by Jackson Ford
Walk away.
She half-smiles at the turn of phrase, one she’s been unable to stop using. Walk away. Let it all go. Submit the audition tape to Darcy Lorenzo. If it bombs, well, she’ll still be able to look herself in the mirror. And whatever happens, she won’t have to do this any more.
She actually gets as far as moving the chair back, getting ready to spin round, exit the office. The freedom – the release – is so close.
And yet, even as she heads for the door, for a life that doesn’t involve Moira Tanner and Idriss Kouamé and people with abilities, she’s working the problem. She can’t stop it – it would be like trying to stop a speeding train by sticking out your foot.
Where would Teagan and Nic be going?
They’re heading south… but why? They’re obviously trying to get this boy somewhere, they wouldn’t just…
Suddenly, she’s back in Nemila. Not in the room with the fists and feet and the child’s crayon drawing of flowers on the wall. But after, in the forest, with Moira Tanner pulling her along, branches whipping at her face and mud spattering her calves, her jelly-legs threatening to up and quit. The sky through the trees turned orange by the burning farmhouse behind them, the screams and the choking smoke that followed them even as they lurched up the hill.
It was only when they crested the ridge that Reggie realised Moira had been hit. Blood soaked the sleeve of her khaki shirt, and when Reggie had pulled the collar down to look, Moira had hissed, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
Reggie’s body was a mess of aches and bruises, of horrid, rolling pain that made her think of waves in a tidal pool, washing back and forth. She could barely walk. And now here was her rescuer, her shoulder turned into ground meat.
At that moment, their natural states were almost exactly reversed. Moira had torn through the farmhouse and the guards like a hurricane. But now reality was setting in, her body going into shock. Meanwhile, Reggie, who had existed for the past day in a pain-soaked, half-conscious haze, was suddenly fully alert, awake, her vision and hearing sharper than they’d ever been. To her, the night seemed alive with smoke and ash and crackling flames, and her partner was sagging against her, and Reggie could not have that.
Reggie had ripped a strip off Moira’s shirt, bound it tight around her shoulder. Then she’d gotten her arm under Moira, hefted her, even though she herself was starting to go loose and fuzzy again.
“We’re not done yet, bitch,” she’d said.
She doesn’t remember most of what followed. They’d spent six days in the forest. Reggie was unconscious for much of the time, and when she was awake, she burned with thirst and infection.
Moira must have been the same, but every time Reggie opened her eyes, she was there. Somehow, despite her horrific shoulder injury, Moira Tanner had gotten them to Zenica, to a hospital.
The debrief had come later. Moira wanted to know about the list – the one detailing the people the Serbs wanted to take out. And when Reggie was finally done, when she’d told Moira everything, the woman had stood. And in one of the only times Reggie could remember her doing so, she had smiled.
“We’re not done,” she’d said simply.
In Moira Tanner’s world, they were never done.
Before she can stop herself, Reggie moves back to her monitors, pulling her trackball towards her. The intelligence community still hasn’t found a way to improve on the simplicity of Google Maps, so that’s where she goes. She finds the storage unit, then navigates down to Dodger Stadium. Could Teagan be trying to get back to her apartment in Leimert Park? No – she’s not even heading in that direction. Come to think of it, her new place is in Pasadena, very far to the north-east. Nic’s apartment in Sawtelle is similarly far-off.
Could she be coming to Carson? To the China Shop office itself? No. Why would Teagan go AWOL, only to come right back here?
The river.
Reggie can’t believe she didn’t see it before. She navigates down the map, moving along the storm drain from the Glendale Narrows past Dodger Stadium, past the collapsed Main Street Bridge. Further south, tracking the river’s meandering path. Arts District, Pico Gardens, Redondo Junction, South Gate, Lynwood. Nothing jumps out at her.
She keeps an ear on the National Guard channel. Most of it is confusion, garbled shouts, requests for medical assistance. But she hears other things that worry her. Words like pursuit and can’t have gone far and heading south.
Morton. Lynwood Gardens. Hollydale. Reggie is about to give up and dive deeper, maybe see if she can run some facial recognition on any camera footage she can dig up, when something Africa said tugs at her memory.
And this boy, this person, Leo Nguyen, ya, he put his power into me, throw me back a hundred metres!
Leo Nguyen. Africa had been speaking so fast, his accent so heavy, that she’d thought it was a word in Wolof or French that she didn’t know. But it’s a name. It may be a false one, but…
For normal people, trying to find a particular birth certificate in the United States would take days, involving a search of fifty states’ Vital Records Offices. For Reggie, who can cut through the systems like a peregrine falcon diving for prey, it takes minutes. In the past six years, there have been 3,659 Leo Nguyens born in the United States.
What if he’s not American?
No time for what-ifs. Chances are good that this boy is as old as Matthew Schenke was. Four or five. That narrows the Leo Nguyens down to around 800 or so. Of those, 732 are currently registered for Pre-K schooling throughout the country. Reggie concentrates on the remainder, diving deeper and deeper.
Her diaphragm loosens up, her breathing slower now, almost effortless.
She starts with New Mexico, which is where Matthew Schenke came from. There are eight Leo Nguyens who aren’t currently registered for Pre-K. One is a long-term patient at the New Mexico Cancer Centre in Albuquerque. That leaves seven unaccounted for.
Reggie pauses, biting her bottom lip.
None of the Nguyen families she’s found are particularly wealthy. It’s not likely they’d have additional homes in Los Angeles. That means they needed a place to stay. A motel, an Airbnb, a friend, a family member.
It’s this last one she tackles, pulling up the details of the parents, and digging deep into the records to trace any relatives in the Los Angeles area. The fourth Leo Nguyen’s mother has a cousin in Santa Clarita, which makes Reggie’s heart leap – but only for a second. Santa Clarita is to the north, in the opposite direction to where Teagan is headed.
But the sixth Leo Nguyen’s father, Clarence, has a relative in LA too. A brother, with an address in Compton.
And Compton sits just to the west of the LA River.
Got you.
In moments, she has an address for the uncle. Now what the hell does she do with the information?
Giving it to Africa is out of the question – Reggie is not going to help him murder a child. So what, is she planning to go on down there herself? And do what, exactly, Warrant Officer McCormick?
She could go down to the address in Compton, all right, and wait for Teagan and the boy to show up. But if they were coming on foot down the LA River, she’d be waiting a while – if they even let her in the building. And that’s assuming Africa didn’t get to Teagan first. Or the National Guard, who are clearly on the hunt.
Reggie licks her lips, running her tongue gently over them.
There might be a better way.
The problem is: it’s completely insane.
If they’re heading where she thinks they are, they probably won’t get off the river before Rosecrans – the long east–west avenue that marks the border of Compton. If she can get to the river there, they’ll come to her.
Reggie pulls up the map, squinting. The 710 runs west of the river, and is going to be hell to get across in her chair. But to the east, there’s a park, running alongside the river for maybe a mile before it becomes a golf course. If she can get to that park…
The though
t is intoxicating. It feels urgent, somehow – a call she couldn’t ignore if she tried.
And when she gets down to it, what else is there left to do? She’s lied to Moira, and that lie is going to collapse on her at any moment. Her team is unresponsive. She is sick to death of this office and this horrible apartment.
So why not dive in? Why the hell not?
It’ll be hard. Getting around LA when you’re an incomplete quad was tricky even before the earthquake. But Reggie McCormick once had to learn to breathe again, months on a machine struggling to take the tiniest sip of air unassisted. Getting around in her chair? It’s nothing. She’ll deal with it.
She reaches for her phone, wavers.
What is the endgame here?
If she actually does find Teagan and Nic, meets the boy they’ve stolen… what then? Is she going to persuade them to hand the child over to Moira Tanner? Help them find a safer place to hide him? What?
She honestly doesn’t know.
China Shop has folded in on itself, splitting into factions. Teagan and Nic – and, she presumes, Annie – want to save the boy. Africa wants to kill him. Moira doesn’t know about him yet, but when she finds out – and she will – she’ll want the boy for herself. Reggie still isn’t sure where she fits in all that, but as her fingers hover over the phone, she thinks there’s a way to find out.
If she goes into the field, intercepts her team, she can act as a peacemaker. She can bring everyone together: be the calm, cool centre, help everybody find a way forward. Before anyone else gets hurt.
Right now, this entire day has turned into what Teagan, with her delightful mouth, would call a clusterfuck. Reggie may not be with China Shop for much longer, but if she’s going to go out, then she’ll go out the right way. Not sitting here, cowering behind a screen.
She steels herself, then picks up the phone. In the past, her regular cab company was one that was specifically friendly to the disabled community, but they’re gone now – another victim of the quake. She doesn’t like having to use someone else, but she doesn’t have a choice right now.
“Hello? Yes, I’d like a cab please. Biggest one you got. Going to Ralph Dills Park. Yes, for right now.”
THIRTY
Teagan
Every so often, throughout this whole insane day, I’ve let myself fantasise about what I’d do when it was all over.
A really hot bath, with more bubbles in it than actual water. A beer. No, three beers. All lined up neatly. So cold the glass is frosted over. And a sandwich – nothing too fancy, maybe some pastrami and brown mustard on really good bread. With a pickle. Then sleep. At least twenty hours of deep, dark, dreamless sleep.
The most enticing part of this fantasy? Being alone. I haven’t been by myself since I was flying my makeshift hoverboard around an electrified storage unit, while coming down off a meth high. That did not, shall we say, recharge my introvert batteries.
I’m alone now, and I feel like I should be able to take some pleasure in that. Even just a little. Problem is, I’ve been separated from Nic and Leo, and locked in the grimmest room I’ve ever been in.
I mean that, by the way. It’s a concrete cube with a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and a single battered wooden chair. The concrete has some very suspicious stains on it. There are metal brackets bolted to the walls, as if this used to be a storeroom, but there are no shelves in sight. A cigarette packet lies crumpled in a corner.
It’s kind of ridiculous, actually. I didn’t exactly expect plush couches and complimentary fruit bowls, but I also didn’t expect Robert and his friends to hang out in a movie cliché. You know the ones I’m talking about, where the bad guys always have their lair in a warehouse filled with hanging chains and flickering lights and grimy, unwashed corridors? Well, the Legends clearly saw those movies and thought, Hey, we should get some of that action!
After they took us, I figured they’d bring us back to the hotel – the one with the meth lab. Turns out they’ve got a few spots, and the one we’re at now is an old train depot in Chinatown. They didn’t bother blindfolding us on the way over.
Which worries me. A lot.
The depot is a cavernous, echoing space, filled with silent train cars and lengths of rotting track. There’s trash everywhere, along with stacks of mouldy crates. There’s a big, rectangular central shed, sets of tracks running in and out of it. On the long sides of the rectangle are storerooms and offices, two floors of them on each side, with grimy windows looking out onto the main part of the shed. There’s a smell to the place, a sick tang: crack smoke and ozone and, weirdly, a hint of jasmine flower.
I didn’t dare fight back. Not even when they separated me from Nic and Leo. We still don’t know where Annie is, if she’s even in the same building.
Leo, thank fuck, was still out of it. Conscious, but super-woozy, and unable to walk. They didn’t make Nic put him down, but they did pull him to a different part of the depot. I told Nic to relax, that we’d figure this out. Charitably: I don’t think he believed me.
And now I’m just sitting here. Trying to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.
I’ve sent out my PK energy a dozen times, and there are plenty of things I could use it on. Hell, it would take me about half a second to open the door. The lock is a piece of shit.
Problem is, if I do that, then Annie dies. Also Nic.
So I sit. And try not to freak the fuck out. Try not to focus on my hunger and thirst and my leaden, aching tiredness and how deeply fucked I am.
I actually drift off a couple of times – microsleeps, the kind where your dipping head makes you snort yourself awake. Come to think of it, why am I actually staying awake? I’m not doing anything. I could probably take a nap right now, and—
My house has doors that open but never close, and it lies, oh it lies it lies.
I shudder, suddenly fully awake. Fucking Zigzag prick. What the hell does he want? Well, OK, he wants Leo… but why?
And I still can’t shake what he did to me. That fantasy world that he put me in felt so real. Like Jonas Schmidt was right there, ready to take me away from all of this.
He must have pulled that from my subconscious. I guess I really do still hold out hope for a hot German billionaire to swoop in and save the day. I don’t know whether to be appalled or just sad.
Footsteps. Shuffling noises outside the door. Low voices. I snap out of my thoughts, blinking, trying to look both relaxed and supremely pissed off.
The door opens, and a tiny woman comes in.
No, seriously. I thought I was short, but this woman is a good foot shorter than me. She looks like she’d disintegrate if you blew her a kiss. At least, that’s what I think until I see her face, the sour twist of her mouth, the hard lines around her even harder eyes, which look like chips of flint. Blow this woman a kiss, and she’d take your head off your shoulders.
Like the other Legends, she’s wearing a black motorcycle jacket with patches everywhere. The jacket is open over a grey shirt, buttoned at the collar and open at the bottom. Enormous black shades sit propped on her forehead, and she’s rocking thick dreads which go all the way down to her waist.
She moves to close the door. As she does so, one of the guards outside turns towards to her, his eyebrows raised, as if questioning her decision to be alone with me. She doesn’t even look at him. Just shuts the door, then leans against it, arms folded.
Studying me.
I don’t happen to like being studied. “And just who in the fuck are you?”
“I’m Pop,” she says.
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
She shrugs, as if she’s used to this reaction. “It’s short for poppet.” She has the faintest hint of accent – Haitian, maybe, or Jamaican. Annie would know, for sure.
I grit my teeth. If they’ve hurt her…
“Where are my friends?” I say.
“We’ll get to that.”
“Now would be good.”
She sc
ratches her chin. It’s a quick, precise movement with the index and middle fingers of her right hand. Scratch-scratch. Arms back to folded. Her eyes never leave mine.
The silence goes on for a little too long. I’m about to speak again when she says, “So. Superpowers, huh?”
I’m about to deny it, the reaction automatic. But fuck it. It’s not like she doesn’t know already.
I reach out with my PK, grab her glasses off her head, and float them over to me. Slipping them on without touching them.
I expect her to jump. Snatch at them. She doesn’t move. Instead, as the glasses settle onto my face, she gives me a single nod. “Nice.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, feeling like I told a joke where the punchline didn’t land. It doesn’t help that wearing dark glasses in a dark room is a dumb idea – there’s a reason Pop had them propped on her forehead. I have to stop myself from taking them off.
Pop’s wearing a watch – a big chunky Casio. It beeps softly, and she glances at it, then reaches behind her and raps on the door, still looking at me. Robert sticks his head in, and she whispers a few words to him. I’m guessing they’re along the lines of, So far so good, make the call with the codeword that prevents everybody getting murdered.
Man. Why couldn’t my parents have given me super hearing?
Robert shuts the door behind, and Pop turns back to me. “How is it you do what you do, exactly? Where’d you learn that?”
“Where are my people?” I say.
“Was it gamma rays or something?”
The sunglasses are getting to me. I reach up, prop them on my forehead. A petulant thought: You’re not getting these back. “Where. Are. My people?”
“And you’re like a crime fighter? LA’s finest?” Scratch-scratch. “What I don’t understand is what you’re doing returning to the scene of… well, not the crime, but you get what I mean. We had people all over the city looking for you, but I didn’t exactly expect you to come back to the bridge. I put a couple of the boys there just as a precaution, and then your friend walks right past us. And what’s with the kid?”
