by S. S. Segran
“I get it,” he snapped. “It’s because I’m supposed to be that guy, right? The glue of the group? That’s what Mariah called me back in Tanzania.” He tapped his temple. “It’s always on my mind now because, man, talk about pressure. It means I’m the person who has to lift everyone else up when life goes to hell. But here’s the thing, alright? I was just me, doing what I do, being who I am. This wasn’t supposed to become some kind of official position. I never asked for that responsibility.”
“Welcome to the real world.”
“Also,” Kody steamrolled, “you’re a hypocrite. You tell me not to lose my humor but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly the life of the party. I’d bet the Godfather has more humor than you do.”
Victor’s gaze wandered around the lot of the motel before resettling on the him. Kody nearly retreated at the ice he saw reflecting back.
“I can’t argue with you on that,” Victor said flatly. “But if you think you’re allowed to slack off on your role, you’re gravely mistaken.”
Kody’s blood reached its boiling point. “Allowed to? Who gave you the right to pin my so-called role on me and force me to keep it there? You sound like an absolute—”
Victor leaned in, and this time Kody did take a step back. “Understand this now,” the Sentry said, voice disconcertingly soft. “I know you’ve been through a lot. The virus played its dirty little game on you and you’re stuck with the aftereffects. It’s one thing to take time for recovery, but it’s entirely another thing to drop the ball.”
“This isn’t what I wanted!”
“When you accepted your role as a Chosen One, your personal wants no longer mattered. There’s an evil out here ready to plunge the world into fire and you are required to do what you can to stop it. That means keeping your team’s spirits up. That means being there for them when you’d rather sink into the ground and disappear. That means putting them before you. That, at least, you’re all familiar with.”
Kody looked down, wavering between his glare and a resigned frown. Victor turned and walked away, then spun around and unleashed another concussive blast. Kody only just managed to duck sideways in time. His senses heightened immediately and, without thinking, he sprinted forward with a roar. Victor swept his hand again, letting loose a new wave of energy. Kody dodged it with a swift pivot and struck the Sentry’s chest with his staff, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled. He raised his weapon with a triumphant yell but Victor easily recovered with a back handspring. It always startled Kody how panther-like the man was, unhindered by his broad shoulders and solid build.
The Sentry hunkered low into a fighter’s stance. Kody bounced on his toes, preparing for another attack. Victor lifted a hand—and snapped his fingers. A high-frequency wave shot out and Kody dropped to his knees, staff clattering to the ground as he covered his ears.
“That’s cheating!” he yelped.
“You think Reyor won’t use your abilities against you?” Victor advanced, sending out a second microblast.
Kody pressed his palms harder against his ears, almost compressing his own head. This guy is nuts! He clenched his teeth. But . . . he’s not wrong. Alright, think. He’s got heightened hearing too, but somehow he’s not affected. Which means . . .
Kneeling forward until his forehead touched the asphalt, Kody removed his hands from his ears, fingers curling. He wanted to scream with every microblast Victor directed at him, but he pushed his fists into the hard ground and closed his eyes, ears throbbing painfully.
Breathe. Breathe.
He focused, toying with the levels of his abilities. If he could turn them up, surely he could turn them down too. Another microblast made his jaws clatter but he forced himself to filter out the ultrasonic sound.
He didn’t know how long he’d been kneeling, but when pure silence finally filled him, he straightened up. Victor, fingers poised in mid-snap, just barely tilted his head in question. Kody pointed at his ears, shaking a hand to indicate he couldn’t hear anything. Satisfaction crossed Victor’s face. He pulled the boy to his feet, and Kody cautiously unblocked his auditory senses.
“You’re fast,” the Sentry said. “Took me almost three weeks to master that trick fully.”
It was several beats later when Kody realized that he had been praised. It wasn’t outright, but it was one of the few positive things to come out of Victor’s mouth since being assigned to the friends. Kody told himself that he didn’t care for the man’s approval, but the pride that swelled in his chest stoked his annoyance.
I guess he’s trying to help, in his own way, he admitted begrudgingly. But why does he have to be so difficult? Marshall would never be so . . . what even is the word for this guy?
Pushing the staff’s lever again, he extended the lethal ends and poked one of the blades into the ground, scraping at the asphalt until little pieces came free, his brow furrowed as he recalled the heated argument that had taken place at the Lodge. Or rather, the argument he’d eavesdropped upon. Victor had made his anger clear to Marshall, deploring the fact that the Chosen Ones of Dema-Ki’s prophecy were so young. In a way, Kody had to agree.
Why aren’t prophecies ever supposed to be fulfilled by someone who has more life experience? he wondered. Like an adult who at least knows how taxes work.
“Are you gonna admire your dirty shoes all day, or do I have to use my blasts to get your attention?” Victor asked, tone dripping with impatience.
“Sorry.” Kody spun the staff around his knuckles. “As much as I like training, what are we actually gonna do? Just sit and twiddle our thumbs? That’s exactly what we did in Dema-Ki before heading out here.”
Victor held out his hands, ready to summon his abilities. “Unless Reyor slips up and gives us something new, it rests on Dominique to turn something over.”
“But—”
“I don’t like this either, alright? But every lead we had has been burned. The only thing we can do now is keep your abilities sharp while we wait.”
Kody sighed. “Sure, whatever, I guess.”
Victor narrowed his eyes, then seemed to decide on something. “I’m going to show you two unarmed offensive moves. We’ll spar five times, and if you’ve picked it up by then, we’ll call it a day.”
Under Victor’s meticulous, exacting guidance, Kody spent the next hour absorbing, practicing, perfecting, and finally scrimmaging with the Sentry. He lost the first couple of rounds spectacularly, started to find his footing in the third, and properly executed his new combat techniques in the last two. By the end, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself hardly out of breath, almost on par with Victor’s dogged endurance.
The man jerked his chin once, then swept up his jacket and slung it over a shoulder. “Not bad. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
“Righty-o.” Kody waited until Victor had left, then headed over to the motel’s drained pool beside the parking lot. He dropped himself in one of the lounge chairs, pressing his hands against his face as the Sentry’s words played in his head.
There’s an evil out here. You are required to do what you can to stop it. Keep your team’s spirits up. Be there for them when you’d rather sink into the ground and disappear. Put them before you.
He had a lot of thinking to do tonight.
Dominique Mboya paced around the exterior of the small hut, sandaled feet kicking up red dirt. She stole glances through the windows on either end of the abode each time she passed them. Inside, a hunched figure was bound to a chair and gagged. Two men and a woman stood by him, machetes on their hips and guns in their hands. At the entrance, a pair of guards were similarly armed. They were not Sentries, but good friends of hers who very well could have been.
This has taken far too long, she thought. Dominique was patient, but after an unproductive month of interrogation, her tolerance had worn dangerously thin.
She had reached out to Victor for help; he’d been the one to interrogate Tony, the fiend who was suspected of Jag’s capture. He�
��d tried to be of assistance but even he admitted that getting information voluntarily from those deeply entrenched in Reyor’s cause was an impossibility. He’d had to trick Tony into escaping so he could follow the young man to their quarry.
That left Dominique with shamefully limited choices. She despised inflicting torment, but to have a chance at stopping Reyor, the Chosen Ones had to be whole—all five of them. Which meant she had to do whatever it took to get answers.
As she rounded the back of the hut again, a hoarse voice called out in French. “Where is she?”
Dominique sprinted around front to greet the newcomer. A ragged old man in a colorful dashiki and dusty pants pointed his walking stick at her as she appeared. “Ah, there she is.” His deep-set eyes lit up. “Hello again. I was told my services were needed once more.”
The Sentry straightened her blouse and dipped her head. “I wish we didn’t have to meet under such circumstances, Butumbi. But my hand has been forced.”
“Mmh. Well, let’s not waste time, then. Is he still in there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Get your friends to step out after they’ve shut the windows tightly.”
Dominique gave the orders, and the guards within the hut emerged a few moments later. They nodded toward the old man before taking up positions around the structure. Butumbi drew out a half-face mask from his tattered, handwoven satchel. “Okay!” he announced. “Time to get to work.” He strode inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
Dominique released a breath, skimming her fingers over her braids that were pulled back in a low ponytail. Normally she kept her hair in a single tress, but her hands had itched to do something while she’d tried to chip away at her captive’s resilience.
The guard beside her, a muscular man with soft eyes, gave her a reassuring smile. “Butumbi, despite his archaic ways, knows what he’s doing. If he says that attempting the Smoke of Truth again will not be fatal, then you should believe him. The concern only arises if you cannot learn more from him now and need to do it a third time.”
Standing nearly the same height as the six-foot-tall man, Dominique matched his smile. “It seems,” she said, “that you not only volunteer your services, but you also impart solace. It’s good to work with you again, Jean Paul.”
“Likewise, my friend.”
A guard on Dominique’s other side stepped closer. “She brings the sun with her wherever she goes. After what happened here, it is certainly needed.”
“Quite so. We’ve lost much.” The first guard gazed at the abandoned structures around them. “We must rely on each other now, more than we ever have.”
Dominique folded her arms, tucking her ear against her shoulder. She knew better than most the loss that had taken place in the Democratic Republic of Congo. She’d spent a few months in a village that had been used as Phoenix’s testing ground for the aging strain of their virus. She shut her eyes against the flood of images; corpses and burials. None had been spared, not even the children. Due to immunity bequeathed by her Dema-Ki heritage, she had been forced to watch the members of her temporary home succumb to the illness until she was the last one standing. Survivor’s guilt ran through her veins as much as her own blood did.
A lump formed in her throat, though whether from grief or fury she could not tell. She was grateful when the door behind her burst open and Butumbi shuffled out, copper-colored smoke fleeing the confines of the hut behind him. If she had remained with her thoughts any longer, they would have left her a weeping mess.
The old man made a futile attempt to wave away the fumes with his stick, then removed his mask and took a gulp of fresh air. “Ah, much better. Dominique, he is ready.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, approaching the entrance.
“Yes. His pupils are dilated all the way this time. Now hurry, you only have a five-minute window into his mind.”
Dominique, jaw tightening, stalked through the open door. Butumbi’s footsteps trailed hers.
The Smoke of Truth was an old trick she had seen the shaman use once before, when she was just a child. She did not know what was in the fumes he produced, and she did not want to find out. It had a decent enough success rate but wasn’t anywhere nearly as reliable as she would have liked—nor was it safe. The risk of the person being questioned going into a seizure and slipping into a coma or even death increased with every use. Dominique had already employed the tactic on the square-faced man seated before her a week ago, but he’d fought the effects vehemently.
Vladimir Ajajdif squinted up at her through the abating smoke. When his vision adjusted, he snarled through his gag. Dominique yanked the cloth out. “I have questions,” she said.
“What, this again?” He worked his tongue around his mouth. “Once wasn’t enough for you?”
“I need answers. The smoke will give them since you won’t.”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
She stooped down to lock eyes with him, then smiled. “Oh, Butumbi, you’re right. His pupils are dilated.”
“And?” Ajajdif demanded.
“That means the smoke is working, Mr. Ajajdif. It means I’ll be getting what I want.”
A barrage of Russian curses spilled out of him, ending with a wad of spit aimed at her feet.
Dominique grabbed Ajajdif by the collar of his shirt. “I don’t have time for this.” She tightened her grip, constricting his breath until veins appeared in his neck. “Don’t fight the smoke. Now, where is Jag Sanchez?”
Ajajdif scowled through the auburn coils falling into his eyes, mouth clamped shut. The beard he’d grown over the past month trembled with the rage that tautened his face.
Dominique’s lip curled. She reached out to the last of the fumes and scooped it toward him, pressing her palm and fingers against his mouth and nose. He struggled but she applied just enough strength that he would know his efforts were in vain. “Where is Jag Sanchez?” she repeated.
Ajajdif gasped for air when she removed her hand. “In a secure place.”
“Where?”
“One of the Phoenix sites, probably.”
“And where are these sites?”
“Anywhere across the planet where we operate.”
“Do not be vague with me. Which site is he most likely to be in?”
“It wouldn’t be an actual Phoenix site.”
“You just said . . .” Dominique shook her head, growling. “Why wouldn’t he be at a Phoenix site if you just said he was?”
“Phoenix is a cover—it would be at an Arcane Ventures facility.” Ajajdif looked like he wanted to punch himself with every word that left him.
“Arcane Ventures? This is where the work to take down the world happens, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I’m assuming these sites are the Sanctuaries? Is that where Jag would be?”
Ajajdif thrashed his head. “No, no, no! You can take your questions and shove them—”
“Is that where we can find him?” Dominique pressed.
He clenched his jaw before grinding out an irate response. “Possibly.”
“Which one would he have been taken to?”
“Any of them. I wouldn’t know.”
“How could you not? Aren’t you part of the Inner Circle?”
“Being in the Inner Circle doesn’t guarantee knowledge of everything.”
“How many Sanctuaries are there?”
“Six.”
“Where are they? I want the exact locations.”
“You have two minutes left,” Butumbi warned in Dominique’s ear. “Then he will become unconscious.”
“Merde.” Dominique easily tipped Ajajdif’s chair back with a finger until his bound feet were swinging under him. “The locations! Where are the Sanctuaries?”
Ajajdif gnashed his teeth, fighting the smoke in his system until he was purple in the face, but the struggle didn’t last long. He released a gasp, followed by a list of countries: Mali, Brazil, Kazakhstan, the United States, an
d New Zealand. The Sentries were already aware thanks to Victor’s efforts a couple of months prior, but what they didn’t know was where exactly in those countries the Sanctuaries were hidden.
She waved her hand impatiently. “I meant their precise locations. Nearby towns, landmarks, anything.”
Ajajdif threw his head from side to side again, bellowing at the top of his lungs to stop himself from talking, but the words still spilled out of his mouth. By the end, he was left with bleeding lips where he’d bitten them in an effort to silence himself. He looked violent, even murderous, as he revealed the directions to the Sanctuaries.
Dominique glanced through the notes she had taken on her phone, frowning. There was one location he hadn’t disclosed. She grabbed the back of his neck. “The Heart, Mr. Ajajdif. The sixth Sanctuary. You only made mention of it but did not go into detail. Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” he retorted. “I’ve only been there once, and was blindfolded before arriving and departing. My movement there was restricted.”
“Surely someone knows the location.”
“Of course.”
“Who?”
“The Boss.”
Dominique closed her eyes. “That’s not going to help. Who else? Your Human Resource director, maybe? Dr. Nate?”
Ajajdif spat at the ground again. “Go to hell.”
“Sure, and I’ll take you with me. What about the pilots? They would have to know.”
He roared at her in defiance, muscles in his neck and face straining. Then the sound cut off in a single, faint breath. His eyes stretched wide for a moment before rolling back into his head. His body contracted in spasms, spine arching in.
Dominique rushed forward and undid his bindings. “What’s happening? He was only supposed to fall unconscious!”
“I don’t know!” Butumbi hobbled up to her. “The smoke usually becomes unsafe only after the third use!”
