by B. C. Tweedt
The bathroom was on her right. She entered, but listened. Katelyn was jumping up and down, yelling at the commentators. Sydney swept out of the restroom and further down the hall.
What am I looking for? Where would Mr. Tomlinson hide his most vulnerable information?
There were three closed doors before the hall ended. The last one would be the door to the garage. There was a mudroom entrance, shoes, and jackets hanging in cubby holes. That left two options.
She approached the first one and put her hand over the cold knob.
Wait.
Her heart pounded up to her throat as she thought through her plan B.
Then she turned the knob.
An office.
She glanced back down the hall, where Katelyn was sitting, covering her shaking head.
Sydney slipped inside and set to work. She opened every drawer, flipped through papers, rummaged through file cabinets, and eyed the laptop. There was a cable for an external hard drive, but it wasn’t attached. Perhaps Mr. Tomlinson kept it on him.
And then it struck her. Her parents had tools for this. Devices that download a laptop’s contents in a matter of seconds, listening devices as small as a tick that she could plant nearly anywhere, and more. They were the spies. Not her. But if she could get the tools…and come back…
She scanned the room for any evidence she had left of her presence and, not finding any, rushed to the door, opened it, closed it behind her, and felt the phone buzz in her pocket.
Call us when you can, honey.
“What’re you doing?”
Sydney jumped, nearly dropping her phone. It was Jordan, standing in the other doorway. Glancing behind him, she saw his open laptop on the corner of his bed.
“Oh, you scared me!” she said, putting her phone in her pocket.
“Were you in the office?”
Sydney glanced at the door, giving herself time to remember Plan B.
“Oh, yeah,” she laughed. “I was looking for the bathroom.”
Jordan exited his doorway, closing the door behind him. His face was serious, and he glanced past her to Katelyn in the living room. But then his eyes latched on Sydney as he took purposeful steps toward her. “No, you weren’t.”
Chapter 21
Sydney felt herself gasp but battled the nerves that made her head swim.
“I-I was…”
“You were looking for me,” Jordan said.
Sydney was relieved, yet still frightened. Jordan was a year older, six inches taller, and moving closer to her. Her instincts told her to run, or to strike him, but she knew she could do neither. She needed to be able to return, to stay in his favor lest he turn her in for snooping.
“Maybe,” she whispered, taking a step back, against the wall.
Jordan stepped closer, taking peeks toward Katelyn. He smiled at Sydney, but not a good smile. It was twisted. A little seductive. Scary. “You found me.”
Sydney jerked her phone back out and held it up between them. “My parents just texted. I need to call them quick.”
He took the phone and reviewed the text, just inches from her face. Then he returned it to her pocket for her. Sydney swallowed hard, hating every second of this. Her knee was itching to ram itself into his sensitive area.
“Call them later. After I give you a tour of the place? Of my room?”
He tugged on her sleeve, pulling her toward his door.
She struggled for the breath to respond, her mind frantic for options. She needed a getaway. A way out without burning any bridges. But was the mission this important?
“A tour sounds good. I’ll get Katelyn.”
“Nah,” he scoffed. “I’m a better tour guide. You’re not afraid of a tour are you? You were looking for me, weren’t you?”
He tugged her further toward his door, arching his eyebrow. He reached for his doorknob.
She was going to have to go in. She could do it. She had to. Win him over. Then he would invite her back, not just Katelyn. More opportunities to investigate. More chances to stop the attack.
Do what’s right, no matter the costs.
She thought of Greyson. She saw his face. Saw him throw Sam out the back of a moving truck. She had been angry at Greyson for his jealousy of Sam, but now – now she would give anything to have him here, to throw Jordan through a window.
“I wanted to say ‘hi’,” she said, taking a step through his doorway.
When she had taken another step inside, Jordan released her sleeve, reached past her, just over her shoulder, and pushed the door closed.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
They both jerked at the sound. Jordan stalled for a moment, glancing between her and the door, thinking.
“Sydney! It’s your brother!” came Katelyn’s voice.
Sydney shrugged and faked a smile. “Sorry. Later,” she said, regretting her words immediately after she left his room, scampering to the front door. Katelyn had left it open and returned to the television, enraptured by the coverage.
“Bye, Katelyn. Thanks!”
At the front step, Nick opened his mouth to say something, but Sydney was out the door before he could start. She raced to her bicycle and led Nick around the block. He had a hard time keeping up, yelling after her to slow down, but she was first to get home. She walked her bike in the garage and pressed the button to close it. Nick snuck underneath the closing door, stepping over the motion sensor and straight into Sydney’s waiting arms.
She hugged him hard, squeezing him close in silence. Surprised, he returned the hug without a word, letting the door shut out the world.
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The riot cop pushed Cael through the avenue of police and emergency vehicles that flashed red and blue. The chaos had spilled over even here. A SWAT team muscled their way through a line of ordinary cops, protestors were mustered to the curbs, others were arrested and thrown into vans, and a caravan of black SUVs was turning the corner outside, escorted by police motorcycles, an armored personnel carrier, and a small swarm of drones.
Though his hands were still handcuffed, he knew he could make a break for it. There were alleys, tons of distractions, and ways to remove the cuffs. Buzz was an able partner as well. With cooperation they could outmaneuver a squad of riot cops.
But Cael didn’t want to escape.
The riot cop threw Cael into the back of the police van alongside Buzz and Humpy then jumped inside after them. He slammed the doors shut as the vehicle took off. Cael squinted at him, his lip sneering and smirking at the same time. “You were supposed to put’em on looser this time.”
The cop raised his helmet’s visor and laughed. “I’m just staying in character. Being a dirtbag,” Neeson said.
Humpy snorted, unlocking his handcuffs with a key. Then the panel window to the front opened. From the wheel, Orion eyed Cael in the rear-view mirror, wearing an officer’s uniform. “Keep them on until we get clear,” he ordered. “We lost a team in Chicago Wednesday.”
Neeson put his helmet back on, and Humpy made a face as he snapped his handcuffs back on.
“Where to next?” Cael asked Orion.
For a moment, Cael was unsure he would respond. He was busy maneuvering around barricades. Finally, Orion responded. “Dallas. One more.”
“Cicada?”
“Almost. But you’re not going.”
Cael squinted harder. “Why not?”
Suddenly Humpy swung open the back door to the rushing street behind.
“You’re going to Camp #34 outside Oklahoma City, one of two simultaneous test sites. Stay silent, and stay inside. We need a juvenile inside to aid in the escape. It needs to look real. Someone on the inside will contact you.”
Cael tensed, looking from Orion, to Neeson, to Humpy. None came to his aid. They, like Cael, knew that missions could come at any time, with little to no warning or preparation in order to keep the secret in case of capture.
/> “Y’all knew?” he asked the others.
Humpy shrugged. Buzz snorted.
“Now,” Orion said, slamming to a stop.
Neeson pulled a gun from its holster, pointed it at Cael while biting hard on his lip, and pulled the trigger.
Cael felt the paint hit his chest. A moment later, Neeson grabbed him, whispered “Sorry”, and threw him from the truck with a thud. His handcuffed wrists clanged against the cement as the police truck’s tires spun out, spitting the smell of burning rubber into his nostrils.
He lay there for a moment, collecting his thoughts and assessing the bangs and bruises on his body. The street was quiet, though the sirens were blaring nearby. He had been left alone, only with the thoughts of betrayal and uncertainty to tend to him.
The jerks had left him. But where?
Shifting his elbows to support his weight, he pushed himself up, only to stare straight into a police drone painted blue and white. Police drones resembled an insect more than a drone. It had two side wings, two big dome camera-sensors on top, and an insect body full of ammunition and hardware. Beneath the body was its three-barreled scorpion tail for a gun, pointed at his chest. One barrel for digitized paint, another for rubber bullets, and another for tasers. A red and blue light flashed on its top, and the word “POLICE” was stenciled around its perimeter.
He knew the Scorpion drone’s camera had swept him, sensing the digitized paint. He’d been tagged as dangerous. An outlaw.
“Ah, crap.”
The taser darts hit his chest; the electricity seized his muscles with intense pain, and he collapsed to the ground.
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Greyson sat on the side of the pickup truck’s bed, holding tight to the metal as the truck bumped down the mountain trail toward camp. It was an uncomfortable seat, but it beat the alternative – sitting in the bed next to the two wounded men.
One he didn’t recognize. A soldier of sorts decked out in a light grey tactical suit, cargo pants, and stocking cap. His arms were rolling hills of muscles and his face was speckled with tiny scars. Though he was out cold, Greyson knew he was still dangerous for a reason. StoneWater.
The other wounded man was Forge. Greyson stared at his leg, a queasy feeling bubbling in his stomach. The bloody bandage reminded him of his own gunshot wounds last year, and he had to fight those memories too often.
Greyson had kept his mouth shut in the first few frantic minutes as they’d departed the helicopter, helping as needed, holding back his curiosity so as to not get in the way. But now that there was nothing to do but wait…
“What the heck happened?” he asked, though he hadn’t said heck. His voice still caught on the curse word, but the more he used ones like it around the soldiers, the more natural they felt. Still, Forge gave him a second look, as if he’d said the word wrong.
“Did you stop it? Cicada?” Greyson asked to avoid any chastisement.
“No,” Forge said, grimacing as he moved his leg to a more comfortable spot.
They bumped along, Greyson watching the foliage pass by as he thought.
“StoneWater knew we were coming. Somehow.”
Forge’s eyes burned with anger and pain. Greyson hated to see him like that. He could hardly look at him.
“Diablo sniffed out their trap just in time. If he hadn’t…”
Greyson took in a deep breath and snarled at the thought. Rubicon had always come back. Each time he’d hear all about their mission, beg Forge to come on the next one, and ask Forge his three questions. He’d always known there was a possibility they’d not come back, but he had known it in his head, not his heart.
The pickup rounded a bend, passed down a steep slope, and leveled out toward the back of the camp. They would approach the Med Center through a restricted back entrance, out of view of the guests.
“What you going to do with him?” Greyson asked, gesturing at the StoneWater soldier.
“We have a few more questions. Once we get him secured, we’ll pop the HR-Cuff off and get to work on him.”
“HR-Cuff?”
Forge reached over and tapped the circular metal device attached to the soldier’s vest, above his heart. “Heart Rate Cuff. Like handcuffs but it restrains your heart through electric pulse. Gives ‘em enough beats to keep ‘em alive but nothing more. They sleep or are a limp noodle.”
“Wow. That’s freaky.”
“We field-tested it on SmokeStack first.”
“That accounts for the brain damage,” Greyson noted with a smile.
Forge stifled a laugh and, after surveying the camp below their path, looked to Greyson again. “You’ve been training? Keeping to the schedule?”
Greyson nodded at him before looking away.
“You feel ready?”
Greyson snapped to him, and this time he couldn’t help but look, examining his face for deception. Though his goggles were around his neck, he could tell he wasn’t deceiving him.
“I’m ready,” he said, keeping his excitement at bay.
“Good. We may need you. Cicada’s coming, but with this leg…”
“When? Where?”
“We know what we’ve gotten from this guy so far,” he said, pointing at the StoneWater hostage with his pistol. “It’s soon. Dallas. But we’ll need to convince the team you’re ready.”
The joy in Greyson’s heart nearly made him tumble off the side. After so long, so much waiting, it was his turn. “I’ll do anything.”
Greyson watched Forge smile to himself. “You say that now.”
Chapter 22
Greyson’s shoes smacked the dirt, kicking it behind as he jumped a fallen branch. He dodged pine trees, swerving to find the best path. Footprints zigged and zagged in front of him, but this lap he made new footprints to keep it fresh. He glanced at his watch and picked up the pace.
He glimpsed the Crow’s Nest – a triangular watch post built amongst the trees – where a soldier dressed as a forest ranger waved at him. “Last lap?” he asked.
“Think so,” Greyson huffed, making a turn toward the road.
A lap around the camp’s perimeter was roughly a mile and a half, mostly on rough terrain. He’d run it three days a week for months now – checking the alarms, the cameras – and had memorized nearly every landmark along the way. There were four Crow’s Nests, the main entrance sign, the crooked road sign leading to the ski slope, the trailhead that would take him to the heli landing zone, and more. But this run wasn’t a relaxing morning jog.
Panting, he stopped at the picnic table where Forge sat with a stopwatch, his crutches leaning against the bench. Grover sat on the other side, reading something on a tablet.
“Nine minutes. Consistent.”
“Thanks,” he puffed. “Did I…pass?”
“One more lap.”
“What?”
“One more.”
“But that was five. You said five.”
“Six. Now I’m saying six.”
“I hate you.”
“Hate you, too.”
He ran and ran, his legs burning, side aching. The scout at Nest 3 waved again. “One more?”
Nine and a half minutes later he was back at the bench, spitting, hands on his knees. “Done!”
“Who says?” Forge asked. Grover chuckled without looking up from his tablet.
Greyson arched his brow. “Me?”
“Can’t do another one?”
“I…” he glanced at Grover. “…I can.”
And he was off. Ten minutes later he was back. He had to walk around in a circle, his hands behind his head in order not to throw up.
“You slowed down,” Forge noted.
“That’s enough,” Greyson whined. “I need water.”
“Who says?”
“I do.”
“That’s your body talking. It’s whining. It wants to be done, but it’s lazy. Pain’s a traffic signal. You’re wise
to understand it, but you don’t have to obey. What’s your brain doing?”
“My brain. I don’t…”
“One more.”
“ButtWipe.”
Ten minutes later he threw up near the bench.
“I knew you could do one more. See how I’m smarter than your body? So are you. Listen to it, but don’t be its slave. You’re in charge. Tell it what to do. Mind over matter, Orphan.”
He spat out the leftover vomit. “Lesson learned.”
“One more.”
He was about to stand up, to complain or call him names, when he realized that this was the test. Right here, right now. Grover wasn’t reading anymore. They didn’t care about his speed. They cared about his perseverance. His will. They were daring him without saying it.
He hadn’t done much right in his life, but this he could do.
So he left, running through the pain. The scout in Nest 3 had left him a bottled water at the trunk of the tree and he downed what he could while running. He also helped himself to some Skittles he kept in his fanny pack for quick energy. When he returned to the bench eleven minutes later, he sat next to Forge, pretending not to be at the edge of falling over dead.
The soldiers watched him as sweat dripped down his temples. Grover examined him for another ten seconds before he said, “Thirty pushups.”
“Why the heck not?” he asked with the real curse word before obeying him, expecting him to add thirty more. But there were no more requests.
Grover merely grunted. “You’re a horrible curser.” Then he stood up and left, holding his tablet.
“Thirty more?” Greyson asked, hoping to get Grover’s attention. But he didn’t turn around. “I can curse better. I swear!”
“Yeah, you do swear,” Forge muttered. “Just not very well.” Then he laughed at himself.
“I can throw in some better words. Like some ‘S’s or some ‘F’s, or ‘B’s…”
“No,” Forge said with a huff. “Cursing just doesn’t fit you. It fits most soldiers, but a kid like you…”
