MILA 2.0

by Debra Driza

  The socks stuffed into his mouth absorbed his scream.

  I staggered back a step. “You said question them, not beat them,” I said, my eyes accusing.

  Mom dragged a weary hand down her cheek. “It’s the only way to get them to talk. You can wait in the bathroom, if you want. I can handle this.”

  I almost did it—fled to the bathroom, turned on the shower and sink full blast to block out any noises. But that wouldn’t be fair to Mom.

  Like it or not, we were a team. And our survival depended on us acting like it.

  “Now tell me what you know,” Mom said to the balding man, yanking the socks from his mouth.

  He hacked, turned his head, and spit on the floor. “Holland? We don’t work for Holland.” His focus returned to me and his mouth slackened. I could almost feel the path his eyes took as they crawled over every inch of my body.

  Mom’s fingers tightened on the gun. “Quit lying. And look at me, not her.”

  At her command, the prisoner shifted his attention to Mom, but a few seconds later, his eyes were back on me.

  “Do I look like a military wannabe to you? All we want to do is get a good look,” he said, nodding at me. “Hand her over and we’ll pay you, enough that you can disappear anywhere.”

  He raked me over from head to toe again and whistled softly. “Damn, now I can see why they’re so gung ho to grab you. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the real thing, and not just the military’s latest toy.”

  Toy. He’d just called me a toy. I clenched my teeth against the burst of pain, against the traitorous thought that his assessment wasn’t that far off. Mom’s breath hissed between her own teeth, before she grabbed him by the chin. “Quit wasting my time. Now tell me—have you reported back to SMART Ops yet? Does Holland know you found us?”

  His lip curled into a sneer. “I’m telling you the truth. It’s not my problem if you’re too stupid to believe me.”

  Mom moved the gun to point at his thigh. “Maybe I won’t shoot you in the head. But the leg . . .” A click signaled the gun was cocked.

  The sound sent nausea barreling up my throat. I didn’t think Mom would really shoot a helpless man, but even the possibility made me sick. All I could picture was the other girl, the drill, the gun at her head. . . .

  Somehow I had to convince him to talk without Mom shooting him. Even if I had to bluff my way through it.

  I flung my body down to the floor on his other side and grabbed him by the hair. “Forget the gun—I have access to hundreds of ways to torture the information out of you. Ask your friend over there. He’s going to be fine, but I can’t really say the same for his arm.”

  The smile fell from his face. His dark eyes flickered to his moaning companion while, under my fingertips, I felt his pulse throb through his scalp.

  I fought off my urge to let him go and forced my other hand to cup his cheek. If my threats terrified him into talking without the use of violence, then it was worth it.

  “I could start with something simple, like jamming my finger into your ear—hard enough to make your eardrum burst. I’d just have to be careful not to poke my way into your brain. Oh, and . . . I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  I honestly had no idea if I’d know or not, but it sounded good.

  His dark eyes stared into my green ones, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. My fingers dampened from the sweat leaking from his scalp. Then he started talking.

  “It’s just us so far, the group from your house. The others are scouring all routes heading out of Clearwater. We got a late start, but we caught up to the signal on your car—we’d bugged you.”

  “Bugged us? Then there are more of you coming?” Mom broke in, a hint of the panic she’d been so carefully repressing evident in the rising pitch of her voice.

  “No, not yet. They weren’t sure if it was a decoy, if you’d found the bug and planted it on someone else.”

  “Have you reported back yet?” A hesitation, so I forced my hand to graze his ear, as a reminder, while Mom jumped to her feet.

  He flinched. “No, we haven’t reported back. We were supposed to once we confirmed your identity one way or the other.”

  Mom rushed around the room, wiping for traces of fingerprints and shoving any remaining items into our suitcase. Then she walked back into the bathroom, emerging with two washcloths. A moment later, both men were effectively gagged and her tank top and socks rescued, albeit a little damper than she prefered.

  “When your friends find you, pass this along. The next one who comes after us will sample those torture techniques Mila was talking about. Understand?”

  His eyes widened and he gave a jerky nod.

  “Good.” Mom knelt to dig through the gunman’s pockets and withdrew a black walkie-talkie-looking device. I watched her frown at it as I followed suit. No identification, but I did find a key ring to a rental car.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as she stood, the crease deepening over her nose.

  “This is what they used to jam your reception, but I don’t recognize it. Holland never showed us anything like this before.” She stared at the device like it was toxic before punching two buttons. The green light blinked off. Afterward, the way she slowly raised her head made me suspect the worst. “I think they were telling the truth—they’re not working for the military.”

  We rushed to the door and slipped into the chilly night with those words repeating in my ears. As if things weren’t bad enough, now we had two groups hunting us down.

  Outside, nothing stirred. Not a noise except the never-ending trek of cars racing by on the highway. A quick perusal of the parking lot revealed that in addition to the three cars I’d noticed when we’d first pulled in, a fourth one was parked on the north side of the lot—a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows.

  Red shimmered behind my eyes. “No,” I hissed, clenching my jaw and willing it out of my head. No scans. We’d manage just fine without any unwanted help from my robotic voice.

  Visual scan: Activated.

  Human threat detected.

  I stopped fighting and froze. “Someone’s here.”

  Mom stopped. “Where?”

  “There.” I pointed. Off to our left, on the sidewalk in front of the motel, my visual field highlighted the figure in green light. I focused on his face and groaned. The stupid security guard, from the convenience store. He was heading our way. “What do we do now?”

  “Act like you’re searching for something in the back of the car.”

  Mom hit the remote to unlock the doors, so I shoved the suitcase inside, then leaned halfway in and pretended to rifle through the driver’s seat-back pocket.

  Mom scooted around to the passenger side and rummaged near the floorboard.

  Meanwhile I held my breath, listening as the guard’s whistling alerted us to his approach. He was getting closer. And closer.

  I didn’t dare look up from the tan leather, but I could hear his boots crunch loose gravel, hear their path lead him straight to Mom. “Everything okay? Motel owner’s a friend of mine, and he asked me to check out some noise disturbances.”

  Noise disturbances—that had to be us. I gripped the leather pocket hard while Mom straightened.

  When she spoke, she sounded pissed. “Why do you think we’re leaving in the middle of the night? It’s impossible to sleep with those morons in thirty-five making all that racket. They finally shut up about fifteen minutes ago, but since we were awake and have a long trip ahead of us, we decided to get an early start.”

  Thirty-five. The room two doors down.

  “Racket? What kind of racket? Did it sound like anyone was injured?” Through the window, I watched him search out the room in question. Crap. If he went to question them, we’d be in serious trouble.

  Mom must have realized that at the same time, because she scoffed. “Oh, not that kind of racket. You know. The other kind,” she said, with an eyebrow lift and a hush-hush head jerk in my directi
on.

  Even though the couple and their boisterous nighttime activities were imaginary, my cheeks burned. Especially considering how the guard had hit on me not too long ago. Which gave me a great, yet mortifying, idea of how to scare him away.

  I straightened, hoping my flaming cheeks weren’t super noticeable in the dim light.

  “Hi there!” I waved over the top of the car. It took a few seconds for him to make the connection, but when he did, it was almost comical.

  He gasped, then backed away from the Tahoe like it might shock him, tripping over his own feet. “Hello,” he said in a gruff voice that sounded obviously fake, his hand flying up to tug at his collar. He couldn’t turn back to Mom fast enough. “Thanks for clearing that up. I’ll go let the owner know. Have a good evening.”

  Then he ducked his head and darted for the office, careful to keep his eyes focused straight ahead.

  I would have laughed, but Mom cut me off. “We need to disable their car before he gets back,” she said, watching his retreat.

  “I’ll take care of it while you look for the tracking device.” I darted silently for the Explorer. No one inside, good.

  My fingers dug into my pocket, found the scissors I’d stashed there in hopes of not accidentally hurting anyone too much. After peering over my shoulder to ensure the guard was still safely inside the office, I started with the driver’s side. I aimed at the tire and used a quick, forceful jab to puncture the rubber. The scissors sliced through the outer layers more easily than I anticipated, the tire sheathing them so far, my hand touched rubber.

  The act reminded me of a similar one I’d performed just minutes ago, only that time I’d sunk metal into human flesh. I forced the thought out of my mind and continued to the next tire.

  In under two minutes, all four tires were sporting brand-new scissor-sized holes. Even if our hunters somehow managed to free themselves, they wouldn’t get far.

  I jogged over to where our SUV was parked. Time to get on the road, the quicker the better. Though that task proved more challenging than anticipated when I found Mom halfway underneath the vehicle. Only her long legs stuck out.

  “Didn’t find it yet?”

  From around the corner came the creak of the office door. The guard. “Hurry up!”

  “Just a second.” The soft glow that followed her as she scooted around to the back driver’s wheel told me she’d grabbed our emergency flashlight. The guard stood with his back to us and the door partially open, but the moment he turned around, he’d see the light too, and wonder what the hell we were doing. She slid back out, greasy fingered but triumphant. “Here it is,” she said, holding aloft a blinking red piece of metal, encased in what appeared to be some type of clear siliconelike substance.

  The second Mom pushed to her feet, the door clanged shut. After a cursory glance our way and a lackluster wave, the guard hurried toward the street.

  I sighed in relief while Mom launched into an excited whisper. “This isn’t a regular military tracking device. You’re programmed to sense the signals they emit. But the synthetic this thing is encased in must have somehow blocked your ability while still allowing the signal to go out. Ingenious, really.” She gingerly turned the device over in her hands, like it was precious.

  Ever the scientist, even now, under dangerous circumstances. I threw open the passenger door. “Great, Mom, but can you get excited about the device that nearly killed us after we’re in the car?”

  A sheepish smile erupted across her formerly fascinated face. “Right—sorry!”

  Her smile broadened as she climbed into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. “Why do you do that?” I said while we reversed out of our parking spot.

  “Do what?”

  “Smile whenever I say something particularly obnoxious.” This wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it definitely ranked up there as the oddest.

  She braked hard as the light in front of us turned yellow. “Because it’s proof that you’re more human than you—than anyone—thinks.”

  “Is that supposed to make sense?”

  She beamed at me, lifting her hand to smooth back my hair. “Oh, it’s perfectly logical. Think, Mila. The government didn’t really program you to have a subversive sense of humor. Neither did I, not even when I implanted the memories and uploaded the teen-speak programs. That’s all you. It means you’re growing, evolving . . . just like a human would.”

  I considered her words, and as I did, a feeling of warmth—hope—blossomed inside me. In the grand scheme of things, yes, this was all relatively minor. It didn’t change the fact that I was full of engineered parts to mimic being a human so I could blend in as a spy. But it was something. A spark of promise for what might be, for how I could change.

  For how I could change, if we lived long enough for that change to occur, and if somehow, some way, I could find the path back to Hunter.

  And then we were back on the highway, back on the run to a whole new life.

  Eighteen

  Directly ahead of us was a bridge, its supports arching above the three-laned street in a crisscross of white. Once we passed over the blue water, we’d be out of the United States. Probably forever.

  The possibility of a new life that had buoyed me just hours ago drained away, leaving me empty and filled with a silent longing.

  Hunter.

  Once we crossed into foreign territory, he’d be that much harder to reach.

  I bit my lip and stared out the window.

  Digital signs directed us to the appropriate lane. We pulled up behind a long line of cars.

  We bumped forward, one vehicle at a time.

  “Almost there,” Mom said when another car moved. Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Let’s just hope they aren’t expecting us.”

  I peered over my shoulder, at cars boxing us in from behind, and then ahead, at the six uniformed, armed workers in the kiosks and the line of official cars in front of the small building to the left. I rubbed my fingers up and down my seatbelt to calm my nerves. I was afraid that if they were expecting us, then we didn’t stand a chance.

  Finally we approached the blue-topped enclosures that housed Canadian border patrol. We were only two cars back now in lane seven, not far from the red sign proclaiming STOP/ARRÊT.

  Over in lane number six, I watched as the uniformed worker shook his head at something the driver said through the open window—even I couldn’t hear over all the idling engines—and gestured a tall male coworker over. After he issued a command to the driver, the trunk popped open and the second worker started tearing through the contents, while the first one opened the back door and peered inside.

  When they finished, the two guards conversed, shaking their heads. One held up a laptop and gestured to it. Then they directed the driver over to the left, where a green sign proclaimed EXAMINATIONS/CUSTOMS.

  From the way Mom clenched the steering wheel even harder, her knuckles whitening under the skin like little curved stones, I knew she’d noticed the commotion, too.

  The green Camry with a Canadian license plate in front of us pulled forward. We were next.

  “Are we going to be okay?” I asked, lacing my hands tightly together in my lap and squeezing.

  “I hope so,” she said softly. “But we have to do everything possible not to get pulled out for inspection.”

  Pulled out. I looked at where the gray Oldsmobile had parked as directed in front of the examinations building, watched as the driver was escorted inside. Pulled out like that guy.

  Judging by our border patrolman’s surly frown, I could only guess his pullout quota was higher than average.

  “Remember, let me do all the talking.”

  I flipped open my passport and stared at the photo inside.

  Stephanie Prescott, born November 18, age sixteen.

  It looked good, but good enough to hold up under inspection, along with the SUV’s phony registration to Mom’s fake name? Good enough to escape the notice of the mili
tary? And what about the mysterious group from the motel with all their technology—were they somehow monitoring the checkpoint too?

  Too many unknowns to loosen the sensation of steel bands gripping my chest. Too many ways to get caught.

  And beneath the fear, the traitorous thought underlying everything. The thought that if we were rejected, we’d be returned to U.S. soil. Which would put me that much closer to Hunter.

  The Camry pulled away from the checkpoint, and the uniformed guard waved us forward. Showtime.

  I rolled down the window as Mom pulled forward, hoping the fresh air would drive away the panic that clutched at me with sharp claws. My toes curled into the soles of my shoes. Mom turned her head and shot the border patrolman a strained smile, while I prepared for the worst-case scenario.

  The short, jowly man didn’t give so much as a hint of a return smile as Mom handed over the requested passports and car registration.

  He glanced at our passports and frowned.

  Typical frown, or did it mean something?

  “Where’s your final destination in Canada?” he asked.

  “London, Ontario.”

  “Reason?”

  “Funeral, unfortunately,” Mom said, making her voice crack a little on the last syllable.

  He didn’t say anything else, just studied Mom’s passport picture, then stared at Mom. Looked down again, looked up. His frown deepened.

  My panic swelled, surging through my arms, my throat. He knew something. He was going to pull us out.

  “Well,” he started, scrutinizing Mom’s face.

  I grabbed the center console to steady myself. This was it. This was when he sent us to the customs building. From there, they’d figure out our passports were false, call the U.S. government, and we’d be toast.

  “. . . you don’t have that black eye in your passport picture.”

  What?

  I bit my cheek and stared at my lap, holding back a nervous giggle. The driver’s seat creaked when Mom shifted her weight, and her hand flew to her cheekbone.

  “No. No, I don’t. I only bring it out for special occasions.” She topped off that whopper by leaning closer to the window and gazing up at him from beneath her lashes. “If you must know, I lost a fight with our dog’s nose.” She flashed a bright smile, the likes of which I’d never seen, and suddenly I wanted to crawl into the backseat. Was Mom actually flirting with this guy?