by Deven Kane
Connor gulped, his hand unconsciously seeking the locket around his neck. Darcy kept the controller. Cannon fodder.
He made his decision.
“There’s an emergency meeting of the Council—or what’s left of it—in a few hours.” The words tumbled out faster as he spoke. “They aren’t sure who they can trust, but Darcy’s proven his loyalty by getting a node. He’ll see who shows up for the meeting, compile a list . . .”
The words caught in his throat. He overheard someone retching in the kitchen, and he felt like he might be next.
Garr steadied him, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. “Darcy’s going to program our Implants with targets after tonight’s meeting.” It was not a question.
Connor nodded, gulping another breath. He stared at the carpet.
“We can’t stay here.” Mateo repeated his earlier warning. “Darcy’s objectives have become clear, and therefore, so have our own.”
Garr stood, pulling Connor to his feet. “Whatever we’re going to do, it has to be tonight, before Darcy figures out who his next targets are.”
He directed his last question to Connor. “Where’s this meeting supposed to take place?”
Connor paused, taking a deep breath. I’m committed now. “The Citadel. It’s not far from the Council Chamber. Darcy gave me the codes to bypass the security locks.”
Don sheathed his knife. “Darcy may have been planning to activate Connor’s Implant last, once we were all past the Citadel’s security. There’s no way to know.”
“Darcy’s timing is irrelevant.” Mateo’s scanner faded, and the room returned to its former dusky atmosphere. “What is significant, however, is that the meeting will take place inside the Citadel.”
Don eyed him with unconcealed suspicion. “Why would that make any difference?”
Connor found his voice again. “The Givers are there. They never leave. The Citadel’s their fortress.”
Don burst into incredulous laughter. “The news just keeps getting better. We’re supposed to break into this Citadel before Darcy pushes the button on our Implants—oh, and by the way, the Givers might pop by for drinks and dessert.”
Mateo nodded in the semi-darkness. “The Citadel is also where Trackers are created.”
“Darcy was told to go there for the Council meeting,” Connor said, addressing Garr. “It wasn’t his idea.”
Sheila re-entered the gathering room. “A new truck just pulled up to the curb.”
Jane followed on her heels, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Looks like Logan found an alternate means of transportation.”
“We’ve wasted too much time already.” Mateo stalked to the door. “We must rendezvous with the others.”
The Colonel nodded, joining Mateo by the exit. “First, the Citadel, and then the Givers.” He paused. “Too bad Megan’s enhancements don’t work like they used to.”
Connor stopped dead in his tracks. A hollow sensation in his stomach threatened to engulf him. “What did you say?”
Don answered, looking surprised. “Megan’s enhancements—you know, from when she was a bodyguard for the Givers.” He turned away, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but right about now, we could really use her Tracker abilities.”
Connor’s inner world crumbled.
Megan—a Tracker? Impossible! The Givers wouldn’t dare. Darcy told me what the savages . . .
He stumbled after the Colonel, numb. Cannon fodder.
Sixty-Six
AUBREY FOUND JANE SLUMPED in the corner of a small examining room. She sat motionless on the floor. One hand covered her face, while the other fidgeted with a strap on the rucksack beside her. She didn’t look up as Aubrey entered.
Aubrey flicked on the overhead lights, bathing the room in a sterile glow. She stood just inside the door, leaning on the frame.
“I have no memory of this place.” Jane’s voice was muffled behind her hand. “But I guess I was here, last night. This is the hellhole where they do the Implants, isn’t it?”
Aubrey shivered as she glanced around the utilitarian room. A sink mounted on the wall, a chair, a folding cot, and a faint but distinct odor she couldn’t identify.
“That’s what Mateo says,” she replied, shivering. “I don’t remember being here, either, but this must be where it began for me. I guess Mateo’s right—it’s the last place the Hoarders would think to look for us.”
Jane dropped her hand, staring at the ceiling, shaking her head in a slow arc.
“Darcy.” She snarled, baring her teeth. “I wish you’d shot him when you had the chance.”
Aubrey stared at the floor, unsure how to respond. She heard a distant echo of Doc Simon’s voice in her head. You’re not a murderer.
Jane reached down, opening the flap of her rucksack, and rummaged through its contents. Aubrey tensed as she pulled out her handgun, cradling it in both hands.
She stood and approached Aubrey, holding out the gray-blue pistol, handle-first.
“Take it.” She shoved the weapon into Aubrey’s reluctant hands. “Keep it with you, all the time. No exceptions.”
Aubrey’s hand shook. She stared at the gun with horrid fascination. “Jane, I can’t. I hate what he did to us, everything he stands for, but . . .”
“It’s not for Darcy,” Jane interrupted, temper flaring. She took a shaky breath, controlling herself with visible effort. “It’s your turn, Country Girl. If you see me start to change—if my Implant takes over . . .”
She gestured at the gun, her voice filled with loathing. “I won’t be one of Darcy’s brainwashed assassins. Promise me: if you see it starting, you’ll use this.”
“Jane, no . . .” Aubrey tried to push the gun back into her hands. “Doc can remove the Implants, remember?”
Jane laughed. “Doc’s a long way from here.” She lifted her hands, palm out, refusing to accept the gun.
“You couldn’t shoot me.” Aubrey looked up from the gun, her eyes pleading. “When my Implant activated, you had the chance, but you couldn’t go through with it.”
Jane shrugged, dropping her hands as she backed away. “Then you’ll have to be stronger than I was.”
Sixty-Seven
“HOW LONG BEFORE WE can resume the surgeries?”
Doctor Campbell knew she was treading on dangerous ground with her persistent questions. The tension inside the Citadel’s medical facility had worsened of late, especially after the Council Chamber bombing.
Ethan frowned, irritated by the interruption. He pretended to be engrossed by his digital clipboard. He was aware, as was the doctor, of the nearby presence of their supervisor.
She sighed in frustration at his mouse-like subservience. He seemed perfectly incapable, or unwilling, to do any without the Councilor’s permission.
Maybe I should turn you into a Tracker. At least you’d finally have a spine.
Councilor Sterne overheard her insolent tone—as she’d intended. He left his vantage point by the floor-to-ceiling windows and their view of the storm-wracked downtown. Dusk had arrived early under gray skies and heavy rain, and at least a third of the Enclave remained without power.
“Are you worried the Givers will have no further need of your services?” The Councilor strode across the polished floor to stand on the opposite side of the operating table. “Or, more to the point, that they may have lost patience with your unreliable production in recent weeks?”
A tremor of anxiety shot through the doctor. She glanced involuntarily at the dull black walls of the Givers’ private chamber. It was rare for the aliens to leave their inner sanctum—a citadel within the Citadel—and privately, Doctor Campbell preferred it that way.
“You must mean my ninety-five percent success rate.” She camouflaged her trepidation behind a façade of professional indignation. She was the best at her job, and she knew it. But Sterne’s whims could be unpredictable, and the Givers were just so . . . alien.
“And
the other five percent have been unusually spectacular failures,” Sterne replied with a condescending look. The doctor wished she could wipe the smirk from his smug face. “Never, in the recorded history of the Enclave, has it been necessary to dispatch Trackers to hunt down malfunctioning units. You’ve changed that.”
The doctor leaned against the edge of the operating table, her posture deliberately nonchalant. “Your memory’s a little selective, Councilor.” The surgical lights gave her countenance an odd glow. “I’m also responsible for creating the successful units which tracked them down.”
Ethan coughed politely into his hand, interrupting their dance of mutual dislike. “Sir, if I may? The other members of the Council will arrive soon. Perhaps we should adjourn to the conference room to prepare.”
Adjourn? She rolled her eyes at his pretentiousness. Are you trying to impress the boss? Your groveling is pathetic and obvious.
Sterne nodded. “After our tragic loses in the Chamber disaster, this evening’s gathering will be a delicate matter. Navigating the changes will require some finesse.”
He smirked across the surgical table, relishing the chance to remind the doctor of her lower role. She knew his methods. “You may finish sterilizing your operating theater, Maggie, and then you may leave. The Givers have no pressing need for your presence this evening.”
He spun on his heel and strode through the heavy door which separated the medical facility from the conference room. His obsequious assistant followed dutifully in his wake. Neither looked back as the door closed.
Doctor Campbell was alone again in her medical domain, fuming at Sterne’s patronizing use of her given name.
“As you wish, Councilor,” she muttered under her breath, despising them both.
Sixty-Eight
THE DOOR TO DARCY’S after-hours clinic opened, admitting Garr and his companions. Megan turned at the sound, and was immediately drawn to the haggard face of a young Hoarder.
She recognized him. Connor—Darcy’s protégé. He stared at her, mouth agape, his fingers clasping a locket on a chain around his neck.
“Megan . . .” He took an awkward step forward, his eyes searching her face. “They told me you were dead.”
She waited to hear more, then realized he expected a reply. She hoped her smile was reassuring. “Well, you can’t believe everything you hear.”
She saw his confused expression, and regretted her tactic. Don’s the jokester, not me. She cocked her head to one side and tried a different approach. “You seem to assume that I know you. Why is that?”
“You’re my sister.” His face flushed red, eyes brimming with tears. He hastened to unclasp the silver chain, fingers fumbling in his eagerness to open the locket.
Megan sensed the palpable shock from the Runners, felt their eyes boomerang from her to the young Hoarder. Garr recovered first, and quickly herded his companions into the next room. Out of the corner of her eye, Megan caught Sheila’s troubled look as she eased the door shut.
Connor succeeded in prying the locket open, holding it out with both hands.
Megan bent to inspect the tiny picture, astonished to see a younger version of herself. She studied the image from several angles, but it failed to elicit either memories or emotion.
She looked up to meet Connor’s gaze, and recognized the anguish in his eyes.
“I believe you,” she said, touched by his obvious distress. “I can visually confirm our genetic resemblance.”
She handed the locket back to him. He eased it shut with obvious reluctance.
“But you don’t remember me.” He sighed deeply when she shook her head, fastening the chain around his neck. “Do you remember anything at all? Hunting trips, our villa . . .” His voice caught and he swallowed hard. “Mom and Dad?”
Megan wished there was something she could say to ease his disappointment. But this isn’t the time.
“My memories began on the day I became a Tracker.” She gave him the unvarnished truth. “For five years, I served as a bodyguard for the Givers. Everything before that is a blank.”
She paused, choosing her words with care. “You know my name, and you have this picture of me. You say I’m your sister, and I believe you. But I have no memory of it.”
“Five years . . .” He looked stricken, as if she’d slapped him when he expected a warm embrace. “So much has changed.”
He laughed nervously, his voice cracking. “You used to be taller than me . . .”
Megan laid a hand on his sternum, feeling the hard lump of the locket beneath her palm. “Connor, somewhere inside you, you have an Implant. Darcy will activate it, tonight, if we don’t act quickly. Stopping him, and the Givers, must be our first priority. Anything else is a distraction.”
Connor flinched when she mentioned his Implant. He gulped a quick breath and nodded. “I know. I’m just in shock. I mean, they told me you died, and then, less than a month ago—out of nowhere—I saw you. Ever since, I’ve been trying to imagine . . .”
His voice trailed off under her steady gaze.
“You’re right.” He nodded, straightening his shoulders. “We’ll have time later. No distractions.”
Megan dropped her hand. He crossed the room and opened the door. She heard Sheila’s voice, and Garr’s quiet response, although she couldn’t make out their exact words.
Connor held the door ajar, waving her in. Megan nodded solemnly and ducked past him.
She found herself hoping Connor would survive the night. He seemed like he’d make a good brother.
She banished the thought. Nothing could interfere with her new Quest.
Sixty-Nine
“ACCORDING TO MATEO’S intel, the Citadel’s basic layout looks like this.” Garr sketched a diagram on a scrap of paper. “It’s four floors high, hexagonal in design, with a central core running from ground level to the top of the structure.”
“Hexagon means it’s got six sides.” Amos poked Don in the ribs. “And a hole in the middle. Like a doughnut.”
“I know what a hexagon is.” Don nodded at Garr’s sketch. “And it’s not a hole, it’s a structure within the structure.”
He caught Amos’s quizzical look. “Connor told me about it on the way over. As Darcy’s adopted son, he’s got the inside scoop.”
“Lucky for us,” Jane muttered. She and Aubrey hadn’t said much since re-joining the group, each appearing lost in her own thoughts.
Amos felt a twinge of unease as he stole a glance at her. There’s no good way to find out you’ve been Implanted. I just about lost my mind.
Garr scribbled, shading the circle at the center of the hexagon, and adding lines from the center to the outside. The diagram resembled the spokes of a wagon wheel. The Colonel used his pencil as a pointer, indicating each section between the spokes.
“Everything connected to the Givers and their technology is stored inside this building.” His pencil tapped from section to section. “There are meeting rooms, like any other office complex. And depending which floor you’re on, there’s also facilities for weapons manufacturing, an armory, and research and development labs for their unique technology.”
He paused, his expression grim. “And, on the top floor, the surgical facility where the condemned are re-made into Trackers. As an added bonus, that’s also where the Givers have their personal bunker.”
A simmering silence followed. If Megan had any reaction to Garr’s blunt recitation, she gave no indication.
“What about the nodes?” Sheila asked, her brow furrowed. “Are we assuming they’re manufactured and monitored from the Citadel?”
Connor spoke for the first time. “They’ll be analyzed by another department in the Surveillance Division. But the main signal will be broadcast from the Citadel. And the nodes are manufactured there, as well.”
“The Givers are pretty tight-fisted with their toys.” Don peered over Amos’s shoulder at the diagram. “Let’s hope alien paranoia works in our favor.”
Garr le
aned his full weight on the table. “Don raises an important point. The Givers are, first and foremost, aliens. We know nothing about how they think, what they feel, or why they do what they do. We don’t dare assume anything about their objectives, or try to second-guess what they may or may not do.”
He paused for emphasis, looking around the cramped clinic. “We have two objectives. Stop Darcy from activating our Implants, and put an end to the Givers’ ability to use their technology against us.”
Amos leaned forward, jabbing a finger at Garr’s drawing. “We take out the Citadel, and no more Trackers. We take out Darcy, and no more Implants. It’s that simple.”
Amos saw Connor’s stunned reaction out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t care. Do the math, kid. Your father doesn’t care who he Implants. You should know that by now.
“Once we arrive at the Citadel, we’ll split into teams.” Garr took decisive charge. Amos recognized the subtle shift in the Colonel’s voice and demeanor. “Connor has the Citadel’s security codes, so getting inside will be relatively easy. Darcy will be focused on his strategy, but he has no idea we’re on to him. He won’t be expecting us.”
He jotted notes, point-form, outlining their game plan. “Most of the staff will have left by the time we arrive. The only people present should be a skeleton crew and what’s left of the Council. And the Givers, of course.”
“Mateo’s gone ahead,” Sheila said. “He took Logan with him. They’re Trackers—they’ll get there faster on foot than we will in vehicles.”
Don raised his hand. “What about weapons? Knives aren’t much against the kind of firepower Hoarders have.”
Megan interrupted from the opposite end of the table. “The doors are equipped with built-in scanners.” Her warning silenced everyone. “Any advanced weaponry will activate the security alarms.”
Connor jumped in on the heels of her sober comment. “But once we’re inside the Citadel, we’ll have access to any weapons we need.”
