by Meg Collett
Wren blushed.
“Did anything come up with the window cleaners?” Bode asked. He sat in the chair across from Hazen. Reluctantly, Wren followed, smoothing down the prim skirt she’d changed into before coming downstairs. Her shirt was white and tight—too tight—and to top it off, she wore an American flag pin on her collar.
“Richter has been searching since this morning. He’s got jack all.” Hazen finished the tie’s knot and started tucking his shirt into his pants. “Please tell me you’ve got something for me. I’m begging you.”
Wren startled when she realized he was speaking to her. “Uh, well, I talked to Kruz this morning about his thoughts on the attack.”
“Kruz?” Hazen paused in his assault on his shirt.
“Kruzer Gem.” Bode was quick to supply his brother with whatever he needed, even if it was an answer Hazen should have known himself. It wasn’t Wren’s favorite trait in Bode.
“He prefers Kruz,” she said.
“Whatever. And what did he say?”
Wren wanted to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, but Daisy had demanded she not touch it or her makeup that had been freshly applied for the press conference. She settled for wringing her hands. “He quickly made the connection to the Whitebirds, but he did bring up something interesting I hadn’t considered. He mentioned how detrimental it would be for the underground gangs if Pacem were legalized.” Hazen’s brows lifted in surprise, and Wren hurriedly added, “Because Pacem would cure addictions before they even started, undercutting the gangs’ primary source of revenue.”
“That’s an interesting conclusion.” Hazen’s eyes slid to Bode.
Bode nodded. “I’ll have him checked out.”
“What?” Wren glanced between the brothers. “Wait. You don’t understand. He just meant the relationship between the gangs and Pacem is unique. Typically, a new drug merits increased traffic and sales on the street, but with Pacem, the reverse would happen. He said it was interesting because the Whitebirds is the only gang to come out and openly protest Pacem, even though they aren’t connected to any of the mainstream serk trades. He thought there should be more gangs uniting with the Whitebirds.”
“Really? He said exactly that?” Hazen snatched his tablet off his desk and started slashing out notes. “That there should be more gang activity? Did it seem like he might be involved in rallying them himself?”
“He was terrified after the fireworks last night! There’s no way he’s involved.”
“When did you see him during the fireworks?”
“On my way out. He was hiding near the stairwell. He wears a hearing aid.” Wren pulled on her ear as if that would help her case. “The sounds were too loud. He had a panic attack. That’s all.”
“He was hiding, you say? Why didn’t you mention this last night?”
“Because he was terrified! He couldn’t have done anything to initiate the attack.”
“Perhaps,” Hazen said, “but he knows an awful lot about the Whitebirds, and he is calling for more gang activity—”
“He’s not calling for it! He mentioned it as a possibility!”
Hazen paused. He didn’t relish interruptions. Meanwhile, Bode hadn’t uttered a peep. Wren shot him a hard stare, and he had the good grace to squirm.
“As I was saying,” Hazen continued, “he’s a person of interest as of this moment. Good work, Wren.”
Wren massaged her aching temples, not caring about her makeup. “You’re wrong about him.”
“Be that as it may,” Hazen drawled. “Bode, I’ll assign Richter to background analysis. He’ll cover all of Mr. Gem’s employment, friends, family, and residence. I want you trailing him on set and giving me daily reports. If that young man even sneezes in a phone’s direction, I want to know about it. The last thing we need is more gangs rushing to enlist in the Whitebirds’ crusade. Got it?”
“Got it,” Bode said, crisp as a military salute.
Hazen’s computer screen beeped with an alert, stealing his attention. “We’ve got to go. Where the hell is Beau? If he’s drunk somewhere, so help me, I’ll assassinate him.”
Hazen stomped out of his office, yanking on a suit jacket as he went and expecting Wren and Bode to follow. Wren stood, wobbling in her heels. She’d unwittingly implicated an innocent person, but as a silver lining to this disastrous meeting, at least Hazen hadn’t mentioned anything about her and Roman’s botched scene from earlier today. Obviously, Maddox hadn’t ratted them out, which softened her toward him a bit more.
Bode touched Wren’s arm before she could step into the hall. “I promise he’s not normally so uptight.”
Wren refused to accept Bode’s justifications for his brother. “Kruz isn’t involved.”
“You can’t be sure.”
Wren was about to argue, but she held back. Could she be sure about anyone?
: : :
In an airy, fluorescent-bright conference room, Beau stood behind Hazen’s right shoulder, looking strong in a navy suit, white shirt, and red tie. At Hazen’s left shoulder, Wren looked just as ridiculous. Behind them and Hazen’s podium, a flapping American flag played on a loop on the screen that covered the entire back wall.
Hazen started the conference by minimizing the connection between VidaCorp and the attack, saying it was “sad and disheartening” that some people couldn’t embrace change. He went on to say he would personally see to every affected citizen’s hospital bills. He sounded gracious and kind, compassionate yet strong in the face of “terrorism” and “social anarchists.”
He added that the current American president had allowed this to happen through her lenient policies on convicted criminals residing in the suburbs surrounding Hollywood. With so few words, Hazen had shifted the press conference into a campaign rally for Beau and his politics.
Watching him parry questions and redirect focus, Wren realized Hazen Bafford knew how to perform. He would’ve given Sloane a run for her money. Or maybe, if Vik’s claims were true, Sloane and Hazen had spent as much time teaching each other acting tricks as they had in bed.
Her feet were starting to hurt in her heels. After an hour, the conference wrapped up, and Hazen delivered his final statement.
“VidaCorp,” he said with steely determination that transformed his pretty face, “will put a stop to this kind of anarchy. VidaCorp has leads on suspects. VidaCorp has people in place to stop another attack.” He leaned toward the podium’s microphone and practically shouted, “VidaCorp is ready to do what the American government isn’t!”
The gathered crowd cheered. The star of Hollywood, or perhaps more accurately, a dog on a tight leash, Beau stepped forward and waved, his smile bright and shining. But he didn’t take a position behind the mic, and when Hazen stepped back, Wren realized it was over. She’d been there for nothing more than ratings. They hadn’t needed a chirp from her, just her face and her body in a tight shirt and skirt to keep the peoples’ interest long enough for Hazen to deliver his speech.
She felt dirty and used. Sloane had felt this way every day of her life, and Roman’s need for a fresh start made more sense.
As they walked off the stage, the crowd still cheering, the American flag loop on the screen stuttered. A rip of static filled the room. Hazen jerked to a stop, but Beau kept walking, oblivious. Wren turned back in time to see the screen go blank.
“Very well said, Mr. President!” A masked face appeared on the screen, the feed fuzzy, the person’s voice distorted and Link-like. “Now it’s our turn. Listen closely. Watch closely. This material might be disturbing to some. Or, perhaps, this will only be disturbing for VidaCorp.”
The face disappeared in a blast of static, and a video of a small town appeared on the screen. It wasn’t large, just dirt roads and slapdash buildings made of scraps and prayers. Tall mountains and dense green forests surrounded the town.
Beside Wren, Hazen whirled toward the closest assistant. “Turn it off!” he hissed, but the sound echoed through the hushed
room. “Turn it off now!”
Wren couldn’t peel her focus off the screen, but she heard in Hazen’s voice that he knew exactly what was about to play in the video. He knew.
Across the room, Bode scrambled from his position by the door and rushed into the hall. But back on the screen, the camera zoomed in, the feed turning blurry for a second, on an array of drilling equipment. The camera panned to a large metal container. The logo on it was VidaCorp’s.
The reporters started murmuring as their tablets lit back up for their frantic notes. Cameras were once again raised onto shoulders, and the press conference was back on.
But it wasn’t in Hazen’s control anymore.
“Turn it off!” he yelled, abandoning the quiet, subtle route.
The town’s roads began to fill with people. They stumbled into the street, lurching and hacking, clutching their stomachs. There was no sound, but Wren knew when they’d started screaming. The camera zoomed in even closer, and the feed stayed grainy. Heavy streams of saliva bubbled from the people’s mouths. Suddenly, from a ground-level building, a door splintered apart and someone fell out onto the street. From inside, someone else sprang out and landed on the person.
The second person ripped and clawed at the first person’s throat until blood spewed and flowed over the ground. It incited a frenzy. The other townspeople started attacking each other, ripping and tearing and biting until the street dust had settled beneath thick patches of blood.
The reporters gasped. Wren covered her mouth.
Then the explosions started.
They went off silently in the video, but Wren could tell how the earth shook violently. The buildings collapsed and she lost sight of the people in the thick fires and smoke.
The video cut off, and the masked face reappeared. “The people of Muja, Bolivia can’t approve this message because they’re all dead. But we’re the Whitebirds, and we’ll always speak for those who can’t. We approve this message.”
The screen went dark, and the conference room erupted in an explosion of sound. Wren flinched as reporters hurled questions. With a growing string of curse words, Hazen rushed from the room, with Bode’s security team flocking around him. Wren departed, close on their heels.
The reporters tried to follow, their frantic hands jabbing microphones at Hazen, their camera operators jostling for position. Bode’s team barricaded their progress, and Bode, with Beau in hand, led them into another conference room, the walls darkened and completely opaque to the hall. He slammed the door, cutting off the shouting reporters’ questions about the explosions and VidaCorp’s involvement.
For a second, Hazen, Bode, Beau, and Wren stood in stunned silence, panting.
Bode was the first to speak. “What the hell—”
“I want you poring over those crew reports. Look for anyone in Bolivia two years ago,” Hazen growled. His body was trembling with rage, his face dark red. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. “Start on the cast second. That fucking camera was positioned somewhere in the mountains. If anyone was on set somewhere in South America with access to high-powered cameras, I want to know. Do you hear me?”
Bode flinched at his brother’s shouting, but he bobbed his head, eyes wide with urgency. “I’m on it. I’ll get it right to you.”
No one could leave because the reporters had trapped them. The silence boiled against Wren’s skin. Every time she blinked, she saw the people attacking each other, their mouths stretched wide around a howl of rage.
“It really sucks for that town,” Beau slurred, pulling out a silver flask from his interior coat pocket. “I hope everyone’s okay. Oh, hey. When does the press conference start?”
24:
Bode slammed his tablet against his knee. “Why won’t this thing go any faster?”
He threw the tablet aside, not caring when the screen cracked against the wall, and stabbed at his computer’s touchpad. Wren kept her spot by the door of his office in case she needed to make a hasty retreat.
“Where the hell did it go?” he muttered. “I know I saved it here somewhere …”
“Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“I just need to find my reports on the crew. I had them here. I know I did. I have to figure this out for him. This can’t happen again.”
His fist crashed into his desk, and Wren jumped. This side of Bode worried her. Scared her, even, if she were honest. But his fear fueled his panic, and Wren knew why he was afraid. Why he so desperately needed to give Hazen a solid lead.
“He still blames you?” she asked.
Bode kept searching, his eyes flashing back and forth across his screen, his face blue from the computer’s glow. “What?”
“For leaving Sloane that night. You were her guard.”
His fingers stilled against the pad. She had his attention now. “How do you know?”
“Roman.”
Bode’s fist clenched. “I should have guessed. He’d tell you anything to make me look bad.”
He was worried about looking bad? What about Sloane or the fact he’d left her alone that night? Wren kept her questions to herself. In the years since her mother’s death, she’d learned. Her father had the sort of raw, whipping anger that could fill a room and stifle the air. He always went ballistic when she asked anything that undermined him. She tasted the same sort of energy in the room with Bode, and she kept silent.
When she didn’t respond, Bode said, “Be careful around him, Wren.”
“A few people have told me that.” She thought of Hutton’s comment about Roman after their meeting with Maddox. But Wren would rather be stuck in a small room with Roman than Bode right then. Was it really just hours ago that she’d joked around with Bode and called him a friend? She didn’t know what to call him right now.
“For good reason.”
He went back to searching his computer, fingers flying across the pad. Wren shifted her weight. Finally, she asked, “What happened in Bolivia, Bode?”
His eyes narrowed at the screen, and a vein rose beneath the skin alongside his neck, pulsing hard enough that Wren could tell his heart rate had increased. He didn’t look at her when he said, “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.”
“But those people—”
His phone rang, and he jumped for it, tearing it from its sleek, narrow cradle. “It’s Bode.” He paused, his face falling with relief. “Oh, hey, Maddox. I thought you were Hazen.” He swiveled away from Wren. “Yeah, I’m working on it. You can come over. I’ll be here.”
When he hung up the phone, she asked, “Maddox is worried?”
“Extremely. He’s coming over for a meeting. Can I catch up with you later?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll go straight to your room?” he asked, a hint of the warm, comforting Bode she knew returning. “We need to be extra careful with your security.”
But not careful enough to escort her. Finding his reports and getting information to Hazen took priority. Wren wondered if something similar with VidaCorp had taken priority the night Bode left Sloane alone in her penthouse.
“I’ll go straight there. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Wren left his office and started toward her bedroom at a slow walk, then faster until she was jogging, a thought forming in her mind. Then she was running full tilt.
The third floor’s black hallways were empty. With filming wrapped for the day, most of the crew were holed up in their offices or catching a few hours of sleep before it all started again tomorrow. Wren hadn’t seen a single person, but then she rounded a corner and ran straight into someone.
She stumbled back and looked up, cutting off the apology before it spilled from her tongue.
“Oh, hey,” Delphine or Daphne said. The other sister stood right beside the twin Wren had run into. “Where’s the fire?”
“Ah.” Wren reined in her racing heart and took in the twins’ outfits, stalling to give herself time to form a Sloane-like response. The twins wore readin
g glasses, yoga leggings, and sweatshirts. Without their makeup and curled hair, they looked completely different from the flesh-feed stars Wren had seen lounging on set earlier today.
The twins glanced at each other before the other asked, “Are you okay? Do you need any help?”
Wren was even more taken aback by the genuine concern in her voice. “Um, yeah. I’m okay,” she managed. “My handler’s been after me all day. I just need a shower and sleep.”
One of the twins held up her hands. “We get it. Handlers are the worst.”
“We were just heading down to the billiard room if you wanted to join us for chess.”
Wren fought to keep her mouth closed. Chess? The Deep twins? After seeing their interviews and watching them act in front of the cameras, Wren would have guessed they couldn’t even spell chess. Did everyone have multiple personalities in Hollywood?
“I’m good,” she said. “Thanks for asking. Maybe tomorrow.”
“It’s a date.”
They left and Wren walked toward her room at a more level-headed pace. She unlocked the door and held her breath, praying Hutton or Roman wasn’t inside.
She got lucky. She was alone. Racing into the bathroom, she grabbed her mic off the countertop. It was the one she’d worn on her bra during filming. Pressing the small button on the side of the wireless device, she went back into her bedroom. The mic chirped in response, and Wren smiled. Her tablet was on the desk. It lit up with a swipe of her finger.
“Please work,” she muttered as she searched through its settings. She hit the “Sync Device” option. The mic chimed and a tiny light flashed green. On her tablet, a pop-up message told her the microphone was ready to record.
She retraced her steps down the black hallway, rounding corner after corner until she was one away from Bode’s office. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was behind her, she checked the hall. Up ahead, she caught the heel of Maddox’s worn loafer disappearing inside the office.
Wren hurried forward. She wouldn’t have long. Anyone could come down the hallway, but she wanted to know what Bode would tell Maddox about Bolivia since he obviously wasn’t telling her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Hazen had known what would happen in the Whitebirds’ video, and if Hazen knew, his head of security likely did as well.
