by Scott McEwen
Jalen watched her duck into the sedan, the smile on his face quickly fading as he caught the father’s stoic stare. Her mother, likewise, glared. Wyatt knew they were both upstanding figures in their community, but at the moment, the pair—particularly the mother—looked as stoic as one of the nuns back at Jalen’s school.
Jalen turned and headed toward the bus station, but he wasn’t more than a few blocks away when a black Mercedes pulled up to the curb.
The tinted window rolled down and there was Wyatt’s face. “I’ve been texting you.” He had taken off the driver’s cap, but he was still wearing the ridiculous red costume of the beloved Street Fighter character.
“I’ve been busy.” Jalen opened the door and slid into the seat next to him.
“That was masterful. You went a little off script, but you’re in.”
“Yeah,” Jalen said. “Guess so.” Jalen reached inside his backpack and unclipped the recording device. He’d agreed to be bugged, but now, after meeting Hi Kyto, it felt a little sleazy. And maybe unnecessary.
“Don’t forget what’s at stake here,” Wyatt said. “That girl could be Encyte.”
“I know.”
“She can be charming, but you have to remember.” Wyatt looked into Jalen’s eyes. “I’ve known girls like her. They seem innocent enough, but she’s smarter than both of us put together. She could be four steps ahead of us right now, so you gotta stay sharp.”
“Not sure I know what you mean.”
“I bet you do.”
* * *
The email that came to Eldon’s encrypted account was not signed, but as his eyes scrolled the brief message, he knew who’d sent it.
Eldon, as promised, a little gift. For your eyes only.
Eldon stood up and locked the door to the director’s office as the video loaded. He clicked the link, and there was Jalen in what looked like a packed arena. He sat in a cubicle on a stage, wearing a large headset and a sports jersey, frantically playing a video game. A girl sat next to him. Her face was still as a stone, and her eyes, behind her thick glasses, were locked on the screen as her small fingers moved with precision and speed. The crowd cheered, the camera followed them, panning the faces of nerdy teens, stopping on one: Wyatt, in a strange red costume, wearing some kind of flat cap. Wyatt held his hand to his right ear, like he was talking into an earpiece.
The screen went to black.
CHAPTER 39
Leigh Ann Davidson had always been considered a little unhinged. There had been the stint in high school when she’d been the fiery head of the Young Republicans. Then, in college at Swarthmore, her thinking jackknifed to the Left, but with no less fire. She joined the Anti-Defamation League, which led to Leigh Ann learning about anti-fascist groups who were not afraid to tangle with the alt-right.
After graduating top of her class and working as a librarian in Portland, she participated in five antifa protests, and in her third, she actually wore a hockey mask and ended up punching a Tea Party demonstrator in the jaw. It was her first taste of violence in the name of public justice, and as she swabbed her bloody knuckles over the sink that night, she had to admit: it felt damn good.
But it only got worse for those in her wake. Friends who knew her, who were not antifa, found it difficult to be around her. Any discussion that smacked of politics whatsoever would send her into a tirade. Of course those nearest to her knew how unstable she was becoming. And eventually, mania hung on her like a stench so that even her frenemies, dentists, and the cousins she saw only at Christmas joked about her being on the edge. But it wasn’t until a few years later that the core of Leigh Ann’s mental, emotional, and psychological makeup was blasted into bloody, shrapnel-dinged, gunpowder-singed pieces when a seventeen-year-old walked up to a school in California with an AR-15 outfitted with a bump stock and blew her half sister, and her life along with it, to bits. The mentally ill assailant, still much too young to purchase a beer, was able to buy a small stockpile of weapons and armor-fitted rounds at a series of gun shows, several of which struck Leigh Ann’s eleven-year-old half sister, killing her upon impact. Twenty-seven students, three teachers—all women—would follow before the disturbed student himself would be felled by a sniper’s bullet.
For Leigh Ann, her grief for her sister, Ava, moved in phases. The girl, who was Leigh Ann’s father’s second child—was almost like a living doll. And in her late thirties, Leigh Ann knew it was the closest she’d ever come to raising a child of her own. So it was in the stage of Decimation that she read an article in which the head of the National Firearm Association mentioned the student’s right to purchase the arms that had killed Ava. And it was in the stage of Sadness that Leigh Ann began to fantasize about avenging her death. And finally in the stage of Anger, these fantasies took shape, forming themselves into the anonymous post she made on the darknet in the middle of the night: “Plan 13: What I’d Like to Do to the Children of the National Firearms Association Leadership.”
In this manifesto, Leigh Ann detailed finding, hunting, and killing NFA children in front of their parents with guns bought legally, at the same gun show where the assassin bought the AR-15 that killed Ava. She posted the article on a revenge forum she found on the darknet, taking every precaution to cover her tracks, knowing from her experience with antifa how these things were traced and tracked.
A few days later, while writing another missive, this time encouraging a protest in Washington, D.C., in her half sister’s honor, her in-box pinged with a message: RE: Plan 13—How I can help.
She looked at the sender—a name she did not recognize, Grieving_Dad12.
Leigh Ann’s first response was fear. Had her anonymity been penetrated? But after a few moments, realizing her identity was likely still secret, she typed a simple response: How?
CHAPTER 40
Just as the black train sped across the California border, Darsie found Jalen in the adjoining car practicing Street Fighter.
“May I come in?” he asked, gently tapping the threshold.
“Sure,” Jalen said. “Wanna play?”
The two had taken breaks on the long train ride from Vegas, playing Street Fighter but also dabbling in Call of Duty and even Fortnite. Wyatt had made it clear that after his encounter with the Glowworm, he didn’t want a thing to do with gaming for the rest of his life, but Darsie was a skilled, compassionate gamer. He’d even taught Jalen about a little game of his own—chess.
“No,” Darsie said, flipping his wrist to look at his beaming gold watch. “Don’t have time at the moment.” He sat down on the berth across from Jalen.
“Well, what’s up?” Jalen said, eyes still on the screen as he toggled the joystick.
“It seems that word has gotten out that you and Wyatt are heading to San Francisco.”
Across the train car, Wyatt bristled, and Jalen immediately hit pause.
“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell anyone,” Jalen said.
“I know. I wasn’t suggesting that, but it appears someone else knows where we’re headed. And, well … I don’t think you’re going to like this.”
“I’m not going back to Valor,” Wyatt piped in.
“Oh, there’s no going back to Valor—ever—for either of you. That ship has sailed.” His words dropped like a stone on Jalen’s soul. In a flash, he saw the green canopy of trees, the misty lake, the warmth of the campfire.
“So what’s going on?” Wyatt said. “Out with it.”
“You’re going to have an extra chaperone in San Francisco.”
“Who?”
“Your aunt—I believe her name is Narcy.”
“Narcy? What do you mean?” Wyatt panicked.
“She’ll be part of your cover. It’s a little more believable that you two would be in San Francisco with a mother figure watching over you.”
“Oh my god, I don’t like this.” Jalen shook his head and looked at Wyatt, who was utterly dumbfounded.
“I’m kidding,” Darsie said after a moment.
“Can’t you guys take a joke?”
“Didn’t really know you were the joking type, Darsie.” Wyatt dropped back down in literal relief.
“From time to time.” Darsie clicked his teeth. “But I will say, if that ole hominid aunt of yours doesn’t stop making phone calls to your brother, she might have to become part of the plan.”
“God help us,” Jalen whispered.
“But luckily—and thanks to the good SecDef Elaine Becker—right now being at Valor is about like being exiled on the Isle of Patmos.”
Jalen raised his eyebrows.
“You know, the island—”
“I know. In the Aegean Sea.” Jalen rolled his eyes and returned to his game. “I took a history class.”
“Well, hope you also took geography,” Darsie said. “I’m dropping you two off outside San Diego.”
“And where will you be?” Wyatt asked.
“Hawthorne, California. There’s a rocket factory I’m thinking about purchasing, if you must know. You two can’t arrive in the state with me, so you’ll take a plane to San Francisco.”
“That seems … complicated,” Jalen said.
“It makes about as much sense as riding a Jet Ski to catch a train in the middle of the woods.” Wyatt smirked.
“Misdirection. Never underestimate it,” Darsie quipped. “Now, Jalen, you were on your own at the tournament, but here’s where Wyatt will come in.”
Jalen nodded.
“If Hi Kyto is ever to see Wyatt, the story is that he is your half brother.” Darsie pointed at Wyatt, who was slouched in his T-shirt and camp shorts, looking something like a grungy Patagonia ad. “Your father was a traveling athlete. He had a little dalliance with a British woman a couple of years before you were born, and here we are—your older half brother, Wyatt.”
“You don’t think I’m too white?” Wyatt raised his eyebrows.
“It’s believable. From the image I found on Google, Ronnie Rose is fairly light skinned. And now that it’s summer, you’re somewhat tan…”
Wyatt huffed in exasperation.
“You’re the one who chose to bring Jalen into this. Not me. But come to think of it, it might work out better than planned.” Darsie circled Jalen, his eyes narrowing. “Jalen and Hi Kyto will have the organic bond of gaming.”
Jalen shifted as Darsie took another lap around him, assessing.
“My guess is Hi Kyto will think he’s handsome enough. And … he seems to have the kind of softness she’ll find endearing.”
“Softness?” Jalen bowed up.
“Yeah. Kinda reminds me of those little Asian kitty cat stickers she puts on her backpack.” He laughed. “Anyway, Wyatt, keep your distance. You’re here to support Jalen and keep him safe.”
“Think I know how to run my own mission, thanks,” Wyatt said.
“There’ll be a blue Ford truck waiting for you outside of the apartment where you’ll be staying. And you’ll need this.” He handed Wyatt an envelope, and Wyatt pulled out several hundred dollars of petty cash and a shiny plastic card.
“A driver’s license?” Wyatt said. “I’ve been driving for years.”
“Yes, but now you’re official. Cops in the city are ruthless. Get pulled over and even I can’t get you out of it.”
* * *
It was sometime just after dusk when Darsie, ever preoccupied with secrecy, dropped the boys off outside Yuma, Arizona, where a car was waiting to take them to a ritzy hotel in downtown San Diego.
A few hours later and still in camp duds, Wyatt and Jalen wandered into the lavish lobby of a four-star hotel in the Gaslamp Quarter, a fire roaring in the ornate stone fireplace.
“’Bout time.” Jalen smiled at Wyatt as they walked across the marble floor toward the elevator. “This is the kind of treatment I’ve been expecting from Mr. Paycard himself.”
“Yeah, well, we need to try not to stand out so much.” Wyatt checked the exits and doors in full mission mode. “Take a different elevator than me and go straight to the room.”
“So much for the hotel party,” Jalen grunted. “At least we can relax.”
But even after a long, hot shower and a room-service meal of the best chicken tenders Jalen had eaten in his life, he could not relax, and he definitely couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned on the giant bed, trying every pillow, but eventually surrendered and slipped from the hotel room in the predawn hours without waking Wyatt up.
He took Fifth Avenue across the trolley tracks, past the convention center to the Embarcadero, a waterfront attraction area where giant megayachts sat docked at the pier. Wyatt strolled down the sidewalk, smelling salt water mixed with chlorine and ammonia and a hint of what he thought was feces. As the driver said on the drive from Yuma, “They need to literally wash the streets of San Diego … so many bums, pooing and pissing all over the place. It’s not clean. The whole state of California isn’t clean, if you ask me.”
Still, it was comforting to Jalen. He’d been to San Diego once before—his mother had taken him along when she was still playing tennis professionally—and it was one of the few good memories he had in a sea of unhappy ones. Jalen walked along, thinking about Hi Kyto and when he would contact her and what he would say, and what if she really was a murderer. The person who’d made him a murderer and ruined his life. And if there was even this chance, then why did his stomach drop in waves at the very mention of her name?
Jalen returned to the hotel and opened the suite door a crack, the light from the hallway spilling onto Wyatt, who was still breathing heavily in the darkness. Jalen, exhausted, crawled back into bed and finally slept till morning.
CHAPTER 41
“Don’t look now, but I just saw a man … from Valor.” Jalen stared over the rim of his orange juice at Wyatt. His heart jumped in his chest, but he tried to remain calm.
“What do you mean?” Wyatt said. The two boys sat at the Starbucks outside their gate waiting to board. “Stop staring. Do you mean one of the staff?”
“No, that lady—the secretary woman with the bug eyes—this guy was with her. The big dude. Looks like some kind of islander.”
“Dammit.” Wyatt again sipped his coffee casually. “Lean your head down.”
Jalen’s Gucci sunglasses rested on top of his head, and he leaned down, letting Wyatt look in the yellowish reflection on his face to confirm his suspicion.
“Right behind you and to the left…” Jalen said. “He’s wearing a Grizzlies hat and headphones. Looks like he’s gotten himself two éclairs.”
“I see him. It’s Tui. How the hell did he track us here?”
Jalen closed his eyes, a wave of realization washing over him. “So this morning, before you woke up—”
“Aside from Narcy’s,” Wyatt continued thinking aloud. “We’ve been on Darsie’s train, essentially untrackable from the outside.”
“Listen,” Jalen said. “This morning. I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk.”
“A walk? Where?”
“Well, just around … the wharf area.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“I guess he coulda followed me.”
Wyatt sighed. “There’s a reason why I’m looking over my shoulder all the time. And it’s not my neurotic nature. Push your glasses back up. And pull something out of your backpack to look at.”
“There’s nothing but clothes. And the Valor manual.”
“Well, pull that out and start at chapter one, where it says don’t go prancing around the city, potentially exposing yourself to rogue agents while we’re on a mission.”
“I’m sorry, okay?… So what do we do?” Jalen fumbled in his pack. “Think he knows where we’re going?”
“I don’t know.” Wyatt checked his watch. “Let’s just wait until the absolute last second to board. If he’s not on our flight already, he’ll know we’re headed to San Francisco, but he’ll have to figure out how to meet us there … or have someone else pick us up at the airport.”
“Pick us up?
”
“Yeah, pick us up—have somebody in the airport to continue following us.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Jalen boarded the plane, as he was told: seconds before the cabin doors were closed, just ahead of Wyatt. The two ran up to their gate, apologizing to the weary flight attendant, who looked at them like dumb kids who almost missed their flight home.
“Think he split?” Jalen asked as the boys crammed their backpacks in the overhead and shuffled to their seats next to the lavatory. Darsie had booked them on a discount local carrier, the kind that wouldn’t give you a pretzel even if you were about to go into a diabetic coma.
“I didn’t see him. But there could be plants on that plane,” Wyatt muttered. “So don’t talk mission.”
Jalen nodded. “That dude’s so huge, he’d have to buy two seats on this plane.”
“If I had to put money on it, I’d guess the SecDef is just following up. She’s got red mustache guy at Valor to enforce her rules. And Maui Jim here to follow us around, but it’s better to err on the side of caution.”
Once they deboarded, Wyatt looked like something from a Bond film, cutting through the crowds, looking over his shoulder, slipping down to ground transportation.
“Don’t think he’s on us,” he said to Jalen as he pulled up the Uber app. “Even so, keep alert.”
Moments later, the Uber, a slick silver Tesla Model S, quietly crept up to the curb. The doors popped open.
“Holy moly,” Jalen said of the vehicle.
The young, hooded driver, in the few moments it took for Wyatt and Jalen to pile in, had loaded the address to the apartment and pulled away from the airport.
“Are all the Ubers in San Francisco like this?” Jalen asked.
“Don’t know, man. This isn’t my main gig. I’m in between start-ups.”
“Work on anything I’ve heard of?” Jalen asked, then looked at Wyatt, who narrowed his eyes at him for being chatty.
