MILA 2.0: Renegade

by Driza, Debra

  I searched with my android sensors for any hint of weapons.

  Nothing but static. Still jammed. Or, possibly some residual damage from Jensen’s booby trap. Speaking of . . . where was he?

  I eyed Peyton over the top of Hunter’s head, taking in the outline of Kevlar under his shirt. Hunter’s parents, showing up here just when we needed them, decked out in Kevlar? Suspicion whispered down my spine.

  “What are we waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of here, before that crazy guy gets back.” Hunter tugged at my wrist, but I refused to budge. He might not have asked the right questions yet, but I had. And the answers I’d come up with weren’t promising. Not for me.

  “Come on, Mila,” Hunter said, frowning.

  I shook my head, my gut slowly sinking as, when Peyton took an easy step forward, I made out a telltale silver instrument, sticking out of his pocket. As my eyes zeroed in on that small, rectangular device, my body twitched. I remembered the feeling of being shocked into flat-lining all too vividly.

  “Ask him again how they knew to come here,” I said. Softly. Staring right at Peyton.

  Peyton sighed before giving the faintest of nods, acknowledging my challenge with a hint of admiration glinting in his eyes. Clearly he appreciated my brazenness. “Move away from her, Hunter,” he ordered.

  “What’s going on?” Hunter said, his gaze switching from me to Peyton.

  I turned my head to gauge his expression, to see if somehow, this was an elaborate act. If I’d been right before, about Hunter’s role in all this. But no. Genuine confusion creased his brow, and his eyes were guileless. Besides, why would he bother to lie at this point? This was checkmate, and I was the losing player.

  The perplexed furrow in his brow deepened. “How did you guys know to come here? I thought you were away on business? Did the police find out somehow and call you?”

  I wondered how long it would take Hunter to puzzle out the truth. I couldn’t be certain until they confirmed it, but I had a pretty good idea. My hands trembled, and I crossed my arms to hide them. Please, please, let me be wrong.

  Just then, the wall that’d stopped me from using my android senses faltered. In the blink of an eye, I scanned the people in the driveway. Behind Hunter’s mom and slightly to the left were two males.

  First male threat:

  Suggested age range: 23–28.

  Height: 5 ft. 10 in.

  Approximate weight range: 149–155 lbs.

  Ethnicity: Hispanic.

  Distinguishing features: 1 mm. symmetrical black mole, left cheekbone.

  Second male threat:

  Suggested age range: 38–42.

  Height: 5 ft. 9 in.

  Approximate weight range: 185–192 lbs.

  Ethnicity: Caucasian.

  Distinguishing features: None.

  And then I felt a faint fluttering in my mind, like someone was thumbing through pages of memories.

  Scanning internal database.

  Match found.

  In a burst of color, a different image of the second man appeared, standing in the doorway, in a workman’s disguise. Short, burly, wearing a navy hat. Then, the wall snapped back into place.

  I’d seen enough, though. He was the man who’d tried to break into our motel room, back when Mom and I were on the run, and also the man whose fingerprint was on the GPS device on Hunter’s Jeep. Apparently my computer brain had the ability to store images and recall them on command. Did that mean everyone I’d ever met was lurking somewhere inside my mind?

  The man glared at me, and I recalled another fact—he was also the guy whose partner I’d stabbed in the brachial plexus with a hair dryer and threatened to torture for information. A man who definitely held a grudge, based on the way his dark eyes burned through me. His fingers stroked the Taser, almost lovingly.

  I’d also scanned the other two. They all wore a mishmash of clothing and of the five, I could only tell that two of them were armed. But both of them had weapons of choice for dealing with runaway androids.

  Tasers.

  Based on the eclectic dressing choices, this group had nothing to do with Holland. And I could only think of one other group who’d know to have a Taser at the ready.

  Peyton’s watch made a sudden noise, and he looked down, frowning. “Like I said, we can discuss all of that later.”

  He didn’t look like a bad guy. Just an everyday businessman, or banker, or high-school teacher. I glanced at Hunter. A father. Not that you could always tell by looking, of course. But I didn’t see cruelty in the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the depths of his eyes. Just a quiet confidence; a belief in his ability to get things done.

  Peyton stepped forward, and I took a matching step back. Hunter cringed a little.

  “Look, Hunter, there’s a lot to explain,” Peyton said. Though he spoke to Hunter, his shrewd eyes never left me. His limbs held coiled tension, but he wasn’t stressed. Just ready. Whoever this man was, he was no ordinary businessman. Cruel or not, he was far too comfortable in this role. “Later. Right now, we need to get you kids into that van and out of here, before it’s too late.”

  “No.” The rejection shot out of me before I could stop it. “You need to answer his questions first.”

  Sophia shook her head, her worried gaze darting over her shoulder. She appeared steady and calm, but I noticed that her hands kept flitting toward her mouth before balling at her sides. Trying to fight off the urge to chew. And, every so often, she’d continue her side-to-side sway as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. For whatever reason, she wasn’t as at ease in all this as her husband was. If Peyton was the calm, self-assured businessman, then she was the harried, overworked, underconfident housewife. “Once we’re in a safe location, we can tell you everything.”

  Hunter looked from them to me and back again. I watched realization dawn. “Are you telling me—you guys work for the government, too?” His accusatory question was for his parents, but I was the one who answered.

  “No. They work for the Vita Obscura.”

  Hunter mouthed the words after me, “Vita Obscura.” He scowled. “Not that again.” He turned back to his parents. “Tell her how crazy that is. Tell her,” he repeated, when neither of them spoke at first. “Tell her you know nothing about this Vita Obscura.”

  Sophia’s tired eyes met Peyton’s. He gave her a swift nod, once again demonstrating that he was the one in charge. She smoothed her hands on her pants and sighed. “Actually, she’s right. We are with the V.O.”

  The news clearly didn’t sink in at first, because Hunter just stood there, looking expectant. Several seconds ticked by before realization hit. Hunter visibly recoiled. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. That can’t be true.”

  The look he threw at me was a cocktail of pain—guilt and horror—and my stomach clenched for him. For both of us.

  “Look, it’s not what you think—”

  “Stop!” He threw his hand out. “Stop. I don’t even know what I think yet, so I know damn well you don’t.”

  “Hunter!” Peyton snapped, his muscular body going rigid with tension. “Don’t speak to your mother like that.”

  “Sorry,” Hunter responded reflexively. Then he laughed, but the sound was harsh. “Seriously? You just told me that you’re part of some secret, illegal espionage group, but you’re worried that I said damn? Unbelievable.” His fists bunched at his sides, and his eyes closed. I watched him battle for control, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “Here’s what I think,” he said, when he could finally speak. “I think you’re telling me you’re part of an organization that’s been hunting Mila down and trying to kidnap her. I think you’ve been lying to me, all this time, about where you’ve been going. Business trips? Jesus.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, forgetting about his injured arm, and flinched.

  Maternal concern twisted Sophia’s face. Her hands fluttered helplessly as she stepped forward. “Hunter, are you okay?”

&n
bsp; He laughed again—a raw, humorless bark. “Am I okay?” he mused, like he was contemplating the weather. “What do you think? I just . . . first Mila, and now you. This can’t be happening. This can’t be my life.”

  He dragged his good hand through his hair, then stopped abruptly. “Oh my god,” he said, with dawning horror as more puzzle pieces clicked together. “You’re the ones who told me to be nice to the girl I saw at Dairy Queen. To make a new friend. You knew, didn’t you? Even then, you were setting me up. Lying. Have you been tracking me this whole time? Tracking us? I know this was probably Peyton’s thing, but Mom, how could you?”

  That last was a little boy’s plea, one that broke my heart. A plea that dredged up memories. My mom, finally telling me the truth, and the aching despair I’d felt, knowing she’d lied. Hunter had been there for me. Had helped ease the pain a little.

  “How could you lie to me, after everything that happened with Dad?”

  He was shouting now, so I reached out to touch his arm. Hoping to give him even a tiny measure of the comfort he’d given me. “Hunter, try to calm down.”

  A brief hesitation, an indrawn breath. For a moment, I thought I’d gotten through.

  Then, he snatched his arm away and whirled on me. “Calm down? How can I calm down? Of course, it’s probably easy for you to say. It’s not like you were telling me the truth all along either.”

  His words said one thing, but his eyes another. They were frantic. With his back to his parents, he mouthed, “Get ready to run.”

  I froze, stunned into silence, and something flickered across his face. Pain. Regret, maybe. But then he turned away, striding toward an opening in the driveway. As he walked, only one thing went through my mind.

  After everything I’d put him through, he was still trying to help me.

  My eyes stung with unshed tears, but I willed them away. He was right. If I wanted a fighting chance of escaping, I had to do it now.

  “I’m getting the hell out of here. I need time to think.”

  The man from the motel room moved to block his path, and Hunter practically snarled. “Back off.”

  “Riggs, step aside,” Hunter’s stepfather said.

  “I don’t need you to speak on my behalf,” Hunter yelled, turning to face Peyton. “I don’t need you to speak at all. Don’t think I don’t know that you got her into this. I trusted you!”

  “Hunter, now is not the time—” Peyton started, but after a meaningful glance over his shoulder at me, Hunter whirled, his shoulder bumping Riggs.

  Now.

  I broke into a run, but as I flew forward, I caught a glimmer of motion from Riggs as his expression soured. Everyone else’s eyes were on Hunter, so no one else watched his hand go to his Taser.

  Leave him, the logical part of my brain demanded. This was my only shot.

  My heart rebelled.

  As Riggs lifted the Taser and took aim at Hunter, I shifted course.

  “Get down,” I yelled desperately, when Riggs fumbled for the switch.

  Sophia screamed, “Stop!” but she wasn’t close enough to help. I dove for Hunter at the same time Riggs flicked the switch, knocking him to safety just before the Taser discharged. It sizzled across the driveway harmlessly.

  Voltage: 1100.

  Shock trapped my feet in place. Eleven hundred volts? That Taser was set for me. If it had hit Hunter . . .

  A yank on my arm made me stumble forward. “Mila, run!” Hunter hissed. I allowed him to pull me forward and we headed toward the driveway.

  Peyton’s angry shout sounded as he rounded on Riggs, but I didn’t pay attention. Our feet pounded the asphalt. All the while, all I could think was, Please don’t let them hurt Hunter. Please.

  “The van!” he whispered, pointing at the stationary vehicle at the end of the driveway.

  For the first time, hope rose in my throat. Maybe we did have a chance, after all. If we could get inside the van, with just a little head start . . .

  “No Tasers!” Sophia yelled from behind us. “It’s too risky!”

  If my sensors weren’t jammed and only allowing some information to trickle in, I would have known about the two men with ample warning. Instead, my first inkling was when one jumped out from behind the car. He grabbed at my arm, tearing me from Hunter’s grip and catching me completely off guard.

  Hunter stumbled, going down on one knee, while the man jerked me off balance.

  I recovered before he could make a second move. I broke the guard’s grip on my elbow with one fluid motion, before using that momentum to crank his arm into a painfully awkward position. My right foot whipped out and slammed into his right knee.

  Impact: 720 lbs. per square inch.

  The measurement flickered in front of me at the exact same time he grunted in pain. The next moment, he was on the ground, clutching his injured knee soundlessly.

  Another man rushed Hunter from the side. I intercepted, hit him with a hard uppercut to the kidney. I feinted closer to follow up, only to feel someone closing in from behind. I dropped low and whirled, sweeping the third man’s feet out from under him. As he fell back I followed, diving onto him and slamming his head into the ground.

  After one moan he was silent.

  “This is ridiculous! Surrender now, before one of you gets hurt! Riggs, what the hell are you doing? Call off your men!”

  Peyton’s command rang out, but no one heeded his words. It all made sense now. Riggs hated me, and he was spurring on the attack. He wanted us to get hurt.

  He owed me.

  Harsh fingers tangled in my hair, yanked me away. I flew back, and a brawny arm curled around my neck. Without a second thought, I rocked back on my heels, then thrust all my weight over and down. He flipped over my head, pulling me with him. He landed back first on the hard ground, with me on the top, his arm slackening on impact. I flipped over, rose, and slammed my heel into his groin. Blanching, he curled into a fetal position.

  I raced back to Hunter, who had squared off with the guy who’d stood next to Riggs. Hunter’s right eye already starting to swell shut. The man reared back to deliver another blow.

  I leaned to the side and lifted my leg high, striking the ball of my foot hard into his lower back.

  Impact: 1000 lbs. per square inch.

  Even through my shoe, I felt vertebrae yielding, the unnatural crack piercing the air. The guard crumpled like a puppet without strings.

  I grabbed Hunter’s wrist. “Come on!”

  The van, it was so close.

  We closed in on the driver’s door, our legs pumping hard. Then, a flutter of motion, as another man exploded out of the back—with a gun, fully extended.

  “Get in the van!” I yelled, shoving Hunter toward the driver’s door as I plowed straight ahead. Right for our attacker.

  His eyes widened when I was still three steps away, narrowed at two. I saw his finger twitch on the trigger at one, heard the slight snick of the bullet releasing from the silenced chamber. I veered to the left, a blur just barely grazing my arm. Then I batted the gun away before diving headfirst into his chest.

  He crashed backward and I somersaulted over him, regaining my feet and his gun, but now facing the wrong way.

  “No guns! No guns!” Peyton shouted, but he’d lost all control of the situation. “Back off of him!”

  Hunter.

  I whirled, already in stride. Hunter fumbled for the door handle with one hand and frantically urged me on with the other. He yanked open the door and stepped back, making room for me to dive in first.

  “Mila!” he yelled.

  A man grabbed him from behind and yanked him backward, wrapping one burly arm around Hunter’s throat.

  “Hunter!” I screamed, desperately propelling myself toward him.

  Just in time to watch Hunter’s eyes bulge, watch his hands claw at the arm to no avail. To watch the guard use his free hand to press something against Hunter’s neck.

  Just in time to watch his mouth form one final “M
ila?”—just in time to catch him as his body convulsed and his legs buckled beneath him.

  “Noooooo!”

  As my arms reached for him, I heard a loud zap, saw a bright crackle of light. And then a powerful electrical fire surged up my spine. Current blazed through my body: hot, hot, sizzling.

  My thoughts jerked, jerked, disrupted by the same static that bristled through my ears.

  Taser was my final coherent thought, before I———————————————————

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  NINETEEN

  A familiar buzzing filled my head, in short, disjointed bursts. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Followed by a head-smashing bump.

  “Sorry about that,” I thought I heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice say. But it came from far, far away and was distorted, like the words had to travel through a long, narrow tunnel to reach me.

  More buzzing. Then distorted images, flashing by in broken pieces. A horse’s hoof. A patch of green, green grass. Twirling on a beach. A white floor, marred by a swath of steel chains and the pungent scent of bleach. The inside of a car, with brightly colored candies in a tiny little cubby. Fans shrieking at a baseball game, as the Phillies batter smacked the ball. The acrid smell of smoke. A body. Collapsing.

  Faded blue eyes . . .

  Faded blue eyes . . .

  Faded . . .

  Hunter.

  With a gasp like I’d been holding my breath underwater for far too long and I’d finally broken the surface, my own eyes flipped open, only to stare directly at a pair of spotless brown boots with three-inch stiletto heels and two, no, three silver buckles on the side encasing smallish feet. Long, long legs crossed at the knee, a navy blue skirt, with a high slit on the left side. A matching, fitted blazer, blanketed by a mass of auburn hair. An oval face with high, defined cheekbones, full lips, and thickly lashed blue eyes framed by delicately arched auburn brows.