Zero Day Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Disney Publishing Worldwide

  Cover design by Tyler Nevins

  Cover images © Shutterstock: Jason Winter (Hexadecimal code), and Piotr Krzeslak (Flag)

  Designed by Tyler Nevins

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-2263-3

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Sven and Ava,

  my heart and soul

  Governor’s Mansion

  Richmond, Virginia

  Darrow had her. He finally had her.

  Addie Webster was so going down.

  The two sat cross-legged on the floor of the playroom, a game of Connect Four perched between their almost-touching knees. This spot was one of Darrow and Addie’s favorite hangouts. Once a generic meeting space, the room had been transformed the day Addie’s father was sworn in as governor, and he’d ordered the law books, journals, and conference tables removed. Now it was packed with board games, Play-Doh, Legos, an easel stocked with paints and brushes, and big colorful carpets to sit on. Addie’s cheerful drawings decorated the walls. The sound of her laughter echoed through the corridors.

  Except…she wasn’t going to be laughing in a minute. Darrow grinned and lifted his checker above the yellow plastic grid.

  “Gotcha,” he said, dropping it in theatrically. The red checker fell with a satisfying clink through the open slots and landed on top of Addie’s black. One more turn and the game was his. He could hardly contain his excitement. Addie beat him at everything. Every. Single. Thing. Monopoly. Mario Kart. The fifty-yard dash. She could even burp louder. Darrow and Addie were best friends, but no nine-year-old boy wants to get schooled—over and over again—by an eight-year-old girl. Even one as cool as Addie. Especially one as cool as Addie.

  Addie’s mouth twisted to the side. She grabbed a black checker and twirled it between her fingers, inspecting the grid like some magical solution would present itself if she concentrated super hard. Typical. Addie always believed she could think her way out of anything.

  “C’mon, you know it’s over,” Darrow said. “You’ve got no move.”

  “There’s always a move,” Addie said. She leaned forward, checker in hand. As she peered down the grid, her knee grazed the latch at the bottom.

  Just like that, a dozen red and black checkers spilled out and tumbled across the floor.

  “Oops!” Addie said, jolting back, a barely concealed smirk on her face.

  “Oops?” Darrow scowled, incredulous. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

  “Sorry, Dare. Guess we’ll have to start over.” Addie shrugged.

  “Start over? No way,” he said. “I was about to kick your butt. You cheated!”

  “Did not!” Addie protested. “It was an accident.”

  “Yeah right, Ad.” Darrow rolled his eyes. “An accident.” Darrow had known Addie forever, since her dad’s first bid for office, when they’d ridden side by side in strollers along the campaign trail, dripping ice cream everywhere and poking each other with sticky fingers. And now, after playing more games together than he could count, Darrow knew one thing about Addie: she was just like Governor Mark Webster. Always had to win.

  “Cheater,” Darrow said.

  Addie’s face turned bright red. She stood up, planted her hands on her hips, and flipped her black hair. “I don’t cheat!” she shouted. “And I was done playing this boring game anyway.” She kicked the grid over and stomped out the door.

  “Good! So was I.” Darrow stayed on the floor for a moment, tossing checkers back into the box and grumbling to himself. Addie could be so annoying. Stubborn, impulsive, always wanting her own way. And she was constantly getting him into trouble. Like that time she’d decided they should hide in the back of the governor’s limo, only to end up ninety-five miles away at a formal dinner for top campaign donors in Old Town Alexandria. Darrow’s mom, who just so happened to be Governor Webster’s chief of staff, was furious with him. Furious. He’d lost his Xbox privileges for a whole month because of that stunt.

  But…Addie was funny. And smart. And could climb a tree better than any girl—or boy—Darrow had ever known. Not to mention, she always had his back. There was that time Parker Carrington had stolen—and broken—the brand-new remote-control helicopter their teacher had brought to class, and blamed it on Darrow. No one had believed he was innocent, except Addie. And she’d gotten revenge. When Parker wasn’t looking during lunch, she’d loosened the top of his chocolate milk. One big shake and he’d gotten himself a faceful, along with a taste of what it felt like to have everyone snickering at him. The secret smile Addie gave Darrow afterward had entirely made up for being called a thief.

  That was Darrow’s Addie. Not afraid to stand up for what was right. Even if it landed her in a time-out. Although it hardly ever did—Addie was too smart to ever get caught. Darrow sprang to his feet. He couldn’t stay mad at her. Not for more than five seconds, tops.

  “Addie, hold up!” He ran into the empty hallway and searched left and right, but she was already gone. Darrow could hear his mother’s lilting voice coming from the governor’s office. He considered poking his head in and asking if they’d seen Addie, but he knew better than to interrupt his mom while she was working.

  Besides, Darrow had a pretty good idea where she’d gone. Same place she always went when she got mad. Or frustrated. Or just wanted a break from the spotlight of being the governor’s kid.

  The tree house.

  Yeah, right now she was probably flopped in a beanbag chair, polishing off their sec
ret stash of M&Ms. He knew he’d better hurry or she’d finish all the blues, his favorite, just to spite him.

  Darrow raced down the hallway, running straight into Addie’s little sister, Elinor, who was coming up the stairs that led to the back door. She smiled shyly at him. “Hi, Darrow, wanna—”

  “Not now,” Darrow interrupted a little too quickly. “Have you seen Addie?”

  Ellie was a year behind Darrow and Addie in school, and she was always trying to play with them. She usually couldn’t keep up, though. Ellie was never as fast, never as smart, never—well, she just wasn’t Addie.

  Elinor shook her head. Darrow noticed something shiny and silver dangling from her hand. The butterfly locket Darrow had bought for Addie, with his own money, for her seventh birthday. It had broken just days after, and had to be glued shut. But it was still Addie’s favorite necklace. She never took it off.

  “Give me that,” Darrow said, snatching it from Elinor’s hand. “You know Addie doesn’t like you touching her stuff!”

  “But I just found it out here on the floor,” Elinor said, looking wounded.

  Darrow felt a twinge of guilt for yelling at her. He always forgot that Elinor was much more sensitive than her sister. “Sorry,” he said. “We’ll play later, okay? I’ve got to find Addie right now.”

  He left Elinor there, and ran down the stairs and outside to the giant sycamore that towered at the edge of the lawn. He stuck one foot in the second rung of the ladder and looked up. The sunlight bursting through the leaves blinded him momentarily. He rubbed his eyes and started climbing.

  “Hey, Addie!” he said. “I’m coming up. I’ve got your necklace. There’d better be some blue ones left in there for me!”

  No answer.

  “Addie, c’mon,” he said, pulling himself up rung by rung. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t think you’re a cheater.”

  Still no response.

  Darrow made his way to the top of the ladder, poked his head through the trapdoor, and blinked. The six-by-six room was empty, except for the stack of coloring books in the corner and the set of matching green beanbag chairs pushed against the wall.

  No Addie. Weird.

  Darrow clambered back down and ran through the yard.

  No Addie on the swing set, trying to touch the clouds with her toes.

  No Addie sneaking through the kitchen, getting bowls of popcorn and root beers so they could watch movies together in the theater room.

  No Addie in her bedroom, playing on her computer. Or in the garden, collecting flowers. Or even hiding in the governor’s limousine.

  No Addie. Anywhere.

  It took a good hour before it became clear she was actually missing. Not just off on an impromptu adventure, but missing. A crucial hour, police would later say. Long enough for the trail to go cold.

  After that, time took on a strange shape, marked not by minutes, but blaring sirens, probing searchlights, candlelight vigils. As the hours turned to days, the gaunt faces of Addie’s parents filled television screens across the country, begging for her return. It was a drama just built for cable news: the young, charismatic Governor Webster; his beautiful entrepreneur wife, Elizabeth Chan; the missing golden child. The speculation was breathless. Was it for money? Political revenge? Something more sinister? The Webster case became the most notorious celebrity disappearance since the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby.

  Except this time, there was no note. No ransom. No body.

  Nothing.

  All that remained for Addie’s family and friends was a half-finished drawing on an easel. A swing creaking lifelessly in the breeze. A single moment when time had stopped, now circled forever in their memories with permanent ink, framing the what ifs:

  What if I’d stopped reviewing the speech and checked on my daughter?

  What if I’d delayed the meeting about the new software rollout?

  What if I’d just let Addie win that stupid game?

  Maybe she’d still be here.

  From that day on, Darrow kept a red checker in his pocket. A chipped plastic talisman pressing against his leg, rough and cool beneath his fingers. Even as he grew older, he carried the thing, endlessly clinging to a child’s hope that someday—maybe someday, if he was good enough, strong enough, honorable enough—he’d get a do-over.

  One last chance to make his final move.

  The room was cold. The girl sat alone, shivering on a stiff wooden chair; the blanket draped around her shoulders did little to ward off the chill. Her green eyes were smudged with shadows, and her long, black hair hung listlessly around her pale face. She was maybe sixteen, but with a frame so slight that at the wrong angle she could be mistaken for a child.

  Until she looked at you. Then for a moment she’d seem much, much older.

  The wind howled outside and rattled the drafty windows. She wrapped her fingers around the Styrofoam cup in her hands, raised it to her lips, and took a sip. The coffee tasted like crap, but at least it was hot. It might have been spring somewhere, but here a light snow still dusted the streets and sidewalks, clinging to barren tree branches and the wrought-iron lampposts that lit the deserted town.

  She shivered again, and her eyes darted to the old analog clock on the wall ticking away the time. The second hand twitched forward. Ten minutes past seven. She’d been here for almost three hours now in this lonely little police station, just off I-80 in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania. Her shoulders began to droop as her exhausted body got the better of her, until a door slammed in the other room. Voices echoed down the hallway outside.

  “You picked her up on the highway?”

  “Yes, sir. Flying J Travel Plaza. Clerk found her hiding in a bathroom stall at the end of her shift. Never saw her go in. Freaked her out. And the kid was totally spooked, too. Wouldn’t come out, or even talk at first.”

  “How was she when you picked her up?”

  “Still shaky, but talking. And, you know, telling us that story.…”

  “Right. Where is she now?”

  “Chief’s office. Follow me.”

  Footsteps creaked on the old hardwood floors, stopping just outside the door. The girl sat up straight as a young police officer entered, the one who had picked her up earlier that day. He was flanked by a pair of men in dark suits, coiled earpieces tucked discreetly in place, the bulges of service revolvers just visible beneath their jackets. The girl pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, but didn’t look away.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the officer said in his Pennsylvania Dutch drawl. “These folks have come up from D.C. to speak with you.” He paused for a moment and positioned himself between her and the men, like he felt the sudden need to protect her from the tough guys in suits.

  “You okay to go with them?” he asked.

  The girl just nodded and stood, dropping the blanket from her shoulders, and followed the agents quietly out the door.

  A half-complete undergrad degree in computer science, $150,000 of student-loan debt, and this was all he had to show for it: a tray covered with lipstick-smeared wineglasses, dirty silverware, and plates dotted with shrimp tails and remnants of cocktail sauce.

  The busboy weaved his way through the crowd. About two hundred guests were milling about beneath the glass rotunda of the Ronald Reagan Building’s pavilion room, clinking glasses and giving each other congratulatory slaps on the back. The room was a huge circle, framed by tall windows and glass double doors, and filled with cocktail tables draped in red-and-white linen. Up front, a podium had been erected. There was a large screen suspended above with the familiar red-and-blue elephant logo and the words PATHWAY TO VICTORY! projected onto it.

  The thing was some sort of fund-raiser, a cool thousand dollars a pop to share a few glasses of cheap wine and sweaty handshakes. The busboy shook his head as he cleared a messy table. These guys threw money around just like they did crumpled-up cocktail napkins.

  He balanced the heavy tray on his arm and scanned the room, recognizing s
everal attendees—the Speaker of the House, the Senate majority leader, a couple anchors from right-wing talk shows. They didn’t recognize him, of course. But why would they? He was a nobody. Just a nineteen-year-old kid named “Taylor.” Well, not really. In his rush to get here, he’d left his own name tag at home. And instead of being written up by HR for a fifth time, he’d borrowed one from some girl who was ending her shift when he’d arrived. Curvy little blonde with a cute smile. He kind of wished he’d gotten her number. Because after tonight, he wasn’t sure he’d be coming back to this dead-end job.

  He kept clearing tables, eyes turned down, sleeves buttoned tightly over his wrists. These one-percenters might not acknowledge his presence, but they’d certainly notice—and disapprove of—the tattoo that snaked up his forearm.

  A man in a black tuxedo with slicked-back gray hair walked to the podium. Christopher Burke, chairman of the Republican National Committee. He stood in front of the microphone and smiled, white teeth flashing against his faux-tanned skin. The crowd moved from the edges of the room and assembled in front of him.

  “Thank you for being here tonight,” he said. “There’s never been a more critical time to come together and take a stand against the deeply misguided—and frankly, dangerous—direction this country is headed in. Within just two short years, the Webster administration has attempted to undo the work of generations of American men and women committed to protecting the country we love. Time and again, this administration has refused point-blank to take threats to our security seriously, even when our citizens at home and abroad—and our very way of life—are under attack. These policies appease terrorists and put Americans at risk.”

  Burke paused, eyes scanning the crowd.

  “But all this is changing,” he said. “Because the people have spoken. For the first time in eight years, we have control of the Senate. We have control of Congress.” He paused again. “And in two more years, we will regain control of the White House!”

  A huge cheer rose up from the audience. Burke let the applause ripple through the crowd, then raised his hands and motioned for silence as he began to speak again.

  The microphone crackled. Without warning, the sound cut out. Burke’s voice faded to a dull shout. He tapped the mic. It didn’t respond. Burke tapped the microphone again, a confused look on his face.