XGeneration, Books 1-3: You Don't Know Me, The Watchers, and Silent Generation

by Brad Magnarella

  He had an assassination to plot.

  14

  Gainesville, Florida

  Sunday, July 21, 1985

  11:35 a.m.

  Guilt knotted Scott’s stomach as he and Janis took seats on neighboring swings in the field at the top of the neighborhood. Even though they’d walked to the Grove in silence — or maybe because they’d walked there in silence — he sensed he was about to get an earful. And maybe — no, probably — he deserved it. He hadn’t been the most supportive boyfriend lately.

  He eddied in place, heat from the rubber seat percolating through the fabric of his shorts, and awaited the opening salvo. Instead, Janis walked her swing back. Her red hair swished past as she lifted her feet. Scott waited for her to return then joined her. The last time they’d swung together had been back in November, the late night they’d revealed their powers.

  Now white sun glinted from the playground equipment, and the air whooshing between them was hot.

  “What’s happening to us?” Janis asked.

  “What do you mean?” His voice rang with false notes.

  “We just don’t seem … I don’t know, like a team anymore.”

  When Scott glanced over, he found her staring straight ahead, ponytail streaming behind her. God, she’s beautiful. At that thought, a sudden sadness descended inside him. A sense that he was losing her. He straightened his own gaze and watched the tilt and fall of the washed-out field.

  “We’re still a team,” he said weakly. “There are just more members now.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Well, there’s the training,” he tried. “Ten hours a day, six days a week. It’s not like we’ve had a lot of time together since this all started. I mean, I understand what you’re saying. Things aren’t ideal between us at the moment. But Gabriella says that’s sort of to be expected.”

  “Wait, you’ve been talking with Gabriella about us?”

  He stopped kicking and looked toward her. She was staring back, her head angled in consternation. “Well, I mean, j-just the one time.” He felt like he was confessing to an affair.

  Janis slowed her motion until she caught the ground with her feet. “What’s going on with us is none of her business,” she said coldly. When she turned away, Scott felt his guilt stiffen to anger.

  “Well, who else am I supposed to talk to?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I’m getting tired of tiptoeing around everything. Champions training, the thing that takes up, like, eighty percent of our waking lives? Nope, can’t talk about that. Our abilities? Another no-no. Any progress we might be making? Sorry, that’s off limits too. I mean, god, Janis, what’s left?”

  “What’s left? How about the things I try to talk about?”

  “Such as…”

  “The deceptions, for one.” She ticked off a finger. “The outright lies…”

  Your conspiracy theories, you mean. Scott closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “See!” she cried, standing from her swing. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what? I’ve already told you my feelings on the issue. This is a top-secret program. Deceptions and lies come with the territory. As long as they’re not aimed at us — and I don’t believe they are anymore — I’m fine with that. Until Director Kilmer gives us a reason to think otherwise, I don’t see what good it does to speculate. It’s … it’s counterproductive.”

  “Who’s speculating? Open your eyes, Scott.”

  “To what?”

  “The manipulations!” Spots of color bloomed on Janis’s cheeks and her lips began to tremble. The last time Scott had seen her this furious, she’d nearly destroyed Agent Steel. He wondered whether he should back off, especially as a force tremored through the swing set, making it rattle. But she’d started it, accusing him of talking to Gabriella, as though it was a federal offense. How could he not talk to Gabriella? She was his mentor.

  “So we’re being manipulated now?” he asked flatly.

  “Let’s go one by one,” Janis said, her voice low suddenly, as though fighting for control of herself. “My sister wasn’t a problem. Duty, patriotism. The Program had her from the beginning. For Creed and Jesse, it was the money. But to make extra sure, the Program paired them with a mentor they knew those two would look up to. A father figure. But nothing like their own crap fathers. One who would treat them decently for a change. Tyler wasn’t so easy, though. Have you seen the way he mopes around? It’s like he’s being held hostage. They have something on him.”

  “Like what?” But even as Scott asked, he was remembering New Year’s Eve night in the woods, the same woods down the hill from them. He was remembering the way Tyler’s lonely silhouette had stood out against the bone-pale trees, waiting for Scott to answer his question.

  Were you serious about the cameras?

  “I’m not sure,” Janis said. “But it’s bad, whatever it is.”

  Scott had been trailing Janis as she circled the teeter-totters, but now she stopped. She eased onto the crossbar that joined them. Scott sat on the metal crossbar as well, though two teeter-totters away — a safe distance. Pushing up his glasses, he faced the street as Mr. Shine’s brown station wagon rattled past.

  “And then there’s you and me,” she said. “The only two not to commit to the program.”

  Oh, boy, this should be good.

  “You postponed your commitment for my sake, Scott, and I appreciate that.” She glanced over, and for the first time her chestnut eyes appeared to soften. “But the Program knows about us. They know that if one of us commits, the other will more than likely follow suit. Mrs. Fern’s not pushing the issue. They’ve observed me long enough to know I’d only push back. But you, Scott…”

  “What about me?”

  “They know your history. They know how badly you’ve wanted to be a superhero. They’re pressing all of those buttons.”

  “Oh, so I’m the weak link in this?”

  When Janis didn’t respond but only squinted toward the street, it was worse to Scott than if she’d said yes. He followed her gaze to where Mr. Shine had pulled over, several houses away. In work trousers, a white T-shirt, and thick suspenders, he was removing lawn equipment from the station wagon’s rear door. The brim of a flat-top straw hat shaded his face.

  “And what buttons are they pushing, exactly?” he asked, not ready to let it go.

  Janis leveled her gaze at him. “Oh, let’s see… Fellow computer genius, full body, breathy voice, just happens to think Scott Spruel is the coolest thing since ColecoVision. Do I need to paint the rest of the picture?”

  Scott felt blood rushing to his ears. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Face it, Scott, they paired you with someone you wouldn’t say no to in a million years.”

  “So if I do decide to commit, it can only have been because I was manipulated into it. How is that fair?”

  “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer.” Across the street, Mr. Shine’s mower hacked to life before throttling down to a low putter. “First, I’m going to remind you what we talked about last April in the woods. I said that now, more than ever, we needed to share everything. That there could be no more secrets between us. I made you promise, do you remember?”

  Scott nodded, already dreading her question.

  “Has Gabriella said anything about convincing me to join?”

  We’re going to need your help, Scott.

  “Well, ah…”

  Leadership means holding a team together, especially when members express such doubts.

  “…not really…”

  Do you think you can do that?

  “…I mean, not in so many words.”

  As Scott’s gaze danced around Janis’s face, her eyes transformed from chestnut to deep green. He flinched as something fluttered through him. She’s palpating your thoughts.

  “Look,” he said, throwing his hands up, “Gabriella just talk
ed about keeping the team together, that’s all. She didn’t say anything about getting you to commit. She didn’t even mention your name.”

  Janis appeared on the verge of responding, then stopped herself. She pressed her lips together, eyes returning to brown.

  Scott sighed. “I know this all goes back to Mr. Leonard, what he … gave his life to tell you. You have good reasons to be skeptical.” The guilt at having been the one to hand over Mr. Leonard to Agent Steel killed what little fight was left in him. He slid over until only one teeter-totter separated them. “If they are being deceptive, if they aren’t telling us the whole story, how would we find out?”

  “The last group. Someone from the last group would know. That’s why Director Kilmer wants that information kept from us.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Just dreams so far.”

  Scott slid closer. “Tell me about them.”

  Janis scratched an elbow then raised her face to his. When she saw that he was poised to listen, the corners of her lips tucked into her cheeks and her eyes glistened.

  “They’re impressions, really. Emotional impressions. But stronger than any dream I’ve ever had. I feel the last group of Champions as a cohesive sphere.” She used her hands to shape the air in front of her. “But then the sphere breaks apart, and it’s sudden and unexpected. There’s so much pain, Scott, and … and betrayal. I can’t shake the feeling that someone close to the group betrayed them. All the pieces dissolve away but one, and it’s a man. And he’s in so much pain, like the demise of the group took the most vital parts of him.”

  “You think the other members were killed?”

  Janis’s eyes shifted as though to peer inward. She nodded slowly. “Killed or ruined somehow.”

  Scott swallowed. “So it’s a question of finding the survivor.”

  “That might not be as hard as it sounds. Do you remember that hotel I told you about in Tallahassee?”

  The thought of Janis fighting off those grotesque men made Scott’s hands clench around the bar. “How could I forget?”

  “That guy I encountered at the end, the one everyone called ‘Trips,’ he had those abilities. Nightmarish abilities, granted. But he made me see and hear things that weren’t there. He went into my head, found one of my deepest fears, and manifested it. Cockroaches everywhere.” She shuddered. “He’s like us, Scott, but older.”

  “And you think he’s an ex-Champion?” To Scott he sounded more like an ex-Garbage Pail Kid.

  “Or maybe a former recruit,” she said. “Either way, he might know something.”

  “You’re not planning on going back there, are you?”

  “Yes, but hopefully not alone.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Those men, Janis… I mean, is the risk of walking back into that rat’s nest worth a meeting with someone who may or may not know anything — who may not even talk to us? We’d be lucky to get out alive.” Scott thought of his own paralyzing fears, any one of which Trips could tap.

  “He’s the only lead we have,” Janis said. “It’s either that or wait for history to repeat itself.”

  Mr. Shine’s mower puttered to a stop, and the harmonic chattering of field insects swelled back around them. Scott glanced over to find Mr. Shine unlatching the collection bag from the back of the mower. Scott turned to Janis. A fine perspiration beaded her nose. He thought about what she’d said about the former Champions: killed or ruined. Would that same fate befall them if they failed to act?

  He had doubted Janis’s intuitions before, only to be proven wrong.

  “How would we even get to Tallahassee?” he asked. “We’d need a ride, not to mention a good cover story.”

  “Yeah, I’m still working on those. Are you saying you’re in?”

  Scott watched her large eyes watching his, hope lines creasing her forehead. He ran his gaze down her slender, muscled arm. As he exhaled through his nose, he felt his lips twist into a grin. “So what would this be, like, episode one hundred forty-three in the Ongoing Adventures of Janis and Scott?”

  “One hundred forty-four, actually.” She smiled.

  Scott scooted over until their hips were almost touching. He gave her shoulder a little nudge. “Does this mean we’re friends again?”

  “That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  The fingers of one of her hands slipped into his hair and around the back of his head. “On this,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to his. The taste of salt and sweetness filled Scott, and he had to grasp the bar with both hands to keep from toppling backward. Steady again, he leaned into her kiss, giving as good as he got. He was scarcely aware that, across the street, Mr. Shine had paused to watch them before starting his mower up again.

  15

  Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, January 12, 1961 — Five days until Eisenhower’s address

  10:20 p.m.

  Reginald sat in the dark in his kitchenette, head bowed over the skinned wooden table, eyes shut. The shouts of children in the alley had faded with the daylight hours earlier. Now beams creaked around his thoughts. Pipes grumbled and coughed. Rats’ feet skittered.

  Has to be fast. Has to be soon.

  He couldn’t screw it up, either. He would only get one shot, two tops, before the secret service shielded the president — and swarmed the shooter. He wouldn’t be taking his shot from long range, no. It would need to be in close, feet not yards. He had to know that the one good shot he’d be allowed would be lethal.

  But how to get close?

  As a shape shifter, he had options. He could assume the form of someone on the president’s staff, one of his inner circle. But that would pose problems. For one, keeping that person away to avoid a repeat of what had happened at the Soviet embassy the week before. Also, he would need the official’s ID or a damned good knockoff. He couldn’t just breeze in on appearances and the social engineering he’d exercised in Arlington that day.

  Not at the White House.

  Safer to pose as one of the hundred or more faceless cogs that kept the White House running from one day to the next. Someone on the yard crew, maybe. Or someone in the kitchen. Someone solitary, for whom alarms wouldn’t sound if he or she went missing for a day or two.

  But how close would someone like that get him to the president?

  Reginald sighed and scooted the chair out. He limped to the kitchen sink, knee joints popping, and filled a glass with the water that sputtered from the faucet. As the water’s rusty taste met his tongue, he reached toward the psychic space he and Madelyn had once shared. The space had always felt safe in its seclusion. Love filled.

  Now Reginald felt nothing.

  He swallowed and lowered the glass. “Soon, baby,” he whispered. “Just one more thing I’ve gotta—”

  He froze, eyes wide in the dark. A creak of wood had sounded outside his door. A second one followed on its heels. Footsteps. By their softness, Reginald could tell someone was exercising stealth — or trying to. A shadow floated around the keyhole then swallowed it.

  The knob trembled as a hand grasped its other side.

  Reginald pictured three people in turn: someone sent by Halstead to make sure he didn’t follow through on his threat to target the president; someone from Champions security, here to collect him for questioning; or the someone who had murdered Madelyn and the other four Champions.

  He prayed it would be the third.

  Reginald backed to the table and pawed for his pistol. Metal scratched inside the keyhole.

  Reginald brought the pistol to his shoulder and crept forward, the wood floor cold beneath the balls of his bare feet. With his back to the wall, he listened to the slow slither of the bolt.

  Only then did he realize that, in the hours he had been thinking, he had relaxed his disguise. He’d become young Reginald Perry again. With an eye on the rotating doorknob, he concentrated on his surface molecules. He felt lines and liver spots repopulate his sagging face. Without a mirro
r, he wouldn’t get the older-man look perfect, but he would come close enough.

  But who had followed him? Returning from Hal’s office, he had taken every precaution and he hadn’t spotted a tail.

  The bolt gave a final soft clunk, and a thin shaft of light sliced across the floor. Reginald flattened his back to the wall. The shaft grew slowly as the door swung toward him. Soon a shadow bisected the wedge of light. Reginald adjusted his ice-cold grip on the pistol.

  If you are Madelyn’s killer, you’re going to scream for death before I’m through with you.

  The shadow’s neck craned slightly. “Hullo?” a man’s voice called, as though testing the air.

  Reginald didn’t move.

  The man hacked a cough and stepped into the room. The standing lamp to the right of the door clicked on. Reginald remained behind the door, hidden. It wasn’t the killer. And the man didn’t work for Champions security. But Reginald, who had recognized the voice, didn’t want to take any chances.

  He wanted to see what his landlord was up to.

  The plank in the middle of the room groaned as the man’s back sloped into view. He was wearing the same stained wife-beater Reginald had seen him in that first day, crisscrossed by suspenders and tucked inside a pair of shit-brown trousers. A rolled-up section of newspaper protruded from his right back pocket. The man stood there, his dark, hairy shoulders hunched in caution, listening.

  He called toward the bedroom: “Hullo?”

  When no answer came, he relaxed his shoulders. Dropping the key into his pocket, he padded to the bedroom and disappeared from sight. The bedside light clicked on. Then came the sound of dresser drawers opening and closing.

  Reginald remained in the deep shadows in the corner of the room. Anything of value he could flatten — documents, money — he’d rolled up and hidden inside the hollow bar in the closet for hanging clothes. Safe as houses. As for weapons, he’d removed a panel in the main room behind the couch and stashed them among the pipes. The landlord could search until he was blue in the face and all he’d find among Reginald’s possessions would be boxers, some brown socks, and the clothes he had purchased at the consignment store on Florida Avenue.