Unbreakable (Unraveling)

by Elizabeth Norris

  I carefully open the protein bar, tearing the wrapper down the seam.

  Barclay is going to leave my backpack here. He’ll take me in to IA headquarters and stay with me as long as he can. At some point, he’ll be dismissed and head to the office. He’ll file some paperwork about where he found me and what deal we made.

  It will all be lies.

  When the day is over he’ll come back here, pick up my backpack and the portable EMP that he has. He’ll go to eat at a diner near the prison. He’s already paid off the prison doctor so she’ll make herself scarce when the time comes. Then he’ll drive to our rendezvous point to wait for us.

  Because of the watch, he’ll be able to track my location in the prison. He’ll hack into the prison mainframe and unlock my door just before the EMP goes off.

  And the rest will be left to me.

  He’s set everything up, and he’ll be waiting for me. But on the inside, I’ll be alone.

  “Are you afraid?” he asks.

  I am.

  I would be an idiot if I wasn’t. I know how much is at stake: Ben and his family’s lives and Cecily’s freedom and the freedom of who knows how many other people who, like Renee Adams, have gotten pulled from their world. And I know this is the hardest thing I might ever have to do.

  When we needed to stop Wave Function Collapse, it was just one thing. Sure it would have ended the world, but it was just one person who was opening unstable portals. That’s what we had to stop.

  This is different. There are so many variables.

  But I don’t say any of that.

  Instead I think about the time when I was a little girl, maybe four or five, and my parents took us to visit my dad’s parents in Ohio. They had a basement that was only partially finished where they did the laundry. It was dark and damp, and it smelled weird. It terrified me. I didn’t ever want to go down there. I was too afraid.

  My dad told me fear was just an emotion, something we felt when we thought someone or something was dangerous. He said it was as empty as the air, and the only way to deal with it was to confront the danger with a plan to minimize it.

  He asked me what about the basement I thought was dangerous. Like any other five-year-old I was afraid there was some kind of monster down there, and I told him that. He gave me his dad’s old baseball bat and told me that one good swing would take down even the worst monster. I took a few practice swings, and then he made me walk every inch of that basement, bat in hand, until I wasn’t afraid anymore.

  Later, when I was older, Alex asked him what kind of parenting philosophy he subscribed to, sending his daughter into the basement with a baseball bat to fight off anything dangerous.

  Dad told us it was the same thing he told guys on the job. He’d been with the Bureau a long time, and he’d seen too many guys get injured or lose their lives. And he chalked most of those incidents up to a guy’s inability to control his fears.

  I find Barclay’s blue eyes, and as much as he pisses me off sometimes, I know why he’s a good agent. I know why I like him—and I do like him despite whatever I thought before. He doesn’t get scared. Things might scare him initially, sure, but he comes up with a plan, and he gets the job done. It makes me wish he did work for my dad.

  And because he’ll get it, I tell him the truth. “Fear kills swifter than bullets. My dad said that.”

  “I liked your dad,” Barclay says with a nod.

  I can’t help but smile. Everyone liked my dad, but the more I get to know Barclay, the more I think my dad would have liked him, too.

  “Let’s go,” Barclay says.

  I take one last look at the blueprints burning in the fireplace, and I follow him out to the backyard.

  I hold my hands in front of me, and Barclay fastens the plastic restraints around my wrists. Then he pulls out his quantum charger and I hear the electronic sound of the portal powering up.

  And there it is—a huge pool of black ink standing in front of me. The smell of salt water, open space, and endless possibility emanates from it, and cool air moves over my skin. I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point where these things lose their magic and just seem mundane.

  “Try to relax this time,” Barclay says. He holds on to my restraints with one hand and puts the other on my back, and together we step through the portal.

  This time I don’t hold my breath. Cool air moves through my lungs, and I can feel it move through my body. For a second, I feel frozen from the inside out, then heat replaces the cold, and my extremities tingle with the sensation.

  And then we’re stepping out of the portal on concrete. I start to lose my balance, but Barclay pulls me next to him and keeps me on my feet.

  “Here we are,” he says. “IA headquarters.”

  In front of us are a dozen concrete steps, leading up to a tall glass skyscraper. This one is simpler—a big glass rectangle rather than the intricate designs I’ve seen on the others—yet it’s more impressive. Rather than having a cool crystalline finish, the glass looks like someone painted it in oil. From one angle, it makes the building look dark, but when the sun hits it a certain way, it’s a rainbow of color.

  Barclay must sense what I’m looking at. “That’s the hydrochloradneum that shields the building,” he says. “It’s in the foundation and the glass so that no one can portal inside.”

  Which means once I’m inside, there’s no one who can save me.

  I take the first two stairs, Barclay at my side, and I glance back at what I’m leaving behind. The crystalline city of upscale Prima life, and below that the dark smog clouds hiding the underground beneath us.

  I remember what Barclay said—about people living their whole lives a hundred feet off the ground.

  He tugs on me a little, and I know it’s time to go. We head up the stairs, Barclay pulling me by my restraints for effect. Right before we reach the doors, he whispers: “Try not to trip the alarm.”

  He doesn’t have to specify that he’s talking about tonight. I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”

  “No, I forgot to tell you. If you trip the alarm and they know you’re headed for the sewers, they can use the flush system.”

  “Fantastic,” I hiss. One more thing to worry about. “So we’ll be flooded and drown.”

  Barclay shakes his head. “No. The flush system is fire.”

  04:00:43:06

  With its marble floors and granite surfaces, the lobby of IA looks like we could be in any upscale corporate building. The only difference is the airport-style security complete with body scans, metal detectors, X-ray machines, and armed guards.

  The watch is supposed to be undetectable by a body scan, but Barclay isn’t a hundred percent sure if it actually will be. We’re hoping someone in IA wants me bad enough that no one will make me wait in line.

  Barclay pulls me past the civilians waiting to get through security and we approach one of the guards. “I have a code eleven nineteen,” he says.

  I keep my head down, and I imagine what this was like for Ben and Cecily—someone restraining them and taking them somewhere they didn’t belong.

  The security guard hesitates. “The director is out of the office for an emergency meeting.”

  “Surely someone can handle an eleven-nineteen.” The condescension practically drips off Barclay’s voice. If I didn’t know the plan, I wouldn’t know that we’d hit a snag. He was expecting the director—and looking forward to it. The director’s reaction to me might tell us a little about where his loyalties lie.

  The guard radios to someone, repeating the code.

  We’re in the enemy’s headquarters. Any of these people could want Ben dead, or at least be involved in the human-trafficking ring. Any of these people could know where Cecily is. As a result, I’m hyperaware of my blood as my heart pumps it through my veins.

  “The deputy director will see you,” the guard says, and he lets Barclay pull me under the security rope, and two armed guards accompany us to the elevator.

  I glance at B
arclay to gauge whether that’s good or bad for us, but his attention is somewhere else. On a tall blonde walking toward us. She’s attractive, probably in her thirties, and for a split second I want to elbow him—it’s not exactly like we have time for him to take a mental detour and stare at some hot woman. But then I see she’s flanked by several broad-shouldered men in matching black suits and black ties. At first they look like they could be businessmen who work out, but as they get closer to us, I can see the clear earpieces they’re wearing, and the way their left pant legs bulge over the backup guns strapped to their ankles. They’re security guards disguised as suits.

  Whoever she is, she’s obviously worth paying attention to.

  “Taylor,” the blonde says, her voice husky, like she smokes too much or works as a lounge singer. “I heard you were out of the office. How are you?”

  Barclay smiles as she approaches us. “Governor, it’s lovely to see you as always.”

  I stifle the urge to start coughing. She’s the governor? I examine her a little more closely. With long hair, smooth skin, and perfectly sculpted facial features, she looks more like a distinguished supermodel.

  “What are your plans for lunch?” the governor asks. “You must let me take you to the new café at the top of the tower. It’s supposed to be the best air in the city.”

  “I would be honored, Governor,” Barclay says, and I can tell he means it. I’m not sure if it’s because he respects her or if he just thinks she’s hot. Either way, I’m annoyed. I’m going to be in prison and he’ll be on a lunch date enjoying the “best air in the city”—how is that fair?

  “Splendid,” she says, reaching out to grasp his free hand. That’s when I notice her hands. They’re thin, wrinkled, and bony with loose skin—hands that belong to a sixty-, seventy-, maybe even eighty-year-old woman. Hands that don’t match the rest of her. She’s either had extensive plastic surgery or she’s some kind of ageless vampire, and let’s just say I know which is the more likely possibility.

  She’s like some creepy old cougar.

  And she’s hitting on Barclay.

  She leans into him and lowers her voice, but I still manage to hear her. “I’d like to do something for Eric’s family, and I was hoping to run it by you.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes as Barclay nods. Clearly, he respects her. Creepy old hands aside, she must deserve it.

  “Gentlemen,” she says as she pulls back. “Keep up the good work as always. We appreciate everything you do for our fine city.”

  And then she’s gone.

  I bite my lip and watch as the glowing numbers above the elevator descend toward the lobby floor. The elevator dings and opens, and all four of us crowd inside.

  04:00:42:03

  Once the doors close, one of the security guards claps Barclay on the shoulder. “Damn, Wonder Boy, lunch with the governor.”

  Barclay shrugs, and each guard offers his two cents about Barclay and the governor’s lunch plans. It’s obvious they’re jealous and trying to make him uncomfortable. I don’t think it’s working—after all, we have a lot more to worry about.

  Suddenly Barclay clears his throat. “She introduced herself to me after my first mission.” And here I thought he was going to be typical Barclay, just shrug and be silent and let everyone come to their own conclusion. I think this is for my benefit. “She and Eric used to have lunch periodically . . .”

  His voice trails off, and the guards each add their condolences about Agent Eric Brandt and fall silent.

  The elevator climbs and no one says a word. Like a weight, the gravity of the moment sinks deep into my bones. This is life or death. Everything that comes next depends on what happens right now.

  The higher we rise, the more afraid I feel.

  I think of my dad. I picture the strong lines in his face, the wrinkles in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, his hair starting to thin and speckled with gray, his five o’clock shadow. I remember how serious he was when he looked up, his eyes meeting mine.

  Fear kills swifter than bullets.

  I repeat it to myself like some kind of mantra. Because I need to stay strong to get through this. We have so many plans riding on what happens right now.

  The elevator dings again at the twenty-seventh floor and the doors open. The armed guards exit first and wait for us, then the four of us walk down the hallway.

  I can do this. Not just because I have to but because I am my father’s daughter, and I’m not going to give up on the people I care about.

  We pass three offices before we reach the double doors at the end. One of the guards opens them, and all four of us move inside. The carpet is gray and looks relatively new, maybe only a year old.

  I look up.

  And say out loud, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Barclay coughs and then says, “Deputy Director, I have an eleven-nineteen. This is Janelle Tenner, subject 2348739 from Earth 23984. She’s surrendered herself to IA custody in connection with case BM132.”

  That’s not really who I am, subject whatever from Earth 23984, but we’re still playing the game that’s supposed to keep my family safe.

  “Also,” Barclay adds, “she’s familiar with your double in her world.”

  I look at Barclay—I don’t care where we are. I can’t believe he managed to leave out this detail. But he’s looking straight ahead, eyes on the deputy director.

  Who is none other than Struz.

  04:00:39:53

  I’ve known Ryan Struzinski, aka Struz, for as long as I can remember. He grew up in Orange County, went to school at USC, then put in for the FBI as soon as he graduated. He passed the tests with flying colors and went to work as an analyst for my dad in San Diego.

  I think it took a week before my dad brought him home and adopted him as part of the family.

  When I was fourteen Struz and my dad were part of a Joint Terrorism Task Force going after a group of extremists who were suspected of terrorist activity. I only know some of the details because Struz took a bullet and was laid up and out of the field for a few weeks. He spent those weeks on my living-room couch babysitting Jared and me while our dad was undercover. We ate ice cream for dinner, watched R-rated movies, and stayed up until two in the morning debating who was the best supervillain.

  In the end, my dad got the bad guy, came home, and told Struz he was a terrible babysitter, then we all went out for pizza.

  Struz is six feet seven and lanky, with a superhero complex. He’s the kind of guy who dresses up as Superman for Halloween every year and wears the costume with the foam stomach muscles built in. He’s also the kind of guy who can manage to hold the world together when earthquakes, a tsunami, and a rash of wildfires take out electricity, running water, and any semblance of civilization.

  He’s the best guy I know.

  04:00:39:52

  Struz 2.0, the Prima version, is apparently the deputy director of IA, and after listening to Barclay, he nods at the armed guards. As they leave, he points to the chairs and gestures for us to sit down. There’s a suaveness to the gesture that’s completely alien on his body.

  I can’t take my eyes off him. His hair is shorter. He obviously cuts it himself or has someone keep up with it regularly. He’s clean-shaven, and his clothes fit. The shoulders are the right width, the arms the right length, the material something expensive. He looks really good.

  If I get home, I’m making it a mission to buy my Struz some nice clothes. We might manage to find him a girlfriend yet.

  “Good to see you, Barclay,” he says as soon as the door shuts and we’re alone. He smiles as I sit down in my chair. It’s a smile that’s a little too big for his face, and it’s never looked so good on him. “Glad you’re back.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Barclay says with a polite smile.

  I feel a little like I just fell into Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

  “Now, forgive me, but how is Miss Tenner connected to case BM132?” Struz 2.0 asks. He’s
all business, which shouldn’t surprise me. But this guy is so important to me in my life, it’s hard to process and accept that I’m so absent in his.

  Barclay gives a rundown of my involvement with Ben. It’s weird to hear someone reduce the intensity of what I feel to just a few sentences. Where we met, the days and times we interacted, the things we told each other—it sounds sterile.

  There’s nothing in his report that’s wrong, it’s just that there’s nothing in there that’s right either, nothing that suggests he’s talking about my Ben, the guy who fixed my schedule, pressed his finger to mine and healed a paper cut, inserted himself in two of my classes, brought my favorite food to a picnic dinner at Sunset Cliffs—the guy who saved me from death. Nothing that says since the day he left, I’ve been daydreaming about his face, his dark brown eyes, his lips, the way his hair falls in his face, the way he reached out, touched my cheek, and pulled me into one last kiss, the way he took slow steps backward toward the portal, as if he didn’t really want to leave, the way he said my name and told me he loved me, and the way the portal swallowed him up and he disappeared. The way he said, I’ll come back for you.

  When Barclay finishes, Struz 2.0 looks at me and then touches his computer screen. “Good work bringing her in, Barclay.” He frowns, and the emotion that flickers over his face suggests he’s not happy about something. “It looks like the director wants her questioned and detained.”

  Maybe he doesn’t want to send me to prison to await my execution. Or maybe that’s me and my wishful thinking again.

  “Yes, sir,” Barclay says.

  “I can take it from here. You’ll file your report?”

  “Yes, sir,” Barclay says, then gets up and leaves the room without so much as looking at me. As he’s leaving I have a moment of panic. What if this has all been some elaborate trick and there isn’t going to be any escape? What if this is it—if I just turned myself in to the enemy?

  But I swallow any hysteria down and remind myself that Barclay didn’t need to convince me to come, insert a microchip in my arm, make me memorize prison blueprints—he could have just portaled in and grabbed me when I was sleeping.