by Driza, Debra
The second Hunter reached for the door to the market, I swooped down and grabbed his phone. I searched the icons until I found text messages. I went to press the text icon when the phone flashed red.
Low Battery.
I needed to hurry.
A list of phone numbers popped up, so I clicked on the top one. The text bubbles appeared and I scanned:
Where are u?
Hurry up—getting tired of waiting.
I looked to see who the sender was, but all that was listed was a phone number, not a name.
Powering off . . .
“Damn,” I breathed, watching helplessly as the screen went black. Now what?
I tried to make some sense out of the texts, but there just wasn’t enough to go on. Although the last one sounded odd for a friend to send. Not so odd if the friend was a member of the V.O. waiting for a special delivery.
I stared at his phone, with the gray-and-white-checkered case, sorrow burrowing under my ribs and piercing my synthetic heart. I’d begun this journey brimming with hope, and now . . .
For an instant, I debated plugging the SIM card into my wrist, but after the close call last night, I decided the risk of getting caught was too high. Plus, what if the V.O. had it booby-trapped somehow? No, the safest bet was putting the thing out of commission. Nothing too obvious, as I couldn’t risk revealing my hand to Hunter too soon.
I fidgeted with my phone thinking.
The red light blinked to life in my head.
Disable cell device?
Yes.
Model?
I answered, and instantly, a schematic of the phone emerged before me, a 3-D grid showing me every chip, battery, and wire. A tiny red, pulsing arrow pointed at one spot.
Excessive pressure on power switch will result in device failure.
With my finger, I pushed hard on the circle indicated, increasing the pressure until I felt something inside the phone give.
That ought to do it.
I replaced the phone on the floorboard, in the exact position I’d found it. Now, Hunter had no contact with the outside world.
My gaze returned to the rows of semis. Enough of them for me to trick Hunter over there, then knock him out, without anyone seeing? I thought so. I glanced up, saw that Hunter was at the register, paying, and plotted the rest. I should be able to break into the back of the truck, no problem, but I’d want gloves.
I looked down at my fingers, studying the tips. At least, I assumed I’d need gloves. Did my biologically grown skin hold fingerprints? I held my fingers aloft and saw the distinctive whorls patterning the tips. It appeared so.
Fingerprints. Grady’s reminder chided me. If only I’d been as smart as him, and researched Hunter at the very beginning. He’d told me to get on that—though how he’d expected me to just jump right up and check out Hunter’s prints, I had no clue. It wasn’t like I carried a forensic kit on me at all times.
Fingerprint analysis requested?
The prompt made my eyes widen. Or maybe I did.
But where? Only one way to find out. I answered in the affirmative.
Yes.
And as though my response had unlocked a hidden door, I knew. Even before the prompt flashed.
To begin analysis, press rounded surface of fingers carefully against print.
That sounded simple enough. I started to look around the car for an item Hunter had touched before realizing: there was nothing in here I hadn’t touched, too. Our fingerprints would be commingled everywhere, probably smudged.
The GPS, though. I’d been careful to grab it by the sides. And I needed to get it anyway. Now. Before Hunter returned.
Settling the baseball cap on my head, I stepped out of the car. A TV was playing just above the pumps. Ignoring it, I pretended to drop something, then practically dove under the Jeep. I zeroed in on the tiny mass with unerring aim. I slid out and pushed to my feet with the tiny object carefully pinched between my fingers. I glanced toward the store and saw that the cashier had handed Hunter change, and told myself to hurry. Meanwhile, the TV screen continued its newscast over the pumps.
“The temperature will take a steep drop tomorrow across the eastern half of the country, so make sure to pack your coats. Now, for your regional news.”
I glanced up to see a man had replaced the entirely too chipper woman, then turned my attention back to Hunter. Did I have time to try the fingerprint thing now?
“A fire broke out in Knoxville earlier, burning down a gated estate and taking the two homes on either side with it before firefighters could contain it. A local resident who was out for a late-night jog claims to have spotted a military helicopter in the vicinity, and several nearby residents report hearing a loud, unexplained boom just before the fire broke out. No confirmation yet as to whether this might be related to suspected terrorist activity or not.”
I forgot the GPS device in my hand and stared at the screen in mounting horror. There, in the background, were the charred remains of a house, still emitting a noxious cloud of black smoke.
From the cameraman’s perspective, an iron gate was clearly visible.
The same gate I’d climbed earlier today.
My free hand flew to my mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. Grady’s house, destroyed. And it had to be because of me.
I tuned out the TV, tuned out the station, just focused on staying upright, despite the guilt trying to eviscerate me with deadly claws. I’d never thought, never believed Grady might be in danger. But that was only because I hadn’t considered them much at all. And I should have. Mom should have taught me that much.
Hunter emerged from the store and I came to, realizing I still hadn’t filled the tank. Hunter flashed me a thumbs up from the sidewalk outside the door. With unsteady hands, I carefully placed the GPS in my pocket.
“Go ahead and pump,” he hollered. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched as he turned the corner, toward the sign marked MEN’S ROOM.
As I was putting the gas nozzle in place, mind spinning, a minivan pulled into the open spot ahead of me, and moments later, a young boy bounded out of the back door. His mom yanked open the passenger door. “Tommy, you need to wait! It’s not safe to just jump out of the car like that.”
“Okay—sorry!” But Tommy didn’t sound sorry at all as he scooted around the car to grab his mom’s hand. “Can we get M&M’s, please? I’ll be super quiet in the car this time!”
“Wouldn’t that be a change?” the mom muttered, as she and her husband exchanged a wry look over the top of the van. But from the way she smiled down at the boy and ruffled his hair, she obviously wasn’t too bothered by Tommy’s abundant energy.
A normal family, taking a normal family vacation. Something I would never have, no matter how much I wanted it.
Hunter emerged from the bathroom, flicking his hands like maybe the paper towel dispenser had been empty. He caught my eye and smiled, walking with that loose-limbed, lithe movement that I’d first noticed back in the halls of Clearwater High.
At the sight of him, my breath caught a little in my chest. Just like it had back then.
The image was ruined when, still watching me, he misjudged the curb and stumbled a little, before regaining his balance.
But that stumble conjured another image. A boy with a permanently lopsided walk. A boy who’d worked for Holland. A boy who’d risked everything to save me.
A boy I desperately hoped wasn’t in danger, because of me.
Lucas.
So far, everyone who’d ever helped me had had terrible things happen to them. What if Lucas was next?
An engine rumbled to life, and the family pulled out in their van, leaving us as the only customers. But as Hunter approached the car, the market door opened. A worker emerged, his head ducked as he inspected something on his cell phone. But he kept walking as he looked . . . and he was headed right at us.
I yanked the baseball hat lower on my head and, my neck tingling, stepped around the b
ack of our car to meet Hunter halfway.
He shook the plastic bag on his arm. “Hey, got us a couple of iced coffees and some chocolate—figured we could use the caffeine and sugar.”
I nodded. “Perfect.” The worker was closer now—only a few strides away. He snapped the phone shut, still frowning.
My entire body tensed. His approach made no sense. Unless . . . the phone. What if he’d seen something on the internet that made him want to detain us? Like my photo?
Or worse . . . could he be V.O. in disguise? One of Hunter’s accomplices, posing as a worker? Coming to make their move now? Along with Holland, who could be anywhere? Had he found whatever he was searching for at Grady’s? Had he found a copy of Mom’s encrypted files?
Target: 15.1 ft.
Weapons scan: No weapons detected.
On the heels of that, another contradictory prompt:
Threat detected.
Weapons scan: Beretta.
The worker’s head jerked up, and his lips parted. “Hey, you,” he said. At the same time, his free hand dove into his pocket.
Engage?
I lunged before he could extract it.
My hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and twisting it as he attempted to retrieve his weapon. The gun I’d taken from Grady was under the front seat, and I would only use it as a last resort. His weapon flew free of his grasp while I continued with my forward momentum, retaining my hold on his forearm and slipping behind him. I exerted steadily increasing force on his arm, bending it back, while my other hand curled around his throat, squeezing until his voice cut off right along with his oxygen.
“What do you want?” He didn’t answer and both my hands tightened in response. As I forced his arm farther behind his back, I felt him jerk against me, as something in his shoulder started to give. I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. I wanted this man to hurt. It was past time someone had to pay.
“Mila, stop! Let him go!”
Hunter’s frantic voice snapped me out of the haze, and I immediately slacked my grip. The man slid free and collapsed to the ground, while my eyes sought whatever he’d dropped. I spotted the object at the exact same moment I saw the police car cruise by.
Threat detected: 42 ft.
The threat had been coming from the police, not the worker. Which made sense, given that the item he’d dropped was a wallet.
Hunter’s wallet.
I staggered back, my mind a growing mass of horror. The man hadn’t been V.O., or even trying to report me. He’d been a Good Samaritan. And now he was crumpled in a heap on the oil-sticky ground of a gas station as a reward.
“Dude, are you okay?” Hunter was ignoring me now, dropping to his knees beside the worker. No. That didn’t make sense. He should know that we had to get out of here, before the cops made another pass. Before one of the truckers emerged and noticed.
What was he doing?
I swooped down and grabbed his wallet, catching Hunter’s arm at the same time. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”
Hunter actively resisted me, so I pulled harder, forcing him to his feet. He stared at me, the stun of shock changing the planes of his face. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? We need to call nine-one-one, make sure this guy’s all right—”
As if on cue, the worker moaned. I took advantage of the distraction to pull Hunter toward the Jeep. All the while, a terrible suspicion formed in my gut.
I steered Hunter toward the car, opened the passenger door, and none-too-gently urged him inside. He climbed in, as if on autopilot, his eyes still glued to the worker. I raced for the driver’s seat as the worker tried to push to his knees, his one arm cradled against his chest. He bowed his head in obvious agony.
Hunter shook his head, and like that had woken him from a long sleep, reached for his door handle. I hit the gas, and we shot out of the station before he could finish the action.
We had to get out of here, before the guy recovered enough to get a license plate number.
“Let me out,” Hunter said, and when I didn’t answer, he repeated himself. Louder. “Did you hear me? I want out.”
“No.”
His face contorted, and then he fumbled on the floorboard.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling an ambulance. You’re insane, and that guy needs help.”
Keeping a lookout for the cop car, I found the highway on-ramp and accelerated the Jeep. Nothing was making sense. Either Hunter was putting on an amazing act, or . . .
My fingers traced the outline of the GPS. No. No ors. It was an act. It had to be.
His curse filled the car a moment later. “I can’t believe this. My phone is dead.”
He chucked the phone at the backseat, where it bounced off and hit the floor. His frustration was evident in every tight, jerky motion. He reached to open the glove box, and even though I’d checked the car out earlier, instinct kicked in.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I said.
He froze for five seconds, his fingers still on the latch. Then, he turned to me. Slowly, with the precise, careful motion of someone fighting to contain their rage. An incredulous expression distorted his face, rendering his mouth almost unrecognizable.
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
TEN
Silence ticked off for several moments while I pondered his question, while the Jeep sped down the highway. Was insanity even possible in an android? Didn’t that require a human brain? At this point, I couldn’t answer definitively. Not with everything that had happened over the last few hours.
Hunter’s expression was taut: cheeks sucked in, mouth a grim line, eyes stony. I couldn’t ever remember him looking even a quarter of this pissed before.
Uncertainty flickered. If he was the V.O., what possible reason would he have to draw attention to my abilities? Wouldn’t it be easier to just brush them off, to avoid questions?
Or . . . maybe he was toying with me. Trying to provoke different emotions, and see what happened.
“What are you, some kind of jujitsu expert? And even then—I’ve never seen anyone move so fast,” he said incredulously, like he still couldn’t believe it.
The uncertainty flared again, strengthened into doubt. But no. This had to be a ploy.
His cheeks had taken on a hint of red, and the muscles in his jaw contracted. “Look, I think I deserve some answers here!”
As though his aggression unleashed my own, anger seared its way up my throat, burned into my mouth. “You want the truth? Fine, here it is.” I twisted around, ignoring his stony, unrelenting expression, and the rekindled flicker of doubt it inspired. “That story I told you about my dad was a total lie, and my mom? We’re not fighting . . . She’s dead.”
Dead. The word ripped through the car, louder than I’d expected. The images flared to life in my head.
Mom’s body, bleeding out in Lucas’s car. Me, carrying her to the Potomac, and tossing her in, her hair waving around her like a mass of seaweed as she sank.
A sob cut off the rest of what I’d been about to tell him. I swallowed hard, even though in my case that knot in my throat was purely an emotional memory, and batted at the tears.
“What? How could that—my god, why didn’t you say something?”
“My mom wasn’t a vet,” I continued. “She was a government agent, just like me.”
Hunter’s hand had been reaching toward me, but it fell back to his side. “Agent?”
It was the most I could make myself say. I chanced a look at his face. His usually intense eyes looked sightless, and his face had paled.
Because he’s innocent, that tiny, mutinous part of my heart whispered.
No, no, no. An act, it was just a really good act.
“Spies. We were on assignment, and Mom was killed trying to save me. Now those same
people are after me, and Richard Grady is the guy she told me to look up to get help.”
“I can’t—” Hunter broke off, leaving the silence between us to thicken. His hands covered his face, and I heard the in-out rhythm of his forceful breathing batting against his palms.
Lies. His act, his posturing—all lies.
But slowly and surely, my certainty ripped away, leaving long, gaping holes of doubts. Meanwhile, my traitorous heart thudded with new hope.
He finally lifted his head. “If that’s true—and it sounds too unbelievably crazy to be a lie—then how could you do this to me? How could you put me in this situation without filling me in on the details? Jesus, Mila. Don’t I have a right to know if my goddamn life is in jeopardy?”
Truth? Or lie? “I was going to tell you—”
“When?” he shouted, banging one fist on the dashboard. “When were you going to tell me? Tonight? Tomorrow? Never?”
My heart pounded, harder and harder. This wasn’t a lie, it couldn’t be. Because Hunter’s anger was unmistakable.
And then, if possible, he blanched even more. “Oh my god—the picture, that Ashleigh thought she saw? That was really you, wasn’t it?”
I swallowed. No sense in denying it now. “Yes. But I didn’t kill my mom. The investigation—it’s under wraps. The police really think they’re looking for me.”
He bowed his head and stared into his lap. I saw when his hands began to tremble. “Why weren’t you just honest with me?”
In desperation, I mounted a counterattack. “Me, honest? What about you?” I gunned the gas, shifting lanes to swerve around a slow-moving semi. “Were you being honest when you told me an old buddy was leaving those messages earlier?”
He gave a startled laugh. “Messages? You mean, the ones from my ex-girlfriend, who’s trying to get back together with me? Excuse me for thinking that might be a little awkward, given the present circumstances.”
In desperation, I pulled the GPS bug out of my pocket. “If you’re not a member of the V.O. then why do you have this?” I asked, waving it near his face.
