fluttering in my gut.

  There it was again.

  Anticipation.

  I checked the time on my phone. I had to be at work in twenty-five minutes. That meant I had exactly fifteen minutes to convince Mr. Strong Jaw in the drug dealer car to buy me a coffee and become completely enchanted with my sweet smile and perfectly smooth hair.

  I went inside the tiny coffee shop and got in line.

  Right behind him.

  He was on his phone. He spoke low. Not rudely loud like a lot of people. He didn’t want the entire world to hear his conversation. I was glad to see he wasn’t a raging douchebag.

  And he had a nice ass.

  Not overly round. Firm. Like he worked out.

  There were certain things that were important when contemplating future flirtations with a potential romantic interest. Nice ass and an appropriate phone voice were important.

  I had been noticing him for weeks, since he walked in one day during my coffee and bagel.

  He filled the space. His presence took over.

  He gave me something else to fixate on.

  Now here I was. Here he was.

  Here we were.

  It was now or never.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet. I was fumbling. My fingers didn’t seem to be working properly. I yanked on my wallet in an exaggerated gesture that ended with the contents spilling onto the floor. Change rolled across the tiles.

  “Damn it!” I hissed, ducking my head as I knelt down on the floor to start the task of gathering my stuff.

  I wasn’t embarrassed. I was nervous.

  “Here, let me help you.” He crouched down beside me and started picking up my loose change and a pile of loose papers, including a ticket stub.

  “The Dandy Warhols. Nice. I saw them live a few years ago.” He handed it back to me, his full-toothed smile on prominent display. He was good-looking. That was an easy thing to say. But there was something else about him that intrigued me. That had me crouched on the floor, staring up at him like an idiot.

  I took the ticket stub and stuffed it back in my purse.

  “Yeah, they’re one of my favorites.” I smiled. He smiled.

  His brown eyes widened ever so slightly. His cheeks flushed. Ju
st a little. He swallowed. Maybe his mouth was as dry as mine.

  Maybe all the primping had paid off.

  “Hi,” he said, his mouth curving upward in a slight half smile. Slightly coy. Slightly flirtatious.

  “Hi,” I responded, just as flirtatious. Just as coy. Or at least I hoped so.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” he commented, picking up my tube of lip gloss and holding it between his fingers. Not relinquishing it. Holding on to it until he was ready.

  I felt a momentary twinge at his words. He hadn’t noticed me.

  Of course he hadn’t.

  I made it my mission to fly below the radar.

  But it bothered me in this instance that I hadn’t gotten his attention.

  “What a line.” I smirked, holding my hand out until he finally gave me the lip gloss. Our fingers brushed.

  He flushed, his face turning red. I found it endearing how easily I could embarrass him. I wasn’t the only bumbling fool in this meeting.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just trying—I mean, I only wanted to say—”

  I put my hand on his arm. His long-sleeved shirt was a soft cotton. High quality. He was dressing to impress. “I know what you meant. And no, I don’t come in here very often. Maybe I should change that.”

  Wow, that was beyond cheesy. I couldn’t help but wince. “Ugh, that was worse than your ‘Do you come here often,’ wasn’t it?”

  His laugh was rich and deep. The kind that showed he meant it.

  He got to his feet and held out his hand, which I took readily. No hesitation. I let him wrap his fingers around my much smaller ones. He squeezed. Only slightly, but I felt it. A slight tug and I was up again, all of my belongings back in my purse where they belonged.

  My hero.

  “Thanks.” I pushed my hair out of my face and smiled. He liked it. My too-big eyes and overly pronounced nose didn’t matter. His eyes were warm as he looked at me.

  “My name’s Mason. Mason Kohler.” It was familiar. Like well-worn words on the tongue.