Don't Turn Around

by Michelle Gagnon

“So there are more of them?” Peter asked.

  “You really think that’s a good idea?” Cole raised an eyebrow. “Asking that sort of thing? I just said you can go. So get out of here.”

  “Just like that?” Peter said.

  “Just like that. But, kid—” Cole stepped close enough for Peter to smell his breath. It was oddly metallic, like he’d been chewing on nails. “Drive straight home. You make any detours, to the cops, whatever … your whole family dies tonight. Understand?”

  Peter managed a small nod. He looked past Cole’s shoulder at Noa. She was standing still, her eyes cast in shadow. She lifted a hand slightly, as if saying good-bye.

  That slayed him. Peter turned, cheeks hot, feeling like the world’s biggest coward. Everything inside him protested, making the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other seem impossible. He couldn’t sacrifice her like this. Noa was … well, maybe not his friend, exactly, but right now probably the person he was closest to in the whole world. And he was just walking out on her, the same way his parents and Amanda had abandoned him.

  Peter’s mind churned. He could spin around, rush Cole, surprise him, and grab his gun. Scream at her to run for the door. He might die, but at least then he’d be the hero.

  He stopped and turned. Cole was still watching him warily.

  “I can’t,” Peter said, hating the shakiness in his voice. “Not without her.”

  “Your choice,” Cole shrugged, raising the gun and aiming.

  “Go, Peter!” Noa’s voice was hard. “I don’t want you here.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it!” she said fiercely. “You’re useless, anyway.”

  That stung. Worse yet was the look in her eyes, the same one she’d had the night they met. The one that said she’d taken his measure and found him lacking.

  A wave of desolation swept over him. Rigidly, he turned back around and kept walking.

  Behind him, Cole sneered, “Just you and me now, sweetheart.”

  Peter paused in the doorway. The NSA wouldn’t get here in time. They might not even be coming. Cole and Noa would be long gone by then.

  Screw it, he decided. He’d get in the car and drive to the nearest police station. Tell them the whole story, and convince them to stop Cole. His parents could fend for themselves.

  Resolved, Peter stepped across the threshold. The sleet had slowed to a trickle, easing visibility. He looked left. The blue cooler was halfway to the pier, but Monte was nowhere in sight. The boat still bobbed on the waves, rubber bumpers squeaking against the pilings. Maybe Monte got smart and took off. Peter had the feeling Cole was planning on stuffing him in a pot as soon as he finished loading the boat.

  He trotted toward the car. He’d only gone ten feet when there was a loud pop from inside the building, followed by another, then another. Peter froze. Gunshots? Noa, he thought, heart clenching.

  Peter raced back toward the Quonset hut.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was pitch-black inside. Noa had started moving as soon as the first light blew overhead, sending shattered fragments of glass cascading down. She hadn’t known what to expect when she saw the shadow flit past the door. Hadn’t even been sure it was him, that he’d gotten her message in time.

  But then the enormous fluorescent bulbs that dangled above started to burst, flames dancing around a few of them. Cole’s eyes jerked up to the ceiling. Noa took full advantage. She dropped to a crouch and made for the exit. As the lights blew she heard a yell, then a shot, louder than the bulbs popping. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder and something chemical and sinister. Within seconds, all the light had been extinguished. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. A faint gleam emanated from the door Peter had left open. Hopefully he was already back at the car.

  Noa could hear Cole crunching toward her on the glass. The door was only a few feet away. She’d be exposed while dashing through, but if she stayed low hopefully Cole wouldn’t have time to aim.

  She didn’t let herself think it over.

  As she was about to plunge toward it, the entrance was suddenly blocked by a tall figure.

  “Noa!” Peter yelled.

  Noa swore under her breath. A roar sounded from behind her—Cole, getting ready to fire.

  Peter abruptly shunted sideways, knocked straight off his feet. He vanished from sight. Noa darted for the door, focused on the dim light outside, filtered white by the rain.

  Just as she was about to bolt through, a flaming bottle rolled past her.

  Peter landed hard and grunted. His arm had twisted beneath him at a funny angle, pinning his shoulder back. Reflexively he struggled against the weight on top of him.

  “Go to the boat!” a voice hissed in his ear.

  “What? Screw you, I’m getting—”

  “I got her. Now go!”

  Peter stumbled to his feet just in time to see his attacker light the fuse on a Molotov cocktail. The guy looked past him over the flame. He was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with dark hair that hung below his ears. Lean and grungy-looking, like the runaways at the shelter where Amanda volunteered. He glared at Peter through the rain. “Move!” he ordered, then tossed the bomb into the building.

  Peter fought through the confusion. Who the hell was this guy? Where had he come from? He seemed to be helping them, but no one else knew they were here, not even Cody.

  Obstinately he stayed put. He’d already abandoned Noa once. If she was in there, he was going after her.

  Smoke poured through the open door. Shouts inside, the sound of someone running.

  Suddenly Noa emerged, breaking free of the black smoke. The guy grabbed her elbow and dragged her toward the pier.

  It took Peter a second to react—just enough time for Cole to clear the door. He was coughing hard, an arm wrapped around his mouth. The gun dangled from his hand.

  Quickly Peter checked back over his shoulder. The guy and Noa were only halfway to the boat. They’d never make it.

  He bent double and charged, crashing his head squarely into Cole’s gut. He heard the sound of metal on concrete. Somewhere his brain processed that he’d managed to knock the gun free, and at least for the moment Cole was unarmed. Peter felt a surge of hope. He lashed out with every ounce of pent-up rage from the past few days. The way his parents had turned their backs on him. Amanda’s betrayal. All the horrible things that had been done to Noa. Aside from some occasional wrestling matches with his brother, Peter hadn’t been in a real fight since the second grade. He pummeled Cole as hard as he could, driving his knuckles into what felt like a solid rock wall.

  The hope faded quickly. Suddenly he was on the ground with Cole straddling him. “Who taught you to fight, kid?” he asked, wiping a stream of blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “Not your buddy. He put up more of a fight.”

  “My buddy?” Peter was startled. What the hell was Cole talking about? “Who are you—”

  Cole had drawn his fist back. Peter didn’t even have time to flinch before it connected with his jaw. He realized why they compared it to getting hit with a hammer, because that’s exactly what it felt like. Cole punched him again, and again. Each time, a different piece of Peter was jarred loose. A tooth. Part of his eye socket. Systematically, like it was a job he’d clocked in for, Cole kept beating him. Peter felt himself fading. The air seemed to be growing lighter around them. He wondered if this was what it was like to die.

  “Hands in the air!” a woman’s voice screamed.

  The words echoed strangely. Peter was groggy, unable to focus. His head felt like it was swelling up like a balloon.

  One last blow to his chin, so hard his teeth clacked together. The voice again, yelling, “Federal agents! Hands in the air now!”

  The sound of people running. Peter squinted, trying to see. The weight on his chest suddenly released. He heard Cole protesting. Another voice, authoritative, ordering, “Get to that boat!”

  Rough hands dragged him to his feet. Peter�
��s head lolled forward. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t lift it.

  “Take this one inside,” the same voice said. Peter let them carry him, his toes bumping over the doorsill as he was dragged into the building.

  “We need light in here!”

  A slew of orders being barked, the sound of general chaos. Peter let himself drift off for a bit. He wasn’t dead, which was a start. He wondered if Noa had gotten away. He hoped so. Peter realized that her plan had worked. At the thought, he choked out something approaching a laugh. The cavalry had come after all. A little late, but they were here.

  “What’s so funny?” a female voice demanded.

  “Nothing.” Peter raised his head and strained to see through the slits narrowing his vision. They’d brought in some sort of special lantern that cast long, triangular-shaped shadows everywhere. In its light, he could make out an older woman in jeans, a turtleneck, and a navy Windbreaker. She was frowning at him. “It’s all going to be okay now.”

  “Love the confidence,” the woman said drily. “Especially under the—”

  “Ruiz, you need to see what we found over here.”

  The woman turned abruptly and followed another guy across the room. They had on matching Windbreakers, navy blue with FBI emblazoned in bright yellow letters across the back. They stopped in front of the walk-in freezer to examine the contents of the cooler. Even though their voices were low, he could detect a shift in the atmosphere of the room.

  “There’s a chopped-up kid in there,” Peter called out. The words slurred together. He tried to enunciate as he continued, “More outside, in the other cooler. And on the boat.”

  “What happened here?” The woman was back. Odd, Peter hadn’t even seen her cross the room. There were two of her now, too.

  He smiled through throbbing lips, trying to set her at ease. “I’ll tell you everything. But first, I need to lie down. Just for a second.”

  The room shifted, sliding away from him. This time, Peter let it.

  Noa huddled against the back of the boat, trying to stay as far from the coolers and crab pots as possible. It was hard, though. The storm had churned the sea into a nasty, roiling froth. They were cruising up six-foot-high waves, then smacking down forcefully on the other side. Everything on deck, including her, kept shooting three feet up in the air before landing hard. Noa tried to take the shock of the impact in her knees, staying crouched as if poised to jump, but it didn’t help much. She was exhausted. And worse yet, really, really cold again.

  Zeke kept glancing back to check on her. Her own personal guardian angel, though he certainly didn’t look like one. He was tall, maybe six-two or six-three, her age or a bit older. Skinny, as if he never got enough to eat. Dark hair, skin, and eyes—maybe Latino, but it was hard to say for sure.

  Zeke was good at the helm, though; he must have had some experience driving boats. He was underdressed for the weather in jeans, a dark flannel shirt, and black sneakers, yet the cold didn’t seem to bother him.

  She, on the other hand, couldn’t stop shivering. Her teeth were chattering so hard it made her jaw ache. Freezing salt spray pelted her cheeks until it felt like she was being encased in ice.

  “Not much farther!” he called back, the wind snatching the tail end of the sentence.

  Noa tried to nod but couldn’t. She kept her shoulders hunched and let herself be shot up and released by the boat, shot up and released.

  They’d very nearly gotten caught. She’d tried to go back for Peter, knowing as soon as he tackled Cole that it wouldn’t end well. But Zeke wouldn’t let her. He dragged her to the boat, yelling that the feds were right behind him; they had to go go go …

  He was right. As they pulled away from the dock, the whole place was swarmed by people in dark Windbreakers yelling orders. Noa watched them overtake Peter and Cole, then head for the pier. Zeke gunned the boat’s engine and they leaped out into the waves so sharply she nearly hurtled overboard.

  By the time the agents reached the edge of the dock, the boat was fifty feet out into the water. The large waves nearly upset it, but Zeke managed to keep the hull pointed forward, righting it each time.

  “Where are we going?” she called out, but Zeke didn’t answer.

  Noa was worried. In a storm like this, the coast guard would be busy, but probably willing to make a boat carrying potential NSA infiltrators a priority.

  It was impossible to see the shoreline through the dark wash of waves penning them in.

  “Hang on!” Zeke yelled.

  Noa clutched the nearest rope, her stomach lurching as the boat swept right. A wave caught the side of it, and she started to slide across deck. Black water climbed the gunwale below her, opening up to receive her like a giant mouth.

  Another shift, and the boat leveled.

  And just like that, the waves abated. Zeke throttled down the engine. Noa saw a flash of something big and green on their left: a buoy. As if on cue, the rain diminished in intensity. She could make out the faint lights of houses on either side. They were cruising down a narrow channel between strips of land.

  “The Kickemuit River,” Zeke explained. “There’s a nature sanctuary here. We can ditch the boat and make it to the road.”

  How the hell does he know that? Noa wondered. She was relieved that Zeke had gotten her message about the facility, but she hadn’t expected him to actually turn up there. Although if he hadn’t, she might not have survived the encounter with Cole.

  He turned the boat into an even narrower canal. Long wet grass brushed the sides of the boat as they approached a small wooden bridge. The boat ran aground and Zeke cut the engine.

  “We’ll have to wade a little, but it’s not deep,” he said, coming back to her. “You okay to walk? I wasn’t sure if you got hurt back there.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, before adding, “Zeke.”

  His eyes met hers and he smiled. “How’d you figure out my name, anyway?”

  “Please,” she said. “A6M0? It took five minutes to find out that’s what the Allies called Japanese fighter planes in World War II.”

  “Guess I’ll have to come up with a new handle,” Zeke said reflectively. “’Course, you probably will, too.”

  “Probably,” Noa said. Which was a shame. She’d liked being Rain. It suited her.

  “Laptop in there?” he asked, pointing to her bag.

  “Yeah, but the saltwater probably ruined it,” she said ruefully.

  “Then leave it; we’ll need to travel light. Any and all cell phones, too, especially the one you used to email me.” Noticing her reluctance, he said gently, “It’s easy enough to get more, right?”

  Noa hesitated, then dug out the devices. He was right. She popped out the flash drive that held the Project Persephone files and tucked it in her pocket. With a pang of regret, she released the MacBook into the water, followed by the cell phone. She watched them vanish below the surface.

  Zeke glanced up. It was late, but a few houses across the way were still lit.

  “Where are we going?” Noa asked. “What about Peter?”

  “The guy we left behind?”

  Noa flinched and nodded.

  Zeke shrugged. “Nothing we can do for him right now, especially if we get caught. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Then you’ll tell me everything?” she demanded.

  “Everything I know, yeah.” A shadow crossed Zeke’s face. “But you probably know the worst of it already.”

  They both looked at the coolers lining the back of the boat. Five of them, strapped together and lashed to the crab pots. Noa shuddered, wondering how many kids were inside. One per cooler? Or had they managed to squeeze in more?

  “Let’s go,” Zeke said, more gently this time.

  Noa followed him, sloshing through the shallows toward shore.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Peter slowly opened his eyes. He had to be dreaming. He was lying in his bed at home. The curtains were pulled back, and soft wintry light
dappled the floor. Everything was just as he’d left it: closet door open, empty hangers dangling, drawers spilling their contents.

  He tried to sit up and immediately collapsed back against the pillows, panting. Everything hurt and his head swam. What the hell happened? he wondered. How’d I end up here?

  Soft footsteps down the hall. His bedroom door cracked, then was thrown open. His mother rushed in, eagerness lighting up her face. Priscilla slowed as she approached the bed, clearly uncertain of her reception. “You’re finally awake!” Relief flooded her voice. “Oh, Peter, you had us so worried.”

  “What happened?” he asked, slowly managing to get up on his elbows.

  “Here, let me.” She reached behind him and fluffed the pillows. He fell gratefully back against them. “We’re not sure, exactly. We were hoping you could tell us.”

  “How did I get here?” Peter asked. It all came back in a rush: Cole beating him. Noa running for the boat. That guy who came out of nowhere and threw a bomb. The feds storming in. “Did the FBI bring me?”

  “The FBI?” His mother looked perplexed. “No, honey. The police found you and brought you to a hospital in Rhode Island. Although what possessed you to go down there … your father and I just assumed you were with Amanda, then we got this terrible phone call.” Her brow furrowed with concern. “Anyway, the doctors didn’t want to move you, but you should have seen that hospital. No way we were leaving you under their care. They said it was only a concussion, anyway.”

  “So they didn’t arrest me?” he asked.

  “Well …” His mother plucked at the comforter. “The police figured that all things considered, you’d probably learned your lesson. And trespassing is only a misdemeanor. Those poor other children—you were so lucky, Peter,” she said fiercely, leaning in and planting a kiss on his forehead. “You were the only one to survive the fire.”

  “Fire? What fire?” Peter’s brain felt sluggish, dulled. It took a minute to process each of her sentences; the words seemed disjointed, part of a different story. He wondered if that was due to the concussion. “What about Noa?”