The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel

by Joanne Macgregor

  All of us have basic, form-fitted, particle-excluding gauze masks hanging around our necks that we’ll wear to help disguise our appearance, and Bruce, Cameron and Quinn are also wearing beanies. Sofia added a pair of large-framed spectacles with clear lenses and applied a bunch of temporary tattoos on her arms and neck. Quinn shaved off his stubble, but left a horrible, thin moustache to match Alejandro’s. I’m wearing heavy eye makeup, scarlet lipstick and a pair of dark-brown disposable contact lenses, ordered off the net. The lenses are uncomfortable, and I’ve developed a habit of blinking hard.

  We pumped Bruce and Cameron for all the details of what happened when they were examined here, and can only hope we don’t trip up somewhere. Until now, though, we’d planned everything together and hadn’t thought about who would be heading the team.

  “I vote for Quinn as leader,” Evyan says, steering the SUV around a sharp bend without reducing speed. She drives like a maniac.

  “Of course you do,” I mumble.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, scowling back at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Nothing, nothing,” I say. Now is not the time for us to have a spat. “I vote for Quinn, too.”

  “Well, I don’t,” says Bruce, looking mulish.

  “Shocker,” says Evyan. “Let me guess, you vote for yourself or the girl with the gun.”

  “Annie Oakley,” Neil chuckles.

  I swear, I don’t understand half of what he says.

  “We’re armed and on a mission,” Bruce says.

  “We won’t be going in armed,” Quinn points out.

  We’ve already agreed on this. Carrying arms, we wouldn’t get past the front door. We stashed all our weapons, including Quinn’s double-bladed knife, under the seats.

  “We should have a leader who knows how to shoot and is prepared to do so,” Bruce insists. “Someone who knows at least some basic battle tactics. How about it, Blue?”

  “I vote Jinxy, too,” says Quinn. He gives me a glance with a side eye at Bruce, and I know what he’s saying. Bruce is too gung-ho to be allowed to take the lead. He’ll shoot before thinking it through, without properly evaluating the consequences. “I trust Jinxy.”

  Evyan makes an annoyed sound, but when Sofia, Neil and Cameron also give me their vote of confidence, she snaps, “Fine. Whatever.”

  There’s only one problem — I’m not fit to lead. This ragtag group of rebels might not have realized that, but I certainly have.

  “No,” I say. “I won’t do it.”

  Evyan gives such a satisfied smile that I’m tempted to take back my words, but I don’t. My flat-out refusal sparks off another debate and round of voting. In the end, everyone agrees — Bruce only very reluctantly — that Quinn should lead the mission.

  At 9.10 am precisely, we turn in to the side road that leads to Stapla and pull over to let Neil out. He takes one walkie-talkie handset, hands the other to Evyan, reminds us not to forget him on the way out, and then disappears behind a large bush.

  We take off again down the narrow road, passing no traffic. We took back streets to get here, and they were mostly deserted too. I guess the government’s new measures are taking effect.

  I’ve been down this stretch of road twice, but both times I was blindfolded. Now I can see that it’s mostly bordered by thick underbrush, with small bushy trees, long grass and unpruned hedges. Quinn, who remembers it from the raid to spring Connor two months ago, swears there’s a part of the road which will be ideal for our plan.

  Sure enough, after a minute’s slow drive, we hit a section — about twelve yards long — where a high brick wall towers on one side of the road, and tall palisade fencing entwined with wild creepers borders the other. Evyan drives into the middle of this section and parks diagonally across both lanes, before killing the engine. While it looks innocent enough — like the SUV has merely stalled in the middle of a three-point turn — the gaps on either side are too narrow to allow a car to pass by. We’ve effectively blocked the road.

  I wind a scarf around my neck, using one end to cover the ASTA badges, and sling a small purse across my shoulder. Hidden inside is the extra piece of equipment I’ll soon need.

  “Right, does everybody have what they need? Clear on what we —” The crackle of the walkie-talkie interrupts Quinn’s final check.

  “Car! It’s a car, headed your way! A yellow car,” Neil’s voice warns. “Actually, it’s more orange than yellow. Tangerine, you could say.”

  Bruce rolls his eyes, and Quinn begins, “I suppose we should —” but I yell, “Everybody duck down! Evyan, just pretend you stalled.”

  We all drop down into the footwells. Evyan starts the engine and tugs on the wheel, as if she’s completing the turn. A horn honks impatiently from outside.

  “Yeah, yeah, asshole,” Evyan says, but she fakes a smile and a friendly wave as she pulls into the lane headed back toward the main road, allowing the car to pass.

  When the other car has disappeared down the lane, she turns the car in two expert moves and maneuvers it back into the same precise position as before.

  This time everyone bails out immediately, pulling respirator masks over noses and mouths, and taking their bug-out bags. Bruce and Cameron head for the underbrush, along with Sofia, who asks Quinn, “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’ll be along in a little while,” Quinn says.

  When I make to get out of the SUV, Quinn holds me back, giving me a long, speculative look. I know that expression — he’s planning something.

  “What?” I ask, blinking.

  “It’s just, I’m not convinced this is going to work. The problem is, we can’t be sure the lads will get out to help you push, instead of just calling ahead to Stapla for help, or summoning a tow truck,” he says.

  “Quinn, this was your idea!” My nerves are already on edge, and I’m not keen for any last-minute changes.

  “Sure it was, and luckily I’ve thought of an improvement. Like an extra-special, secret weapon.”

  “Well?” I demand, puzzled. Quinn’s not usually one for weapons.

  Evyan’s walkie-talkie buzzes, and Neil’s voice says, “Nothing yet.”

  “Only call through when there is something, Neil,” Evyan says.

  “I’m going to need your jumpsuit,” Quinn tells me.

  “My jumpsuit? What the heck for?”

  “Quickly,” Quinn urges. “They could be along any moment now.”

  I unzip the jumpsuit and try to pull it off as fast as I can in the cramped quarters of the vehicle, but it snags on my sneakers. Yanking them off, I grumble, “I don’t like this. I’m not wearing much underneath.”

  “I know,” Quinn says, raising a rakish eyebrow. “I saw you this morning, remember?”

  He’d come into the girls’ room while I was still dressing and wearing only a sleeveless button-down shirt and a pair of really short denim cut-offs. It gets hot in the thick cotton jumpsuits, and I’d dressed with a desire to keep as cool as possible during our mission, so as to minimize any nervous sweating. Quinn came in close for a tight hug and an urgent kiss before handing me my breakfast. Both the protein bar and the carton of Jump-Juice were, I’d noted with disgust, manufactured by Tasty Plate.

  “So, what’s this secret weapon?” I ask, handing the jumpsuit to Quinn, who sets it on the seat beside him.

  “I’ll also need your hair thingamajigs,” he says, pointing to the sides of my head where I’ve clipped back my hair back to keep it out my eyes.

  I slide the bobby pins out and hand them over. “Are you going to use them to make some kind of gizmo? A distraction or something?”

  “Exactly that. And a button from your shirt.”

  I turn over the hem of the shirt, searching for a spare button, but Quinn reaches over to the top of my blouse. The collar button is open, but instead of taking that, he tries to pull off the second button, which is fastened. It doesn’t want to come off.

  “Maybe if you twist it, or use your
knife?” I suggest.

  My face is growing warm at Quinn fiddling with the button between my breasts, and it grows warmer still when he bends over and bites the button off. In the rearview mirror, Evyan raises both her eyebrows at us.

  “Do you two need to get a room?”

  Quinn threads the button on one of the bobby pins. What could he possibly make with those items?

  “You know what?” Quinn says, giving me another assessing glance. “I think we’ll need another one.”

  He bites off the next button down, and my shirt, a little on the tight side, springs open. My cleavage is now clearly visible where it swells above the cups of my bra.

  I frown at him and hold my hands up in a WTF gesture. “Quinn?”

  “Right, you’re good to go,” he says, pocketing the bobby pins and buttons and giving my hair an affectionate ruffle. “You just need to put these on.”

  He extracts a cardboard box from under his seat. Inside are a pair of shoes — scarlet, ridiculously high heeled, and in my size.

  “Why must I wear these?” I turn them over, half expecting to find mini-explosives glued underneath. I don’t see anything, but maybe there’s something hidden in the heels, or a micro-receiver stuck inside the sharply pointed toes.

  “Trust me, okay?” Quinn pulls off my socks and helps me slip on the absurd shoes.

  I’ve never worn high heels in my life — there’s no point when you’re practically housebound, as I was until this year, and have nowhere to wear them.

  “I don’t even know if I can stand in these,” I say. “How am I supposed to push a car wearing them?”

  “You’re not.” He slings the purse across my shoulders and gives the small of my back a little push. “Come on now, hurry!”

  Chapter 20

  Out with the old

  I climb out of the SUV and stumble to the rear, where I take up my place, ready to start pushing. Or pretending to.

  Evyan yells that she’s received an alert from Neil.

  “Good luck!” Quinn calls.

  He runs up the road to where the wall ends and disappears into the undergrowth.

  I place the palms of both hands on the back panel of the SUV and start to push. As soon as my legs take some of the strain, one ankle turns in the stilettos, and I curse Quinn and his crazy scheme, whatever it is. I hear the transport vehicle coming up the road, but only when a horn honks do I straighten up and turn around, smiling brightly.

  Sure enough, it’s one of the black Hummers that ASTA uses to transport cadets. The driver, a burly man with red hair, gestures impatiently at me to move our car out of the way. I give a helpless shrug as I totter unsteadily over to him.

  When he lowers his window an inch, I pull down my mask and say, “I’m real sorry. The engine just cut out, and we can’t get it going again. Do you think y’all can help us push it out of the way?”

  I give him a quick smile and pull the mask back up before anyone can recognize me. The driver closes his window without replying but twists around to say something to his four passengers. A moment later the door of the vehicle slides open, and two teenage boys step out. One has olive skin, black hair and a thin moustache — I guess this is Alejandro. The other, who must be Tyrone, looks like the poster boy for geeks everywhere. He’s skinny as a rake, with thick spectacles and an asthmatic cough. He seems reluctant to help until he clocks my chest display — then he gives an enthusiastic grin and asks, “What seems to be the problem?”

  “It stalled and now it won’t start, and I’m not strong enough to push it out of the way,” I say as I lead them to the SUV.

  Soon all three of us are pushing fit to burst, but the SUV doesn’t budge an inch. I turn to face the driver and point from him to the vehicle in a silent plea for him to come help. He shakes his head firmly.

  It’s probably ASTA policy that their drivers never leave the vehicles while they’re transporting cadets. It occurs to me now that all the times we went on shooting missions, the driver always stayed behind the wheel. It’s a real problem, because he’s likely to be armed. Somehow we need him to get out.

  Tyrone, who is breathless and wheezing from his brief exertions, pulls an inhaler out of his pocket and takes two puffs.

  Alejandro grunts as he gives another push, then says, “Are you certain the parking brake isn’t still on?”

  I’m absolutely sure it is.

  “And it needs to be in neutral,” he adds.

  “I’ll check.” I give a friendly smile and wobble around to Evyan’s window. “They say to check the brake is off and the car’s in neutral,” I say loudly, then add in a desperate whisper, “The driver won’t get out of the car!”

  “Make him,” Evyan says.

  “How?”

  “Just lure him out.”

  “Lure?” I repeat, not sure I heard her right.

  “Yeah, flirt, tempt, attract — lure! Reach for your feminine wiles — if you even have any.” She looks deeply skeptical. “And get him to come out. Why do you think Quinn dressed you like this — you’re the decoy, so just try harder already.”

  I stare at her, horrified.

  “Shake your booty, smile, show him some tits and ass!”

  My mind begins plotting vengeance on Quinn, but I force myself to concentrate on the mission. There’ll be time enough afterwards to make him pay. Lure indeed.

  I make my unsteady way back to the rear of the vehicle, tell the guys the brake is now off, and on the count of three we all start pushing again. This time, I bend way over, pointing my butt in the direction of the transport driver. When, again, neither he nor the vehicle moves, it’s time to engage feminine gear. I pull down my mask, stick out my chest and take a deep breath.

  If only I had one of ASTA’s dart guns and could just shoot the man — I’m way more confident of my marksmanship than my sex appeal. Drawing on my knowledge of movie sex goddesses, I teeter over to the driver, swinging my hips and smiling in what I hope is an appealing way.

  When I get to his window, I steal a quick glance at the two cadets in the back. Dasha is completely engrossed in something on her phone, and the other girl seems to be dozing — her eyes are closed, and earbuds are plugged into her ears.

  I bend down and lean forward, giving the driver a good view, then peep up at him from under my lashes, seriously hoping I don’t look as ridiculous as I feel. The window lowers all the way as the driver takes in the display.

  “Oh, please, won’t you come help us?” I say and, noting the nametag pinned to his shirt, add, “Chuck?” I flick the nametag with a playful finger and bat my eyelashes, hoping this won’t dislodge the lenses.

  His eyes move reluctantly up to my face. “Sorry, we’re not allowed.”

  “Oh, please?” I pout. I actually push my lips out like a celebrity in a selfie and pout. “It’ll only take a minute.” Then deciding that I may as well go all in, I say, “You look so strong that I’m sure it’ll move it straightaway once you’re pushing.”

  He preens, grins, climbs out and walks to the back of the SUV. Amazed that my luring actually worked, I follow and take up a position to the right of him. As we push, his eyes are on my boobs. My eyes are on his sidearm.

  Evyan must have lowered the parking brake a little, because the SUV begins to inch forward.

  “Yay!” I squeal, clapping my hands and taking a step back. “You see, I knew you could do it.”

  The driver pushes harder. His arm muscles bulge, and veins stand out on his thick neck. All three guys are completely focused on their task. That’s when I reach into my little purse, pull out the syringe, and stick it into the driver’s neck.

  He grunts, and his knees buckle even as he reaches back a hand to swat away whatever he imagines stung him.

  Alejandro tries to catch him, and Tyrone says, “Chuck? What’s up?”

  But the rest of our gang, masks pulled up high and beanies pulled down low, run up to us just then.

  Cameron trains his pistol on the cadets. “Back in
the transport,” he orders Alejandro and Tyrone, who stare at him, eyes wide with fright. “Now!” he barks, and they hurry back to the Hummer.

  Bruce is already there, his submachine gun aimed at the two girls inside. Dasha has dropped her phone and is gaping at him. The other girl, Natalie, stammers questions and begs Bruce not to hurt her.

  “Shut up!” Bruce orders. He moves aside to let the two male cadets climb inside, and hands me his weapon.

  I cover the four occupants while Bruce goes to help Cameron carry the driver back to the Hummer. Quinn and Sofia are well-known to these cadets, so they stay out of sight. Right now, they’ll be pulling the Trojan decals off our SUV and applying the ASTA ones.

  Neil arrives, out of breath from his run up the road, and tells the cadets to roll up their sleeves and hold out their arms. When he pulls out the loaded syringes, Dasha looks ready to protest.

  “It’s just a tranquilizer to make you sleep. You’ll be fine,” Neil says while I point the submachine gun straight at her.

  Persuaded by either the reassurance or the threat, Dasha tucks her chin in and holds out her arm for the shot. Soon all four cadets are unconscious, and Chuck has been bundled inside the hatch at the back. Neil sits beside Dasha’s slumped form, while Evyan takes the wheel of the Hummer with Cameron in shotgun.

  Bruce will be driving our newly branded SUV, because no way does Evyan, with her half-shaved head and multiple piercings, look like an ASTA driver. Plus, we might need someone who knows how to shoot. Quinn, Sofia and I hop into the SUV, and I’m already sliding the door closed when Quinn yelps, “Wait!” and races back to the Hummer, which Evyan has already started backing up toward the underbrush, where she’ll find someplace to hide it.

  A minute later, Quinn is back, holding a clipboard with some official-looking paperwork on it.