MILA 2.0: Renegade

by Driza, Debra

  His hand snaked out to grab my wrist, and while my first reaction was to break his hold, I remained still. He bent his head to get a closer look. His eyes didn’t hold a single trace of recognition.

  “I have absolutely no idea—should I? And what the hell is a V.O.?”

  He was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.

  And maybe I had. Because I was starting to believe him.

  Driving with one hand, I placed my finger over the top of the GPS, maneuvering it around until my fingertip tingled, and the prompt flashed in my head.

  Retrieve fingerprint?

  Yes.

  “Are you going to answer me?” Hunter said, but I tuned him out. Because just then, the tingling in my finger turned into a slight stinging sensation. In front of me, a pattern appeared, a set of whorls and grooves.

  A fingerprint. Well, part of one.

  Move 1 mm. to the right. Rotate 3 degrees, counterclockwise.

  I watched the print shift, until an almost-full one emerged.

  Copy print and search most recent database?

  Yes.

  At the same time my finger surged with heat, the picture flashed red.

  Data uploading . . .

  “I can’t believe this,” Hunter muttered. And then the results burst to life.

  Fingerprint match: 99.5% certainty.

  George McDevitt. Served time: Hacking bank accounts, internet fraud.

  Age: 45.

  The photo appeared, and I recognized the man instantly.

  Not Hunter. Not even close. No, this was one of the two men from the motel—one of the men Mom and I had tied up and run from.

  Out of nowhere, a wave of relief slammed me, banishing doubt’s viselike grip on my chest and allowing a giggle to burst free. Hunter hadn’t planted the device.

  Reality sank in a moment later, bursting the elated bubbles inside me all at once. The GPS slipped from my hand while the implications sank in. While the realization that, maybe, just maybe, I’d made a gargantuan, life-altering mistake started to wrap around my neck and squeeze.

  Oh, no. “Hunter, I’m so sorry. I thought . . . I was . . . the V.O. is an espionage group. They were tracking us with GPS.”

  He looked at the device for a moment, before his eyelids sank shut. “And you thought I was part of them.” He bowed his head, shoving both hands into his hair. His breathing turned ragged. “Stop the car and pull over. Now,” he emphasized when I made no move to follow his command, the word laced with a quiet fury, and something else. Something that sounded an awful lot like pain.

  I steered the car to the shoulder. The moment we stopped, his door flew open. He was wrenching open my door a moment later, breathing hard. “Get out. I’m driving.”

  I wanted to argue, but one look at his tense face, his stiff posture, warned me to give him some space. He waited on the road until I climbed over the center console, as if the thought of touching me inadvertently was repugnant. And, despite everything, my heart bottomed out at the thought.

  I sat quietly while he pulled back onto the highway, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. When I thought enough time had passed for him to gather some control, I said, “Hunter—”

  His head jerked sharply to the side. “No. No talking. I can’t . . . I can barely look at you.”

  I clasped my hands together in my lap, replaying the last few minutes over in my head. Not an ounce of suspicion left, but so much shame. Had I really just blurted out that my mom was dead? Suggested he was an accomplished techno-terrorist? Nearly choked a man to death in front of him, when all he’d been trying to do was return Hunter’s wallet?

  The shame poured through my gut, sickening in its heaviness. Hunter wasn’t an Oscar-worthy actor. He’d never been hiding anything.

  That role fell to me, and me alone.

  I didn’t pay attention when he tapped a few buttons on the Jeep’s GPS. Maybe I should have—at least then I would have had some kind of warning, when he pulled off at an exit about ten minutes later. I tensed in the seat, inspected our surroundings with critical eyes, assessing every person, every car, for potential threat.

  Even now, a tiny trace of suspicion lingered. Where was he taking me?

  It wasn’t until he pulled up to a bus terminal that I realized my mistake.

  He pulled the car to the curb and shifted into park. When he turned to look at me, the anger hadn’t completely faded from his face, but his shoulders were slumped, and more than anything, with his disheveled hair and wrinkled shirt, he looked exhausted.

  “I don’t know you. I don’t know you at all. I thought something was developing between us, but you don’t trust me, and you . . . suspect me of being the enemy? I’m going home.”

  As our gazes connected, I felt the burn of tears once again. Everything had failed me—my emotions, my logic. And now the one person I could count on was leaving for good. Walking out of my life.

  The thought of him despising me was more than I could bear. So I attempted, miserably, to explain. He needed to know that I hadn’t intended to hurt him.

  “I tried to tell you, so many times. But when I couldn’t, I asked you to let me go my own way back in Virginia, remember?”

  “Yeah, I wish I had listened to you,” he snapped.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Without you, I . . . I don’t know if I could have made it this far.”

  Hunter rolled his eyes, like he thought I was talking down to him. That wasn’t my intention, but I didn’t dare say anything more.

  “I’m sure you would have been just fine. So just . . . go, okay?” he muttered.

  As I fumbled for the door handle, tears burned my eyes, and I looked away before the first one could fall. When it came down to it, Hunter was right. I shouldn’t have dragged him into this, any of this, without telling him the truth. And even now, I hadn’t told him everything. It wasn’t safe, and if I cared for him at all, I’d let him go. Let him drive out of my life for good.

  So many things—feelings, thoughts, words—tumbled through my head, my chest, begging me to share them. To tell him, in this final moment, exactly how much he meant to me. Pour everything out, and be happy in knowing that, at least once, I told the truth. The whole, unvarnished version. And surely there was some peace in that?

  But I didn’t have the right. I’d squandered it, the moment I’d first stopped believing in him. Instead, I whispered, “It might not be safe for you, on your own. If the people after me come after you—”

  “I’ll just tell them I don’t know anything. Which, fortunately for me, would be the truth.”

  Would that be enough to keep him safe? I hoped so. Especially if I offloaded the GPS and put the V.O. on another trail that would take them far away from him.

  “Now would you please go?” Hunter asked again, sounding more sad than angry.

  “Can you unlock the back door?” I said, proud of the way my voice didn’t waver. I walked around so I could retrieve my meager belongings. Yet as my hand closed around my bag, I realized I couldn’t leave it like that. The things I’d said, the way I’d treated him? And worse, so much worse—the things I’d thought and never uttered? Was this the kind of life I had to look forward to? Searching for the truth, yet not knowing when it slapped me in the face?

  I had to apologize. Not that an “I’m sorry” would change anything, but he deserved to hear it. I shut the door, pulled a pen and paper out of my bag. After I scrawled my brief note, I waited a moment while my pseudo heart cracked and shattered, and then threw back my shoulders and walked over to knock on his window. He pressed the button, then closed his eyes, tightly, like he was fighting his own inner battle while the window whirred down.

  I forced myself to watch every bit of pain that flitted across his face. I’d been the one who’d inflicted this on him. Me, no one else. All the proof I needed that he was better off without me. I leaned inside and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

  “I’m so sorry . . . for everything. The truth is in here.
. .” My fist tensed around the note, and I started to crumple it. So stupid. Too little, too late. Then, before I could chicken out, I dropped the square into his lap. “A part of it, at least. And . . . there’s a gun underneath your seat, in case you’re followed or anything.”

  “Are you kidding me?” he asked, completely dumbfounded.

  I shook my head no. I couldn’t be any more serious.

  “You’re in that much danger?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, his eyes began to glisten, and a part of me prayed that I wasn’t imagining it. He took the note in his hand, gripping it so tightly it could tear. I pulled away and hoisted my bag over my shoulder, turning before either one of us could speak. I couldn’t bear to hear the anger and disappointment I knew waited in his voice. Not again. Without a backward glance, I headed for the bus terminal, counting my footfalls on the cracked concrete as I went.

  One, five, ten steps away from the one person who truly made me feel alive.

  And finally, finally, I heard the rumble of a familiar engine. Then the grind of tires on asphalt as Hunter drove out of the lot. And then I stopped in my tracks, sinking to my knees on the sidewalk, while the car sounds faded away. I buried my head in my hands, allowing myself to finally acknowledge the black hole in my chest. I choked back a sob and doubled over, my hands gripping my thighs like I could push reality away by sheer force. I swiped my eyes and wrestled with my composure. When I finally straightened, I pressed my shoulders back and swallowed hard. The rest of this journey, I’d have to make alone. And maybe that had been the right way, all along.

  I rehoisted the bag over my shoulder and, after offloading the GPS onto a bus bound for Hunter’s home state of California, continued on my path toward the ticket counter. Each step accentuated the empty ache inside me, but I kept on walking. I had to.

  There was nothing else left for me now.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  ELEVEN

  The sky was darkening when the bus finally pulled up to the Chicago terminal. It was hard to believe that just this morning, I’d left Hunter behind. My fellow thirty-eight passengers and I had been on the road for seven hours—without air conditioning for the last two. All of us were thrilled to be getting off, but I doubt anyone was more relieved than me. With each stop along the bus route, there had been more chances for me to be recognized. More opportunities for someone to stop this quest of mine in its tracks. Thankfully, though, I was finally nearing the end of my journey. One more transfer, and I’d be in the right town.

  When the bus parked, people jumped up into the walkway of the coach. I waited while they stood, their voices rising in conversation, stretching and shifting from foot to foot. As they shuffled forward in a single-file line of tired humanity, my thoughts drifted back to Hunter. In fact, I couldn’t stop picturing his rage-filled eyes since the minute he’d left me. There had been moments on this trip where I literally couldn’t take my gaze away from the window, afraid that someone might catch a glimpse, see me crying and want to talk to me. Even now I kept my head averted, waiting until the last person in line had passed my row before rising.

  From here on out, making any kind of personal connections was absolutely forbidden. I couldn’t afford to take the risk.

  Once off the bus, I pushed Hunter out of my mind and collected my bag, then headed toward the schedules to see when my final bus would depart. But as I edged through the crowd at the terminal, I caught a man staring. He’d been scrolling through something on a tablet, and he looked up at my approach. His attention locked on me for a hair too long, before he dropped his head to check out the tablet. When he lifted his chin, it was obvious that his focus zeroed in on my face.

  I hunched my shoulders and whirled, walking in the other direction with carefully measured steps while my breath came in short spurts. Once I blended in with the mass of people, he’d forget about me. But not too fast. I didn’t want him to think I was running.

  When I was about twenty feet away, I paused and sank into an empty chair. He’d seen something, but what? That same article from before, or something new? There was only one sure way to find out.

  Open ports.

  The information was sluggish in arriving this time, stopping and starting on its journey into my head. As usual, there were tingling strands of code, everywhere. But when I attempted to sift through with my usual precision, the data wouldn’t budge. I pushed, harder, but nothing happened. What the hell?

  Connection failed. Attempt to reconnect?

  I realized then that the Wi-Fi here must be nonexistent or spotty. Maybe there wasn’t any in the terminal, and I was trying to glom on to a connection via an independent device. I still needed to try.

  Yes.

  This time, the information kept flowing.

  I searched for Nicole Laurent, and my heart stuttered at the magnitude of hits.

  Dead D.C. woman identified as Nicole Laurent, former military scientist . . .

  It was like being hit in the chest with a hammer. Not only was Mom identified in the report, the story was also headlining news.

  Accompanying all the articles was a photo of Mom, from before I’d known her. Smiling into the camera, her pale blond hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, blue eyes catching the light behind a pair of square-framed glasses. She looked happy. Hopeful.

  Things I’d never seen in her during our short time together.

  I slumped into the chair, but the horror wasn’t over, not yet. Because next up was a photo of me—a new one, this time. One featuring the jagged black hair I had back at the compound.

  Girl wanted for questioning in murder . . .

  Even though I’d known this moment was inevitable, I still felt the impact like a kick to the gut. My fist flew to my mouth. Holland had finally pulled out all the stops. The bastard; he knew exactly how to rub salt in an already festering wound. I bet my reaction would thrill him.

  No matter. I’d never let him win.

  Just then, a warning flashed in my head.

  Human threat detected.

  My legs tensed, the red alert filling me with undeniable purpose. I craned my head to look over my shoulder. The man with the tablet was standing and heading my way.

  “Hey!” he shouted, pointing at me. Curious heads followed.

  Engage?

  My hands clenched into fists. I could. It would be so easy—one quick punch, or one choke hold later, and he’d be out. But too many people. Too public. And my face was out there.

  Damage control: Minimize exposure risk.

  Discredit enemy.

  And on the heels of that:

  Threat detected: 10 ft.

  Weapons scan: Glock.

  I pivoted, just in time to see a blue uniform bearing down on me. I scrunched my shoulders and dropped my head, trying to look less noticeable. Unfortunately, the man with the tablet spotted the policeman, too.

  “Hey, over here!” he yelled, waving. “That girl, she’s—”

  “Officer!” I screamed, trying to drown him out. “Please. That man tried to steal my bag!”

  It wasn’t going to help much—just a split second of extra time. But that was all I needed. As the policeman glanced away from me to frown his confusion at the man with the tablet, I slipped to the side. Then, I turned and fled.

  “Hey—”

  Fear pumped through my legs as I shoved past a couple, knocking the man’s laptop bag from his shoulder. I didn’t know what was happening behind me, but I could guess. The cops were reaching the man. He was showing them the picture, explaining that I was wanted. And then—

  “Stop! Police!” The shout rang out from behind, loud in the crisp night air. Ahead of me, the crowd parted like magic, eyes widening in shock, two mothers swinging their toddlers into their arms and clenching them to their chests. Like I was someone to be scared of. Like I was dangerous.


  Human threat detected: 36 ft.

  Engage?

  On second thought—I guess I was.

  I tore past a crowd of Japanese tourists, found myself running headlong toward a row of chairs, where passengers still clustered. The one in front of me was wearing headphones and typing away at his laptop. No time to veer, so I leaped onto the empty seat next to him and vaulted over. My foot caught his cord, and the headphones pulled free, tangling on my leg and flapping behind me, slapping the floor. I shook them off and continued running. Over the gathering roar of excited voices, I could hear the policeman yell into his radio. “In pursuit of murder suspect at city bus terminal. Request backup, repeat, request backup. Suspect northbound, on foot.”

  Engage target?

  I tried to ignore the red question flashing in my head, but something about the continual onslaught felt . . . demanding. Like my android self was miffed that I wasn’t hell-bent on taking on the city’s finest.

  I veered for the far exit. Closer, closer. If I could just get outside, I might be okay.

  In the distance, a siren wailed, and I shivered. Well, so long as I had enough of a head start.

  I burst outside, the cold air splashing my face with renewed hope. Night had fallen, and though the air was brisk, the exterior was swarming with people. Plenty of streetlights, but also plenty of opportunities to hide. They would be looking for a girl in a green T-shirt and jeans, no coat. I needed to remedy that—now.

  Around the station, clusters of people laughed and chatted their way toward local restaurants and shops, oblivious that a wanted murder suspect was on the loose. I glanced over my shoulder, saw the door to the terminal start to burst open. Where could I hide? Or at least disguise myself? I needed new clothes—a hat, a coat. Anything.

  As if the thought had commanded them, my eyes started scanning, doing a split-second semicircle sweep of the people ahead of me. Like the computer part of me had taken over my head and was moving it for me. Past a couple holding hands, a group of businessmen, and a cluster of fifteen thirtysomething women, just leaving a bar and grill that vibrated with live music.