ZerOes Read Online Free Page A

Looking for the blood. But nothing. His shirt’s not even torn.
    A man steps into view. Tall, like he is, but not so lanky. Broad shoulders, bit of a gut straining against the white shirt and black jacket. African American, like him. Darker skinned. Midnight skin.
    The man lets the nickel-plated pump-action hang by his side. “Hey, DeAndre,” he says. “My name’s Hollis. You busy right now?”

                                    CHAPTER 3
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Aleena Kattan
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    NEW YORK CITY
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    R eminder,” Melanie the vampire says, standing at the front of the room by the whiteboard. “Next Thursday is the Fourth of July, and the Wednesday before we’re doing Cruiseapalooza, where every floor is a different”—she makes bunny-ear quotes in midair—“‘cruise destination,’ and here on the accounts floor we’re going to be Hawaii, so, aloha, mahalo, dress Hawaiian.”
    Aleena sits at the back of the room, listening to Melanie—whose skin is the alabaster hue of a river-logged corpse—drone on and on. Mel’s the wrong person to lead the department and these monthly staff meetings. Everyone hates her. She’s got a voice like a mosquito humming in your ear. But that’s middle management for you: smart enough to get promoted, stupid enough to have to stay.
    Aleena thinks a lot of these people are stupid.
    She feels bad about that. It’s very judgmental. But she also feels these people are due a bit of judgment. This batch of half-done cookies is an ignorant, corn-fed lot happy to watch sitcoms on their too-big TVs while the rest of the world struggles and cries and burns. They have their own problems, but Aleena knows they’re not real problems. Like the hashtag says: #firstworldproblems.
    Her phone vibrates in her pocket. A text. She pulls out the phone, gives it a quick look. Her heart lodges in her throat.
    The text reads, in Arabic: We are advancing—the timetable has moved up
    The message is from Qasim.
    She texts back: I’m not ready. Nobody told me!
    Khalid has been shot—sniper fire
    Her pulse goes from stopped to stampeding horses. No, no, no . She tries to think. It’s 10 A . M . here, which means in Damascus it’s 5 P . M . Where are they? What are they doing right now? Not the protest.
    The station. They’re attacking one of the state’s TV stations. Trying to take it over in the name of Suriya al-shaab, the people’s station, to broadcast truth in the name of those who oppose the regime. That’s today. That’s now .
    Her phone buzzes: Get to a computer
    Not now. She can’t. She can’t . She needs this job if she’s going to do her . . . other work. Firesign is one of the country’s biggest ISPs. She has nearly infinite bandwidth here, and as smart as they think they are about network security, she can dip in and out with ease.
    Leaving a meeting, she’ll draw attention. She looks up, makes sure nobody sees her texting. Sends the message: Can’t right now find someone else . It has to be someone else. They have others like her. She knows they do, even if she doesn’t know who they are.
    Qasim texts back: Nobody else—only you—get to a computer!
    Then a second text: Please Aleena
    Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s standing. The chair stutters and groans against the floor as she pushes it back. Everybody in the room—and the entire department is here—turns to look at her. Melanie stops speaking. She has a look on her face like she smells something dead.
    â€œIs there something wrong, Aleena?”
    â€œNo,” Aleena blurts. “Yes. I . . . have to use the bathroom.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. What is she, in fourth