MILA 2.0: Renegade

by Driza, Debra

  Holland’s words replayed in my head. The military thought I was too valuable to discard. And too many shocks in too short a time could damage me. Then it hit me. Holland was worried. He was worried that if he brought me back nonfunctional, whoever he reported to would be pissed. To be sure, I zeroed in on Three’s hand and accessed the signal in my brain.

  Weapons scan: Taser.

  Wattage: 50 volts.

  Fifty volts. Barely enough to make me miss a step.

  As I’d suspected, the Taser was a dupe. But before I could capitalize on that knowledge, the close-up visual on Three’s grip made all my muscles cramp and stiffen. In my mind, I was immediately transported back to that carousel. The two small hands, gripping the pole. The world spinning in circles so fast, everything became a dark, grainy blur. When I stopped cold, Three stopped too and stood there, preparing to whip me into submission.

  “If you’re thinking about testing me, I’d strongly advise against it,” she said.

  But I couldn’t respond. I was trapped inside my own body.

  Memory malfunction.

  Full circuitry overload: Likely.

  Reconfiguring . . .

  “I have my orders. Unlike you, I have no problem following them,” Three said, pointing out the obvious.

  As I stood there, motionless, I tried everything I could think of to break out of this strange fairy-tale-like spell. But I couldn’t access any of my systems, no matter what I tried. Three became suspicious and began to circle me, carefully examining me like prize cattle. Then all of a sudden she started talking.

  To herself.

  “The MILA 2.0 is having some kind of technical difficulties,” she said, to no one in particular. After a beat, she carried on, like having a conversation with herself was typical android protocol. “No, I don’t think so. She just froze up without any preindicators. If you lock on to my location, could you somehow tap into her core diagnostics?”

  It was the question that made everything crystal clear. Three wasn’t talking to herself. She was chatting with someone back at the SMART Ops compound.

  Someone who knew us better than anyone. Someone who could literally get inside our minds. Someone who Holland threatened to hurt if I didn’t comply with his demands.

  “Affirmative. Stand by for transmission,” Three said.

  Seconds later, red letters appeared, and I’d never been happier to see them.

  Remote access granted.

  Rerouting program running.

  System reboot commencing.

  Then out of nowhere, a staticky, almost incoherent voice crackled through my ears.

  Mi—buzz—la?

  Lucas. He was okay. Holland must have been bluffing. There was no way Lucas would still be allowed to communicate with Three otherwise. And I doubted Three realized I was still observing her this whole time and that she’d just given up a huge piece of information here. Which gave me a considerable advantage.

  I’m sa—buzz—don’t be—buzz—you shou—buzz.

  I felt some activity in my fingers first. Then my toes. But I still couldn’t make out Lucas’s message. Apparently some of my audio functions were still down. Meanwhile Three canvassed the surrounding area with her eyes, always on the alert, while slowly my arms and legs came back to life.

  No one—buzz-buzz—you have—buzz—I can’t—buzz.

  What was he was trying to say? I desperately needed to know.

  My eyes were the next thing to regain motion. They flicked over to Three, whose stare had just landed back on me. She watched with satisfaction and curiosity as my joints relaxed and my posture returned to normal.

  Reroute complete.

  Full function: Restored.

  Memory errors: Temporarily repaired.

  Then, the bursts of static softened, so I could hear Lucas say one distinct word.

  Run.

  This is one order I was going to follow. No questions asked.

  I pushed myself onto the balls of my feet. Preparing to dart into the middle of the crowd. That’s when I saw them. Two uniformed officers, emerging from a nearby bar. I went through our appearances in my head. Me, wearing a long coat and black knit hat, LED lights still flashing. Three, wearing boots, jeans, and a long, dark tee.

  Her hair was all wrong, but so was mine. And her face—and clothing—were right.

  I took a deep breath and grabbed her firmly by the arms, swinging her in a semicircle. When I let go, I watched her crash into the group of people in front of us, amid screams. She and two other women toppled to the ground. The two cops saw the commotion and broke into a run. A big group of partiers on our left slowed to look behind them, curious as to what all the hoopla was about. It was now or never.

  While the cops closed in on Three, I ran.

  I heard a commotion behind me—threats, blows. A gun discharging. Screams. I winced, but figured Three wouldn’t injure any bystanders. Holland wouldn’t have authorized that—another scandal was the last thing he needed. No, I figured that Three had just as much motive to run as I did. On a cursory glance she might avoid recognition, but her new hair and eyes would only get her so far, and Holland would not be pleased to have to explain to authorities why there were two of us.

  If Three escaped, he could pin this whole thing on me.

  I shivered. It wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t help that now. By putting Three on the defensive, I might just have enough time to escape. More shrieks, getting closer to me. Then, the pounding of feet.

  Threat detected: 30 ft.

  I looked over my shoulder, and my stomach dropped like a boulder. Both cops were on the ground, one rolling on his back, the other cupping her nose. A loose semicircle of gaping bystanders formed around them, and from the middle emerged Three. Unscathed and now headed my way, at a dead run. I glanced wildly around for an escape plan. The city grid glowed before me, but that was no help.

  Three saw the same thing, and she was too close to lose on foot.

  A car. Where could I find a car? I didn’t have time to break in, not without her catching me first.

  Then, outside another bar, I saw them. A row of motorcycles. Hope sparked. Was it possible that one of them started by remote, like some cars?

  Threat detected: 25 ft.

  I sprinted.

  As I ran, I opened my mind, searching for a signal that went with one of the bikes. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Threat detected: 20 ft.

  I was starting to despair, when I felt it. A thin beam of electricity, boring into my head. Connecting me to the silver and black BMW, third bike down.

  Remote access requested?

  Relief swelled. Yes. I was going to make it.

  Override control. Allow access, I commanded.

  Access granted. Start engine?

  Yes.

  Just like that, the engine roared to life.

  I was only five steps away, preparing to vault into the seat, when the connection wavered, then sputtered. Before it blinked out completely, I felt another presence, heard another command.

  Cut engine.

  The engine silenced at Three’s command, just as I grabbed for the handlebars. Damn it.

  I reached for the connection again, but knew I was going to be too late.

  Threat detected: 5 ft.

  Duck.

  I dropped to the ground, and Three’s fist whizzed over my head.

  Now I was stuck, sandwiched between a motorcycle on one side and an android with a mission on the other.

  Block kick.

  I turned, but being so low to the ground made me slow. The kick connected with my cheek and pushed me back, slamming my skull into metal as I made a desperate grab for Three’s foot. The bike wobbled while my fingers just barely skimmed her shoe. It was enough.

  I grabbed hold and twisted, pulling her off balance. She rotated sideways and hit the ground. Meanwhile, I located the signal emanating from the motorcycle. I leaped into the padded seat and in my desperation, felt a rush of power bu
rst through me. One forceful command roared out.

  Start engine.

  The engine revved to life while I pulled my feet up, hands on the handlebars. I squeezed the gas, tensing my thighs when the motorcycle lurched forward. I saw Three jump to her feet and only had an instant to think, I’m going to make it. Then the bike jerked to a forceful stop.

  Block, left arm.

  Trusting my android sensors, I let go of the handlebar and threw up my arm, smacking away Three’s grab.

  Kick, left leg.

  I tapped into that roar of power within me, channeling everything I had into that one kick. Sirens wailed in the background, and behind us, shouts grew louder. I had one shot.

  My foot swung out, awkwardly from the side position. But I powered through with brute force. Three was grabbing for my arm again, so close that I caught her right in the midsection. Hard. She flew back, her fingers clutching my sleeve, and for an instant, I thought both the bike and I were going with her. Then I twisted and yanked, the sleeve tearing. I hit the gas, and the motorcycle burst forward. I leaned in and barreled down the avenue toward a red light. At the intersection, I saw a semi, getting ready to lumber across.

  I made it, I thought.

  Threat detected.

  Too late, because just then, an arm reached from behind me and latched on to my waist.

  I swerved, almost sideswiping a parked car. A frantic glance at the rearview confirmed Three hanging on, her legs flying behind us.

  Shit.

  I zigzagged the bike, hoping to throw her off her precarious grip. Her fingers slipped, and I bucked my torso, but she wouldn’t let go. I swerved again, this time purposely grazing the driver’s side of an oversized van. The van’s side mirror popped off with a loud snap, but Three hung on.

  Wind bit into my face, blew my hair into my eyes, and we were rapidly approaching the intersection. The semi had just pulled out. Cars around us honked their horns, drawing far too much attention. I had to get out of here. Now.

  I released my clutch hand and used it to try to pry her fingers from my body. But I was too late. Her other arm snaked around my neck. I twisted, trying to drive and fight her off at the same time.

  Ahead of me, the semi loomed, completely blocking the intersection, like a giant metal whale.

  Collision imminent: 20 ft. Veer left.

  Three slowly arched my head backward, backward. Wind tore at my skin. The handgrips started slipping out of reach. If I was going to do anything crazy to get away, the time was now.

  Collision imminent: 15 ft: Veer left.

  With a desperate surge of strength, I drove my head forward, loosening her grip for just a second. That was all the time I needed. With a silent prayer, I gunned the bike straight for the semi, feeling Three’s startled jerk behind me.

  “What are you—”

  Collision imminent: 7 ft. Veer right.

  But I stopped listening. I hit the foot brake at the same time that I leaned to the left, sending the motorcycle into a skid. Our combined weight pulled the motorcycle down, until we were falling toward the road, the tires screaming on asphalt. The bike started to spin. Three slackened her grip, undoubtedly readying herself to jump ship. But I was prepared.

  I got my left foot on the seat. The next instant, I was shoving her down with the bike, while I vaulted off the seat, launching myself up toward the semi’s metal carriage. Meanwhile, Three flew with the motorcycle toward the churning tires.

  The impact was hard and fast. I smashed into the side, rebounded, and flew a few feet before landing on the ground with a brutal smack.

  At the same time, a horrible metal-on-metal screech filled the air. An explosion lit the sky with tiny orange flames. Parts bounced like shrapnel, brakes shrieked. The semi swayed, skittering and winding to a stop as its back end burned. I lifted my head. The driver leaped from the cab. Three and the bike had disappeared under the truck’s massive wheels.

  Internal damage assessment:

  No. Not now. I had to move.

  Get up. Get. Up.

  A hesitation, long enough that I wondered if I’d permanently damaged something in the collision. Then, my legs responded. I bounded to my feet. Around me, cars were pulling over, people slamming doors and shouting, running our way.

  I stared at the burning wreckage for a moment and my hands flew to my throat. Oh, god. The smashed-up remains of Three’s body, slowly melting in the furnace surrounding her. Her brown eyes still wide open. Once the fire died, there would be nothing left of her.

  The smell of smoke threatened to unlock memories inside of me, and I feared what kind of response that might trigger. So I raced my way through back streets, cold night air rushing my face. Along the way, I found an unchained bike and nabbed it. I pedaled along, listening to the sirens in the distance and hoping they wouldn’t come for me. All the while, two thoughts spun through my head on an endless repeat cycle.

  Three was dead.

  And I’d killed her.

  The emotions that rose up were conflicting, confusing. Relief, satisfaction, horror, and sorrow, all battling to reign supreme. But one feeling fought hard and rose above the rest. A strange smile twitched on my face, because I was unable to hide my swelling burst of pride.

  Holland had sent his best, and I’d come out on top. I’d taken Three down. Me, the “problem child” he’d wanted to terminate. After this, there was no way to deny that he’d greatly underestimated me.

  This wasn’t the time to gloat, however. I had a job to do. Find Steven Jensen. Fill in the missing blanks about Sarah. But I wasn’t going to delude myself. Once the dust died down from this massive disaster, Holland would regroup. As would the V.O. and the police. At some point, they’d be coming for me.

  All of them.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  TWELVE

  Two hours later, I’d ditched the bike in a back alley where hopefully no one would question its presence for at least a few days. After cutting through backyards on street after street, sticking to the abandoned areas and listening intently for the sound of a chase behind me, I finally let the stiffness in my shoulders uncoil a little. I’d ditched the LED lights long ago, and traded the coat for an old brown sweatshirt I found in the unlocked backseat of a car.

  I prayed those tiny changes would be enough.

  A car raced up the street behind me, but I remained calm and tucked my chin to my chest. Just an ordinary pedestrian out for a walk. The green map unfurled before I could even think, GPS.

  Thankfully, the blinking orange dot that represented my position wasn’t too far away from my final destination.

  4.23 mi.

  Apart from a few barking dogs and occasional lights inside houses, there was no sign of life on the streets ahead. But as I walked, the trees grew more plentiful, the houses bigger. The scent of rain, grass, and pine filled the air.

  The yards grew bigger as well, with sprawling grass lots and few fences. Long driveways led up to two- and three-car garages. I passed one home, then two. Suddenly, I was at the end of a long, curving driveway. One freshly painted, detached garage sat about twenty feet down, then the driveway curved to the left and ended at another two-car garage, which was attached to a house.

  A forest-green SUV waited outside.

  This was it. This was Steven Jensen’s address.

  Initiate scan.

  Details autofocused in front of me, enlarging without any prodding. My eyes swept over the first object, then moved on to the next. In under one second, I’d processed all the visual information before me and stored it for safekeeping in my memory.

  Green Mercury Mountaineer, license plate DVU234. Trilevel home, eight front-facing windows, one front door, one garage door accessible from front yard. Three pine trees, one blocking full view of front door, two planters, filled with assorted perennials.

  So I was here. N
ow what?

  As I chewed on my lip and studied the house, a soft click broke the still night air. My head whipped up toward the sound. A lone car was parked across the street, six houses down. I’d been so caught up in studying Jensen’s house, I hadn’t thought much of it.

  The click had been the driver’s-side door opening.

  On instant alert, I watched. Ready to pounce. Until the make of the car and the identity of the tall, lean figure emerging from it hit me at the same time.

  Jeep. Hunter.

  An initial burst of joy, immediately chased by uncertainty. Logic cemented my feet to the ground. We’d been apart less than twenty-four hours and yet it felt like years. Three, Holland—look at everything that had happened in that short span of time. Everything I’d accomplished. Solo. Could I have done any of that with him by my side? I knew all too well that the responsibility of keeping him safe was a terrifying burden.

  And then all of that concern fell away when my emotions kicked in, a heartbeat later, in an explosion that obliterated everything else.

  He’d read the note, which was how he’d followed me here. In my letter of apology, I’d given him my real destination, telling him that there was no one else I’d trust with that secret information.

  Telling him that I would never doubt him as long as I lived.

  This had to mean that he still cared about me, right? And if that were true—if he could forgive me for what I’d done—couldn’t I trust him with the rest of my story?

  Hunter turned and closed the door. I imagined him running toward me with ground-covering steps, his face lighting up. But he walked toward me slowly, his face totally apprehensive, like he doubted his decision to come here. The rush of fullness in my chest that began the moment I saw him deflated almost instantaneously.

  When he finally stood a few feet away from me, I noticed dark circles forming under his eyes, which were red at the corners. His hands were buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward.

  I was worried that I’d completely broken him, but then I saw his lopsided half smile appear on his lips and I sighed a little in relief.

  “Hey,” he said simply.