The Preston Six Collection: (Book 1, 2 and 3)

by Ryan, Matt

  She stopped and took on a big smile, full of pride and teeth. “You know how many terrorists have gotten through my walls, my check points, and facial recognition?” She raised an eyebrow, but Joey kept silent. “None. And now, I have a mere kid strapped into a chair in front of me, and I know just by looking in your eyes, you weren’t the one to organize this. You weren’t the one to fund this. So I have to ask, who did?”

  Unitas moved closer and Joey tried to move back from her advance.

  “Silence then, that’s fine.” She shrugged. “You know, your friends are talking right now. The first person to tell us about the whole operation will get a deal.”

  “Better take the deal, kid,” Larry said through a yawn, leaning back in the chair.

  Joey thought of Simon’s deal and pushed the thought from his mind. She said his friends were talking. They were alive. It was the only information he wanted.

  Unitas frowned at Larry, and then returned her attention to Joey. He swallowed, feeling like a mouse stuck in a glue trap.

  “You’re the mutant with the speed, right? I watched video of you moving your friends away from the bomb. Some are even calling you a hero. But you know what I think?” She moved closer to his face. “You’re cowards. You and the others from Mutant Isle, thinking the city is the cause of your problems.” She huffed, rolling her eyes.

  “I didn’t come from Mutant Isle.”

  “He speaks. Oh joy,” she said, clapping her hands in fake excitement. “So where would a strange group of people like you come from then?” She batted her eyes and held her hands under her chin, staring at him.

  Harris mentioned the island once before, some sort of place for Marcus to send his failed experiments. Was he a mutant?

  “Arrack,” Joey said. It was the last place he came from. Did people know about other planets like Arrack?

  Larry, sighing, pulled a Panavice from his jacket pocket and let out a long breath as he moved his fingers across his screen. “Nope, no such place.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she said. “I don’t like when people lie to me.”

  “That bomb wasn’t even ours. We were trying to get away from it.” Joey struggled with the straps.

  They both laughed. Joey wasn’t sure what was so funny.

  “Oh man, you’ve got to be more original,” Larry said. “I suppose that walking biological weapon with you wasn’t yours either.”

  Joey’s mouth opened to say Lucas’s name, but he slammed it shut, pursing his lips. He made eye contact with Unitas and quickly looked away.

  “Are you scared of little ol’ me?” Unitas questioned, putting one finger in her mouth and prowling toward him.

  Joey wanted to scream. If Poly were in the room, she could calm him down and get him through it. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her encouraging face, asking him if he was okay.

  Unitas snapped her fingers. “Stay awake, eyes open. Who helped you set this up?”

  Her face popped into focus very close to his, when he opened his eyes. She had a whimsical look plastered back on her face, as if she were having fun with him.

  “I want to see my friends,” Joey demanded, not answering her question.

  “Oh yeah, for sure. Let me see,” Unitas said. She moved close to Joey and raised her hand. “I have all five of them right here.” She held her five fingers in front of his face, made a fist, and slammed it into his groin.

  Joey jumped in the chair with pain. He tried to grab at it or squeeze his legs together but he couldn’t. The pain went deep into his gut and he felt sick. Tears fell down his face, as the pain radiated up into his stomach. He wanted to scream, but held it back, causing spit to dribble out of his mouth.

  “Uh-oh, we’ve got a crier,” Larry said, looking at his Panavice.

  “I’ve had enough with the formalities. If you don’t answer these next questions, I’ll have to get nasty,” Unitas hissed. “Let’s start simple. What’s your name?”

  “Joey Foust.” He didn’t want to set the woman off again. Telling the truth felt simpler.

  Unitas looked back at Larry as he typed in the information. Larry shook his head.

  “No really,” he pleaded. “That’s my name.”

  Her face contorted with anger. She moved close to him with her fist clutched. He tightened his body and squeezed his eyes shut. She punched him in the stomach, and this time, he threw up on her sleeve. He coughed and wanted to wipe his mouth, but his hands wouldn’t move. She took off her jacket with vomit on it and laid it on the floor.

  “I said I don’t like to be lied to, didn’t I?” she hissed, the playful look disappearing from her face.

  His stomach and crotch throbbed as he tried to see through the tears in his eyes. The sour taste of vomit filled his mouth. Unitas pulled a cloth from her jacket on the floor and wiped Joey’s mouth clean.

  “Can’t stand a dirty mouth,” she said.

  “One last chance here, Joey, before we start to have some real fun.”

  She knelt down to her jacket on the floor and pulled out a black pouch from the inside pocket. She placed the pouch on Joey’s lap and unrolled it. Stuck into the black pouches were long, metal objects. Some had pointed tips and hooks, while others looked like scalpels. Joey shook in the chair, trying to get away from them.

  “I hope you’re not a screamer like Poly,” she said.

  “No,” Joey yelled.

  Spit frothed at his mouth and his face heated with rage. He pulled on his arms, trying to find wiggle room, but there wasn’t any. The straps dug into the soft skin of his wrists as he kept pulling.

  “Well, maybe I do.” Unitas winked. “I hope, for your sake, you start being honest with us. Give us the names of the people who helped you with this stunt and you can be the one who signs the deal.” She laughed. “You may even live to tell your cellmates about it.”

  Joey’s thoughts raced for an answer not involving Harris.

  “The pain in your balls, kid, will be a distant, lovely memory if you get this one wrong,” Larry said, thumbing through his Panavice. He had yet to look at Joey.

  “We acted alone. There’s no one else,” Joey said, breathing hard, scanning Unitas’s eyes for validation.

  Unitas’ grin widened, showing perfect teeth. “Wrong,” she said gleefully. “You know, we can make this fun.” She ran a finger up his chest, her nail landing gently under his chin. “No? Too bad, you’re kind of cute.” Touching each metal pick with a finger, she made her selection and pulled it from the black bag.

  Joey internally reeled back, giving her a pleading look for mercy, but found nothing behind her eyes. She looked at him like an object to play with, a thing on a mantle, a tchotchke on her desk. The deep fear that comes with knowing you are going to die started to building inside him.

  “This is level one of York’s kit,” she said. “Most detectives swear by their shots and computers to tell them what they need to know, but what fun is that?”

  She smiled, almost giddy. Then she moved the sharp objects to a table and sat sideways on his lap, with the metal pick in her hand. He tried to move away as she paraded the metal object close to his eye. He couldn’t escape the nightmare.

  “No, please, you can’t do this,” Joey said.

  She lowered the shiny metal pick, but his eyes followed its path as the sharp tip brushed against his shoulder. He tensed up; her arm hauled back quickly, and then plunged the metal into his shoulder muscle. A sharp, shooting pain went down his arm and to his spine. His hands gripped the armrests and he screamed, but kept his mouth closed. Then she twisted it and he howled in pain. The metal rod slid out of his shoulder and the pain diminished. Sweat ran into his eyes and he breathed deep, quick breaths.

  “Who shot Poly?” she asked.

  The room spun and he tried to focus long enough to answer. “Simon… Simon Vang.”

  Unitas backed away from him. For the first time, he saw a questioning look cross her face. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers—didn’t ha
ve this one figured out.

  “Simon Vang—out of all the people in the world, why would you use his name?”

  “He needs me to keep Marcus Malliden alive. He shot Poly just to show me he could.” The truth. They must see he wasn’t lying. His eyes begged them to believe. He couldn’t take anymore.

  Larry seemed interested. He leaned forward on his swivel chair, and for the first time, looked at Joey. “Son, you shouldn’t be dropping names like Marcus. That’s not going to help you here,” he said.

  “Simon’s been hunting us, and if you hurt us, he won’t be happy,” Joey said. He watched as they looked at each other, then Larry shrugged.

  “You little mutant puke, how dare you use his name, trying to save yourself.” The giddy look left her face, replaced with rage. “Level three.”

  There was no fanfare with this selection as she picked the metal spike and stabbed it into his knee, just behind the kneecap. He screamed and felt her moving the metal around inside. He bellowed again, as she dug it in. Nothing in the world mattered but the pain. It burned out all traces of himself and left nothing but agony. The room spun and went black.

  His cheek hurt, and then again, a sharp pain. He opened his eyes to Unitas slapping his face.

  “Oh no, you don’t get to pass out.”

  His vision cleared and his body felt numb. Thankfully, the spike was out of his knee. She grabbed his hair and plunged the needle back into his knee. He screamed again, a guttural scream. He wanted to die. Anything would be better than the pain.

  Larry got up from his seat. Joey thought he might intervene, but he stood with an emotionless expression as he watched Unitas punish him. He had died. This wasn’t some hospital. He was in hell. He got his friends killed and these people were here to punish him for eternity.

  His throat wouldn’t allow more screams. His breath fell out in silence like a dog with its voice box taken out. He deserved it, maybe more. She stopped moving the metal rod in his knee and stood up. The pain lessened enough for his body to weep. All his clothes were soaked in sweat and his muscles ached. The straps were the only thing keeping him from collapsing on the floor.

  Unitas wiped her frothing mouth and pushed back her disheveled hair. Her wide eyes stared into his.

  “There are plenty of other kids in this,” Larry said. “Why don’t we off this one and move to the next? I bet we can get that girl, Poly, to talk before lunch.”

  Unitas’s face, red with rage, glared at Larry. “No,” Unitas yelled. “This kid will not get the luxury of a quick end. He puked on my jacket!” She moved to take the black pad of metal objects and showed Joey one of the larger ones. A metal rod, like the others, but she pushed a button on the back and three hooks shot out.

  “This isn’t going to be pleasant.” She moved the metal bar in front of his face. Joey’s eyes fluttered, but he stopped trying to move away. He was ready. He wanted it to be over. She brought the metal close to his eye. He slammed his eyes shut and thought of Poly and him on the blanket, under the stars, fireflies dancing above.

  The door slammed open. He opened his eyes, to find Simon standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, sh—” Larry’s words died on his tongue when he realized Joey had been telling the truth.

  Joey tried to break free, but he could only watch. Simon, in one motion, pulled a square-looking gun from his side and shot Larry with an electrical charge. The big guy fell to the ground, convulsing. Unitas pulled her gun out, but Simon shot her with his electrical gun first. She fell to the floor in a heap.

  “Looks like I got here just in time. That was a nasty trick, collapsing the stairwell. I had to use the locals to dig it out.” Simon sounded disgusted. “But finally . . . we’re reunited, after so many years.”

  Joey gave up trying to move. His body ached from the pain and strain of it all. His focus bounced from Unitas to Simon. When he was sure she wasn’t going to move, he focused on the man standing in front of him. The person responsible for shooting Poly. He hated Simon. He hated him even more for stopping the torture. How dare he be the one to save him? How dare he make it possible for him to feel relief at his presence? But he did. He was glad Simon sent her to the floor.

  Simon yanked out the metal spike in Joey’s knee and tossed it to the floor. “Let me get you out of those straps.” He spun the bolts and released the bindings.

  First, his legs were free and then his arms and waist. After the head strap fell to the side, he was free. Never had he had such a feeling in his life—being free from that chair was like waking from a nightmare. He moved his arms and leg to make sure it was real. Simon stood in front of him, smiling. That face built up the rage he’d known for Simon.

  Joey lunged for his throat, but his leg didn’t work right and he fell to the floor at his feet. “I’m going to kill you,” he grunted, slapping Simon’s shoe.

  Simon laughed. “You might be surprised at how many times I’ve heard that, but at my age, you’ve heard it all.” He knelt, face directly in front of Joey. “I’m not the one you should be fighting. I offered you a deal that would’ve saved your friends and your families. Now, the deal’s gone and I’ll make you watch as Marcus devours each of your friends.”

  “Harris will come for us.”

  “That fool? He and his small group have been bothering us for decades. In fact, if they hadn’t interfered with the last donor, you wouldn’t even be here.”

  Joey attempted to swing at Simon, but he raised his hand to block the weak punch.

  Grabbing a clump of Joey’s hair, he pulled his head back, making him look at his face. “You’ve kept me stuck for the last eighteen years.” Simon spit out the words with such hate, he felt the wet droplets cover his face. Then, he pushed his head down to the floor and Joey couldn’t move to defend it.

  Two Arracks entered the room.

  “Let’s sedate this one,” Simon said. “There better not be another scratch on him.”

  The Arracks moved to Joey. He felt yet another needle glide into his neck.

  AN OVERSIZED, BIZARRE HAT WITH a yellow veil covered most of Harris’s face. His black jacket, with enormous puffy shoulders, had a black cape cascading to the back of his knees. His tight, black, vinyl pants with a fringe of white lace extended to his shoes. The black, shiny shoes scrunched his toes together with a large square heel. He would have normally felt ludicrous wearing such attire, but he had his mind on other things. Besides, everyone in Capital seemed to wear the ridiculous.

  Past the line waiting in front of Harris—all people with equally outlandish outfits—a large screen lit up with Capital Entry, and under that read, Have your papers ready. Compry was next in line for the entry into Capital.

  Behind the entry, a tall, concrete wall ran to the left and right of the guards, with no openings, except for the one behind them. Car or plane travel into Capital was banned, unless you were with MM, or an official of the government. The common person waited in line.

  Harris watched as guards asked Compry questions. He was too far away to make out what they said, but he saw the guard smiling and scanning her card. Compry sauntered past the guard post and behind the concrete wall. The guard waved for the next person to come forward. He exhaled, relaxing his hands. Almadon’s hack into the guards’ computer had worked.

  They’d been through many checkpoints to get to this one—the last and most protected. Body scanners looked for changes in your heart rate and body temperature. A camera scanned eyes for suspicious behavior and facial recognition. This is where Almadon’s hack came in handy.

  “Line’s moving,” a man behind Harris said.

  Harris looked at the small space in front of him. He might’ve corrected such a person on their rudeness, but he had to keep a low profile.

  “Sorry.” He stepped forward.

  Almadon was next in line to the guard post. He heard a few words between her and the guard. Almadon played a haughty role and never dropped her eyes to the guards, answering their questions, as if they were w
asting her time. He liked the way Almadon could take on a role with such ease.

  Harris was next in line and Nathen was a few people behind him.

  “Card,” the guard said, holding out his hand.

  Harris handed him the card, the guard scanned it, and a picture of Harris’s fake identity showed on the guard’s screen. The body scanner, a metal plate, moved closer to his head. Harris concentrated on the construction of a combustion engine while the scanners moved near him. Pistons, camshafts, valves, and headers bounced around in his mind.

  “What do you need in Capital today, Mister Tre Hoffer?” the guard said, reading the screen.

  “Here on business,” Harris said.

  “You planning on doing anything that could harm the people of Capital?” the guard asked, not looking up at Harris.

  “The people of Capital? No.”

  The guard looked up at him. “Yes or no, please.”

  “No,” Harris said.

  The guard picked up his card, slid it down the side of his screen, and then handed it back to Harris.

  “Go ahead.”

  He glanced up at the smooth, concrete wall towering above him, and strolled toward the small arched opening. Two guards stood on either side. He stuffed the card back into his tiny pants pockets and tried to walk normal in his shoes through the archway.

  Past the first concrete archway, he entered the dead zone, a thirty-foot space between the two concrete walls. This was the last place they might be stopped. Capital stood on the other side. A chain-link hallway connected the two walls. He looked down the dead zone, seeing the wall curve, as it wrapped around the city.

  Two guards stood at the second archway. He walked past them, as if he had gone through the hallway a hundred times. They never looked at him.

  He was in Capital.

  Pulling back his veil, Harris was glad his yellow-tinted vision was gone. He pulled out his Panavice and looked on the map for the meeting place, Giuseppe’s Toys, two miles away.

  Harris never heard of it, but Almadon said the owner, a friend, had direct contact with the kids a few days ago. He strutted through the throng of people crowding the streets. Twenty years had passed since he was in Capital. The streets and the people seemed unchanged. There were more hats on men than last time he was here, but the fashion changed frequently. Feeling the silky smooth pants he wore, he longed for his simple jeans and jacket. He sighed as he looked at the two miles he had left.