One Good Reason

CHAPTER ONE

THE CRIMINAL MASTERMIND

They know me only as "Clover."

Which, frankly, kind of sucks as code names go. I mean... you'd think they could've at least picked something badass.

Wonder Woman? That's a cool-as-shit nickname.

Elektra? Practically reeks of danger and mystery.

Black Widow? Come on, no one fucks with that girl.

Catwoman? ...Okay, well, to be honest I've always kind of thought Catwoman was just code for some crazy, perpetually-single girl with one too many felines and one too few men in her life.

But, kitties aside, you'd think the FBI could've come up with something a little better than Clover when they christened me last year.

Clovers are cute.

I take umbrage at being cute. I'm a god-damned criminal mastermind. Criminal masterminds are not cute.

Except Loki.

Shit, Loki is cute as hell.

Evidently, my name was inspired by the virus I developed two years ago. Every hacker — correction, every good hacker — has a custom-built style of code. A brand. A trademark.

Like artists, we all have our own quirks and identifying characteristics. Things we leave behind after we're done creeping around inside a computer network.

Mine is a virus.

It's lethal once it's past the firewalls, embedding itself in the foundation and branching out in four directions, in the shape of... you guessed it... a four-leaf clover.

Hence the nickname.

It's probably a good thing — if they knew my real name I'd be in federal prison. Or worse: chained to a government cubicle somewhere, working some hack job at the NSA. Thanks but no thanks. I'm good right where I am — a fugitive, perhaps, but a happy one.

Well, mostly happy.

Fifty percent happy.

Fine. Forty percent.

Final offer: one quarter happy, three quarters miserable?

Okay. Whatever. I'm not happy at all.

So?

Thing is, I don't really believe in "happy." People who say they've found true happiness — a mythical, eternal state of bliss — are either delusional or drugged out of their minds on those bath salts that inspire cannibalism. Perpetual joy is about as real as the fairy unicorns I used to play with in my backyard at age four.

Life is one long series of punches to the gut. You either learn how to duck, or you figure out how to hit back. I've been hitting back so long, at this point I've got a mean left hook and more than my fair share of scars.

My fingers fly over the keyboard so fast I know they'd be nothing but a blur if I looked down, but my eyes are otherwise occupied — fixed firmly on the screen in front of me as I maneuver around a particularly difficult firewall, making sure to cloak my code so they can't detect a breach. Last time I did this, I was a bit careless — read: cocky — and tripped up some of their internal safeguards. Not my smartest move of all time.

Turns out, the Feds don't throw a piñata party when people hack their secure, top-secret servers. Whoopsie.

There are a few more security layers in place than last time, but as hacks go it's not a particularly difficult one. Not for me, anyway. Government agencies are freakishly easy to crack into, if you're fluent in Python and know how to find even a tiny fissure in their seemingly impenetrable networks.