by Driza, Debra
A hand flew to my mouth. But we hadn’t kissed yet—not really.
“I don’t want to take advantage.”
That’s what he’d said, back in the motel room. But what about all the other times we’d been close? Was he feigning interest to lead me on? I had no way of knowing his true motives. Hunter had said it himself at the amusement park.
“So I have a few secrets.”
The uncertainty, the back and forth, bubbled up inside me, until I worried that I might explode at the slightest provocation. Like I was a hand grenade primed and ready to be thrown. The room was too small, too crowded. Too full of horrifying possibilities.
“I’m going to use the bathroom and get ready for bed,” I said abruptly. “Good night.”
Hunter stopped midsentence and straightened, his smile fading. “I’m sorry, Mila. I didn’t realize—”
“No! I mean, I’m fine.” I continued backing toward the door. I needed distance. Distance to clear my mind, to prove to myself that these thoughts were crazy. Hunter couldn’t be part of this whole conspiracy. If he was . . .
No. I shook off the thought. It was too terrible to contemplate.
I forced my lips into a smile. “You two finish your book talk.”
“You’re sure?” Hunter wavered, taking one step toward me but then looking back over his shoulder. I waved him off and whirled for the door.
A second later I was inside the bathroom, door locked, pacing the floor and trying to curb the rising dread that made my head too heavy to function.
Stop it, I told myself. Suck it up and think.
It was times like these when I almost envied my updated, improved “sister”—MILA 3.0. She never had to worry about emotions interfering with her logic.
With one more deep breath, I stepped away from the door and toward the oval mirror hanging over the sink. Ever since I’d escaped from Holland’s compound, I’d had this constant niggle, this worry that after everything that happened, the tests they’d subjected me to, and the things I’d done, that one day I’d look in the mirror and see a completely different girl staring back at me. At the very least, I expected Mom’s death to leave some kind of mark, like a faint haze of sadness that aged my otherwise youthful face.
But no. My face looked exactly the same as always. Same bright leaf-green eyes, same exact skin tone, same oversized lower lip. I looked in the mirror and what I saw made me tremble. The hair, it was different, but the face . . . I still looked exactly like Three.
As I stared at my reflection, I felt some of the terror, the anxiety, fade, leaving behind a calmness, a steadily growing sense that controlling my emotions equaled controlling my future.
Three was the kind of person—machine—who could torture people without remorse. Who wouldn’t care if someone—say, a boy—had betrayed her. To her, emotions were just masks—responses programmed into her so she could pass as a human. Three wouldn’t feel pain if a human died. She wouldn’t agonize over lies. She would just . . . exist.
Something that sounded like a nice option at the moment.
The logic soothed me, wrapped around the frantic feelings and smothered out their harsh edges. But a tiny voice shrieked its protest. My human voice. Of course, Three would also do General Holland’s bidding without a second thought, no matter who got hurt along the way. Three was the perfect weapon.
But if Three was the perfect weapon, then one thing was damned certain. I could learn how to become one, too. On my own terms.
I averted my eyes and splashed cold water on my face, took care of my simulated biological functions, as Holland had so kindly put it, then retreated to the spare bedroom. Thankfully, Hunter was still with Ashleigh, which gave me time to slip into my sleep clothes. As I changed, my gaze fell on his duffel bag, which sat on the floor against the wall.
The thing had been in our old motel room, and right there in the backseat for the entire car ride out here. Yet not once had I thought to check the contents.
I approached the bag, forcing one foot to step in front of the other.
I’d performed a weapons scan outside, and none had shown up in the vicinity of Hunter’s Jeep. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding other things in there. Or the V.O., with their sophisticated gadgets. Maybe they’d come up with something undetectable.
I unzipped it with trembling fingers, pushing clothing aside. Pausing to clear the hitch in my throat when the room filled with his distinctive scent. I rummaged through every inch, including his toiletry bag. Unless the V.O. had designed toothbrushes that doubled as Tasers, there was nothing to find.
No gadgets, no weapons. But if he were V.O., wouldn’t there be evidence on his cell?
I pulled out his smartphone, tapping the screen with hesitant fingertips. If I were wrong, this was unforgivable. Delving into his private information like I was entitled.
Acting just like a spy.
Nothing incriminating there, either. A gathering relief rose in my chest, small at first, but growing to an epic size. There was nothing here to indicate that he was anything other than the boy I thought he was. If he were with Holland or the V.O., surely I would have found something. A weapon. One of those interference gadgets the men who’d attacked Mom and me at the motel had had.
There was only one place left to check now, and then I would put this out of my head for good.
The Jeep.
After rearranging Hunter’s bag the way I had found it, I headed for the hall, hanging back a second to give my sensors a chance to update.
No human threat detected.
I crept down the stairs without incident and was out the front door in record time. Darkness had fallen, and my vision kicked in, illuminated the night with that slight red cast.
Night vision: Activated.
I raced down the walkway to the edge of Grady’s property, on swift and quiet feet. I reached the gate.
Signal detected: Override lock?
I debated an instant before declaring it too risky. Not with Grady monitoring when the gate opened and closed.
This time, I would have to climb.
I studied the giant post that housed one side of the gate, then bent my knees and prepared myself to launch. With a forceful jump, I propelled myself toward the layered stone at full speed. My left foot hit first, high off the ground, and without losing momentum I immediately vaulted upward and off, twisting to the right. I surged toward the top, my fingers catching the end of a metal spike, and I hauled my body upward. A moment later I straddled the gate, before dropping to the pavement on the other side.
I landed easily in a crouch, holding my pose when a car pulled into a garage at the far end of the street.
When no one else stirred, I jogged over to Hunter’s Jeep and hunkered down on the sidewalk side, pressing against the vehicle, trying to be as invisible as possible. I needed to know if there were any weapons or spy tech around.
Initiate scan.
No weapons detected.
Good, that was good.
Tracking device detected: Back driver’s side wheel well.
My phantom heart kicked in my chest. Let me be wrong. Let it be something else.
I dropped to the ground and pushed myself under the Jeep, scraping my neck on loose gravel. My nostrils filled with the pungent combo of asphalt and oil. I scanned the back driver’s wheel well—flash of red.
Tucked away, almost buried by the tire.
My fingers didn’t want to function but I forced them. I grabbed for the object, carefully pinching it by the sides. The texture wasn’t firm like I’d expected, but yielded a little. Squishy. The object resisted my first two gentle tugs to remove it, but finally pulled free, with resistance.
I shifted the tiny square until it dangled in front of my face. A cube of metal, with a blinking red light. Encased in a silicon-like substance.
The very same GPS device used by the V.O. to track us before. I looked closer, and it got even worse. Inside the device was a tiny microphone.
I lay there for at least thirty seconds, dazed. I cursed myself for not scanning the car before and my heart buckled and twisted, as if trying to escape the proof in my hands.
Then, I replaced the device in the wheel well and scooted out from under the Jeep. When I went to stand, my legs went leaden. My stomach surged into my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could blot out reality. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The pain was staggering, enough to double me over.
A pile of coincidences, finally toppled by the last, most damning one.
Hunter was with the V.O. He had been all along.
That ever-widening hole, deep in my pseudo heart? That was the feeling of hope dying. I couldn’t lie. Up until that moment, a tiny reserve of hope had still slumbered deep in my chest. Dormant but alive. But as I stared at the GPS, the reserve evaporated, leaving a dried-up, cracking riverbed in its wake.
A few streets over, a car engine turned over with a hiccupy grind, reminding me that I couldn’t stay here forever. I had to get out of the street and back into the guest room, before anyone noticed my absence.
On autopilot, I reclimbed the gate and crept back to the house, my mind festering with a toxic blend. Disbelief. Acceptance. Betrayal. A sense of loss so staggering, I thought my legs might yield. And finally, unanswered questions, assaulting me with a sharp bite. How could Hunter betray me like this? He’d known the truth about me all along, and he hadn’t revealed a thing. I’d felt guilty about not telling him everything, but he’d been deceiving me. I saw everything in a different light. Why he avoided kissing me. Why he insisted upon coming with me. Was the story about his lowlife dad even true?
And if he was V.O., why hadn’t they made their move? What could they possibly be after? The same knowledge I was seeking? Or something else?
And, ultimately: what the hell did I do now? I couldn’t run, not without the information I’d come for. In fact, I couldn’t do anything that would give away that I knew the truth about Hunter. Until I came up with a plan, I had to play along.
I consulted my sensors before easing the front door open and creeping into the house. I paused to listen before heading to the stairs. Safe, until I stepped into the hallway, when I heard Hunter’s voice from around the corner, bidding Ashleigh good night.
Traitor.
My insides contorted in anguish while I whirled, racing for the bed. Hunter’s footsteps padded down the hall. I couldn’t face him. Not until I’d had time to process.
Target distance: 10 ft.
Target distance: 5 ft.
With no time to spare, I tossed back the quilt and slid underneath. My eyelids shut right when the door opened.
“Mila?” he whispered, his footfalls soft as he edged closer to my bed.
I kept my face relaxed and my eyes shut, breathing slowly and deeply, while under the covers, my fingers dug into the sheets and a cyclone whirled in my head, tearing away at every certainty and shredding it to pieces.
The irony crashed down like a falling plane, landing right, smack-dab in the center of my chest. Here I’d been planning on leaving him to save his life . . . and the whole time, he’d been planning to betray me And for what?
That was a mystery I needed to uncover. And fast.
Head turned to the side, I waited, the crush of betrayal never relinquishing its grip. I waited while he rustled in his duffel bag. Waited while he left the room for the bathroom and returned. Waited while he crawled into bed, whispered, “Good night,” and rolled onto his other side, earbuds in his ears and music faintly seeping through.
Waited until the bitter tears stopped slipping beneath my lashes and dampening the pillow.
When his breathing had quieted for long enough, I waited some more, considering and discarding plan after plan.
Run? No. Now, more than ever, I needed the information Mom had sent me after.
Subdue Hunter and demand answers? Not yet. I couldn’t risk that he’d alert the V.O. somehow. The last thing I wanted was for them to know I knew they were monitoring my every move.
Tell Grady? Uh-uh. That would only potentially put him and Ashleigh in more danger. Besides, how did I know Grady wasn’t double-crossing me right this very moment? If this had taught me one thing, it was that the command Mom had given me before we reached Holland’s compound still stood.
“Don’t trust anyone.”
As it turned out, her advice was excellent. If only I’d heeded it a little sooner.
I needed a course of action, though. Something to do. I would not sit around, waiting on a man who might or might not be an ally, in a bed less than three feet away from a known enemy. I couldn’t.
No, I would hunt down the information myself.
After reassuring myself that Hunter still faced the wall and wasn’t stirring, I crept out of bed and into the hall. I hovered in the doorway, listening for any signs of activity.
Faint tapping, from the direction of Ashleigh’s room. Nothing from Grady’s.
I dried my tears, tucked my pain into a compartment somewhere deep inside, and turned the key. Then I eased my way down the stairs. I had to reassess everything now, and I couldn’t do that without information. I needed a new plan of action.
Grady had asked if I’d vetted Hunter. Now was as good a time as any to rectify my oversight.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SEVEN
The hall was clear, as my enhanced hearing had insisted it would be. My bare feet made little sound as I padded down the stairs, pausing outside the doorway on the left. Grady’s study.
The door was barely ajar, so I eased it open, slowly, just in case. Darkness greeted me.
Night vision activated.
The office illuminated with a reddish-hued glow, and I took everything in with a quick sweep. A framed family photograph on the wall next to another of Ashleigh’s drawings (this one of a dragon, probably recent, based on the advanced technique), shelves with assorted nonfiction books and espionage thrillers, heavy wooden desk with old laptop and wireless printer. Gray carpet, with faint marks in four spots on the far side of the room, indicating the furniture had been moved recently. Odd end table constructed by flipping a car wheel onto its side and attaching a circle of glass to the top. A faintly floral smell, which I attributed to air freshener, since it was too far for the roses to permeate and neither Grady nor Ashleigh were wearing perfume. No other access to the room except the door I was standing in.
I crossed the floor to the swivel chair, careful not to make it squeak as I scooted it toward the desk. I touched the closed laptop—which was adorned with a large sticker featuring a stick man that said “Life is Good”—and realized that he hadn’t turned it off. It was just in sleep mode. I opened it and bright blue flashed as the laptop fired up. Not especially stealthy.
Then, the icons popped up and I rested my fingers on the keys, and as I did, the hum vibrated inside me, starting in my core and working its way up to my head. Like before, I sensed two separate networks—one accessible, one blocked.
We’d have to see about that. I’d start by running a simple search. Using my hands to anchor myself, I issued the command.
Open ports.
At the same time, I heard a creak.
The sound stopped me, and the glowing data ceased its humming whirl. My eyes slowly lifted upward, to where I’d heard the noise overhead.
It had come from Grady’s room.
I waited, unnecessary breath caught in pseudo lungs, while the creaking continued in a rhythmic pattern. Creak. Creak. Creak.
He was out of bed . . . and walking.
I waited. I couldn’t be caught in here, going through his things. No way he’d swallow any story I concocted.
I heard more creaking, only . . . not in the direction of his door. Instead, he headed to the left. Silence loomed for a few moments while I stood, undec
ided, not sure whether I should abort the mission or not. And then a whir of water. Flushing.
A few louder squeaks of the bed, until finally, everything was quiet again.
Open ports.
The data whooshed inside this time, with the electrical burn accompanying it up my arms. My entire head tingled, crackled with the seductive gleam of information, the strands glistening and twirling as if performing a freeform dance. It was like I could feel them slide between my fingers, sleek and sinuous. The knowledge poured into my mind like water from a pitcher, lit with an iridescent glow.
I embraced the power, the knowledge, the reality that I could acquire any information I wanted.
Within the strands, I searched for one name.
Hunter Lowe.
Of course thousands of possibilities flew through my head, so I backtracked, seeking information linking any of them to the military or other suspicious activity. Nothing. So I sorted results until I found my Hunter.
Only, he wasn’t mine anymore.
The internet confirmed that he’d attended a San Diego high school, before coming to Clearwater.
Nothing remarkable in his family history, either. His stepfather ran his own software company, and his mom taught for an online university. I studied their faces—his mom, pretty with high cheekbones and wide-set eyes, a darker blue than Hunter’s. Her dishwater blond hair cut in a short, carefree style. His stepdad, with a broad forehead, emphasized even more by a receding hairline, brown eyes smiling slightly at the camera. Nothing especially remarkable about either of them. Did they have any idea what their son had gotten involved in?
I searched further, but didn’t find much. A reference to a childhood soccer game here, a listing under National Honor Society there. But no red flags. Nothing that jumped out and shrieked, “V.O.!”
Whatever the answers were, I wasn’t going to find them here. I considered waiting for Grady to provide more information, but I hadn’t vetted him. And after what I’d discovered at the Jeep, I was finding it difficult to believe anyone was truly a friend. Who had Grady been talking to on the phone earlier? Why had he insisted we stay the night instead of just giving me the information so we could go? Was he as dishonest and conniving as Hunter?
