by C. J. Lyons
Shit. I hope Oshiro heard that and is calling the fire department. “Why do you need a diversion?”
“Maybe you’re not so smart after all. We know about your video. Did you really think you could outsmart King?”
He takes a step back, his arm straight, the gun presses hard against my skull.
They already know about the video—does that mean Miranda is still alive, and told them? What did King do to her to get that information? It takes everything I have not to lash out at my uncle. But Miranda’s only hope is for me to play the victim one last time. “I’ll do anything you want. But first, I need to know that Miranda is safe, that you’ve let her go.”
He senses a trap. Hesitates. I force myself to beg. “Please. Let me see Miranda.”
That does it. He pulls his phone from his pocket. I crane my face around to see—and also to keep an eye on the door behind him. It’s a picture of Miranda, looking panicked, lying against a dark background.
“No. That picture could have been taken anytime.” He jerks the gun at my challenge. “Please. I need to see her go free.” Inspiration hits me. It’s almost nine. “Send her into the crowd, show me a video of her walking free—put it up on the Jumbotron if you don’t want to stay too close. I’ll go with you, stay with you. Just like you always wanted.”
His eyes narrow. “Who are you to be giving us orders?”
He has no clue that I don’t really care what he does—I’m just buying time for Oshiro’s men. Surely they’ve found her by now.
He touches his earpiece, listening to King. Shakes his head sadly. “Sorry, Jesse. Guess there’s been a change in plans. You’re going to be found here, dead. After they sift through the ashes.”
He’s going to start the fire, with all these people? I push off the wall and spin to face him. He jumps back at the motion, gun pointed at my face. I raise my hands in surrender. “No. Stop. You don’t need to do this. I’ll go with you. I’ll do whatever you want—”
There’s a blur of motion behind him as Mr. Ryder rushes through the door and tackles him. I dive as the gun goes off, the shot hitting the wall beside me. They’re struggling on the floor and it goes off again. Before I can do anything, my uncle leaps to his feet and runs out the door.
Mr. Ryder lies on the floor, blood staining the gray janitor’s uniform along his left calf. I go to him, put pressure on the wound.
“Subject armed, on foot, heading up the tunnel toward the concourse,” he shouts into his radio.
“Did they get Miranda?” I ask, my voice tight with adrenaline and fear. “Is she okay?”
He listens, then slumps back, shaking his head. “She wasn’t in the security office. Neither was King. Oshiro killed the security feeds, though. King is blind.”
I’m torn. My uncle knows where Miranda is—plus, I need to stop him before he can ignite whatever incendiary device he’s planted. But there’s a lot of blood coming from Miranda’s dad.
“I’m fine,” Mr. Ryder says, pushing my hands aside. More blood seeps out, but he grips his leg himself, slowing it. “Go stop him. Save Ariel.”
“Ariel?”
“My daughter’s real name. Hurry.”
43
Miranda focused on examining the Jumbotron controls. The camera aimed at the inside of the booth was off now, but if she could turn it on, send the feed to the large screens…
“Now or never, young lady,” King said, sliding the laptop in front of her. “Show me that you’ve killed that damn video or your friend is dead.”
If Jesse was here, in the arena, then her dad must be as well. Hopefully with a plan. She needed to give them time.
“First, let my mother go.” She prayed Jesse would forgive her. But she couldn’t not try to save her mom.
King merely smiled and shook his head. “First, kill the video. Then we see how much your mother’s life is worth to you.”
Miranda frowned, trying to parse a path between his words. He’d never keep any deal he made—she and Jesse were as good as dead already. The best she could do was buy time for her dad to get here and find her mom. “You know as well as I do that nothing’s ever truly lost on the Net.”
“I know that. All I need is enough time to hop a plane. I need your little flash mob to fizzle and burn.” He chuckled at the last.
“What do you mean?”
“Kill the video and I’ll tell you.”
She stood tall, faced him head-on. “I’m the only one who can kill the video, and you’re the only one who can save my mom. If you want the video killed, I need to know she’s safe.”
Anger narrowed his eyes, but then he glanced at the clock. “Stubborn as ever, Ariel. Deal.” He pulled a set of car keys from his pocket and set them on the console, out of her reach. “She’s in the trunk of a car. Alive. Now your turn.” He nudged her with his gun. “Don’t try anything stupid or your friend is dead, followed by your mother.”
He had no way of knowing that she no longer controlled the video’s release. She made a big show of going to her own secured cloud drive and deleting the copy there. 8:58…she just needed to get Jesse out of here in the next two minutes before King realized he’d been conned.
“Done. Now let Jesse go.”
King peered over her shoulder like a teacher double-checking her work. Nodded and spoke softly into his Bluetooth. She couldn’t hear everything, something about things being taken care of. Then he turned back to her.
“Where’s Jesse?” she demanded.
“Sad to say, your friend is already dead. As soon as you agreed to destroy the video, his uncle had orders to kill him.”
Miranda leapt to her feet, almost tripping over the corpse of the Jumbotron operator. “No. You said—”
“I said I’d tell you what I have planned.” He waved the pistol at her, and she backed up against the edge of the console. She could see the main Jumbotron screen over his shoulder, but King had his back to it. “Richard set a little surprise for everyone—one of his special fire starters. He’s turned off the sprinklers and locked most of the doors. We’ll be long gone before the panic starts.” He raised the gun. “Well, I will be.”
Her only weapon within reach was the laptop. Not bulletproof, but heavy enough and sharp enough. All she needed was a distraction.
Right on cue the flash mob poured into the center of the arena and Miranda’s video started on the Jumbotron. The kids in the mob cheered and raised signs—there hadn’t been time to organize anything more elaborate—as King’s photo filled the screen.
“I’ll be dead in twelve hours, and this man is the reason why,” Miranda’s voice echoed through the arena.
King whipped his head around, staring at his own image blown up larger than life. “You bitch—”
He raised his gun. Pointed it at her.
Miranda felt no panic. No numbers collided in her head, no urge to curl up and hide from the world. Instead, she felt calm. In control for the first time in two years.
There was no way she would win this battle. He was twice her size and had a gun.
As she saw King’s face—his true identity—broadcast for the world to see, she realized she’d already won the war. With the most powerful weapon of all: the truth.
“Stop it!” he ordered, glancing at the Jumbotron controls. There were dozens of buttons and toggles with no obvious kill switch.
With his attention divided, Miranda saw her chance. She swung the laptop with all her might, cracking it against the side of his head, driving him back, giving her the opening she needed.
• • •
I race up the tunnel and push through the double doors leading onto the concourse. People are milling around, the car show in full swing. Noise echoes from the interior of the arena where the main events are, but the thick walls separating the seating area and this outer concourse deaden it.
The concourse is as wide as a two-lane highway, traveling up and around the outside of the arena. This is where they have the older cars on exhibit, cars lovingly restored by local amateur enthusiasts. Like what my dad used to do. Only he’d put all that love and care into a car, then sell it so we could have some extra cash.
My uncle is nowhere to be seen. I can’t see Miranda or King or Oshiro or any of his men, either. All these damn people. I shove and push, trying to gain a vantage point. If King’s ready to kill me, did that mean he’s going to kill Miranda as well?
Maybe he already has, a tiny voice whispers inside me. I shake my head, forcing my fears aside.
There’s a disturbance on the curve up ahead, someone pushing through the crowd. Has to be my uncle. But with all these people, there’s no way I’ll ever catch up to him. He’s disabled the fire alarms, so that won’t help. If I yell “fire!” all I’ll do is start a stampede of panic.
A trio of giggling girls brush past me and I stumble into a British racing green Austin-Healey. I bark my shin against the fender and curse, moving past. Then I stop, tugged to a halt by a memory long buried.
I know this car. “Sprite,” the carmaker called the model. My dad called it “Bug Eye” because of the way the headlights perched on the hood. It looks exactly like the last car we worked on together, the car my dad taught me to drive—well, how to start the engine and shift the gears as he tweaked things under the hood.
I stare at the little green car, knowing I’m wasting time. Miranda could be dying while I stand here; all these people could die because I’m not moving fast enough to stop my uncle, but…my mind fills with the scents of motor oil and Lava soap and sweat. My dad. The way he never hugged me without lifting me off my feet, as if he couldn’t stand even a few inches separating us. The proud smile he gave me when we finished a car, wiping the final coat of Turtle Wax from its polished surface. Like we were in it together.
Suddenly, I feel as if he’s here with me, like he’s in the crowd pushing past me or in my head or…I don’t know, but next thing I know, I’m beside the car, leaning over it. A glimmer of a plan is forming—it’s crazy. Ridiculous. It will never work and everyone’s going to die because I can’t think of anything better, but it’s all I have and I hang on to it with everything I am.
There’s no outside door handle on the low-riding convertible. The keys dangle from the ignition. No owner in sight. I pop the door from the inside, slide into the driver’s seat—on the wrong side, the right side—turn the key and am rewarded with a sputter of noise. Clutch and shift, I hear my dad’s voice in my head. Oh yeah, don’t forget the parking brake.
I lean on the horn—I’d almost forgotten about the lightning bolt on the steering column. As a kid, I’d loved that emblem, polished it to a shine. It feels good being behind this wheel, like it did working with my dad, as if somehow, he put this car here right when I needed it most.
The crowd parts, people pointing at me, others taking photos with their cell phones as I yell at them to get out of my way. The car jerks until I find second gear, then with the horn and people’s shouts clearing my path, I speed up the ramp.
The other cars on exhibit don’t leave a straight path for me, so it’s a lot of wrenching of the wheel one way then the other. The Austin-Healey is so low slung all I can see are people’s backs and legs until they jump out of my path, giving me little time to react. I can’t even see my uncle, can only hope he hasn’t ducked inside to the seating area where I’d never find him.
I steer clear of a candy-apple-red Cadillac convertible and almost hit a little girl. The car shudders as I jam the brakes. The girl’s crying, her parents shouting, another guy running after me like he’s going to try to hop in and stop me, and I clutch the wheel tighter, foot back on the gas pedal.
I feel crazy and giddy and totally out of any other options. The crowd parts for me, some of them laughing and pointing like this is some kind of joke. They think I’m crazy or stupid. But I shove all those thoughts aside.
Miranda. I have to save Miranda.
Finally, the crowd thins enough for me to spot my uncle. He’s about fifty yards ahead, disappearing from sight around the curve in the building. I speed up, the engine begging me to change gears, but I don’t dare risk stalling. As I round the curve, my uncle realizes something’s going on, looks over his shoulder and sees me coming after him. The concourse ahead of him is empty; there’s no way he can out run me now that I don’t have to fight the crowd.
A rush of adrenaline excites me—I’ve done it! He speeds up, passing the restrooms. A mother and little boy are coming out, and he grabs the kid, pushes him into my path.
I spin the steering wheel, hit the brakes, stalling the car when I miss the clutch. The mother, screaming, rushes to save her child, forcing me to steer the other direction. Finally the car jerks to a stop, mother and kid are okay. I’m breathless with panic, and my uncle is nowhere in sight.
No way he could have run around the next curve that fast. I jump out of the car and stand, scanning the area, ignoring the mother yelling at me, clutching her boy to her. There’s an unmarked door beyond the restrooms. With a sinking in my gut, I know that’s where he went. He wasn’t trying to outrun me; he was trying to buy time to set a fire. Create panic, disappear, and escape.
No way in hell. “Get out of here,” I tell the mother. I race toward the unmarked door, expecting my uncle to come barging through it any second. I’m ready for him. No way is he going to get away this time. Unless there’s another exit? Damn, he knows this place better than I do.
I open the door. A whoosh of flames roars through the air, slamming me backward. Rookie mistake—oxygen feeds a fire. My uncle knows that, set his trap so my following him would make things worse.
The people who’ve chased me up the ramp have finally caught up. Several cry out in alarm. A few run down toward the arena entrance; others open the doors to the interior and rush inside. There’s something going on in the main area because I hear people stomping and shouting Miranda’s name and “Truth changes everything.”
Despite the noise, a new sound reaches me. My uncle’s screams. He’s trapped in the fire.
I inch as close as I can, wary that it’s a trap. The room is a janitor’s closet, narrow but long, filled with shelves of paper products and cleaning chemicals—plus whatever my uncle planted to start the fire. He’s on the floor crawling toward the exit on the far wall, flames and debris covering his legs.
I’m not sure what went wrong but can guess. If he’s used the same method as he did on the houses, the chlorine and petroleum, that mix creates a nice fireball. But it doesn’t always give you time to escape first. In his rush to set the fire, he must have miscalculated, gotten trapped by the flames, unable to use his escape route out the other door.
There’s a fire extinguisher a few feet away, beside the doors to the seating area. I break the glass, grab it, and return to the closet. It’s heavy in my arms, my lungs heaving with adrenaline. My uncle hasn’t come out this door and I don’t hear him anymore.
Black smoke fills my vision, and the heat is blistering even from several feet away. I pull my shirt and jacket up over my face, get down on all fours, and crawl inside. The flames are above me, dancing in delight as they find more fuel, hopping from shelf to shelf.
For a moment I’m mesmerized by their beauty and power. I’m tempted, so very tempted, to give them what they want, to let them feast. But my uncle is the only one who can tell me where King has taken Miranda.
I should be scared, but I’m not. I know fire. Know how to feed it, bring it to life. And how to kill it.
Stray sparks squirrel their way below my shirt collar, singeing my skin. Beside me, flames flick out, reaching for my arms, but Dad’s jacket protects me. Aiming the extinguisher at the heart of the flames, I clear a path to my uncle.
My eyes sting with smoke and sparks rain down from o
verhead. He’s slumped on the floor, not moving. Gagging on the foul air, straining to breathe, I pull him out to the concourse. Several men including a few security guards help me get him clear as they rush the fire, armed with more extinguishers.
We collapse together on the concrete floor. He’s breathing, half his shirt is burned away, the flesh below black, with more burns on his legs as well. He opens his eyes.
“Where’s Miranda?” I ask, coughing out the words.
He snorts and lies back, shaking his head at my foolishness. His gaze tells me to go to hell.
One of Oshiro’s men arrives and I stagger to my feet, walk away—it’s the only way I can keep from kicking the snot out of him again.
I lean against the open door to the main floor, gulping in air. My face is on the screen, but it’s Miranda’s voice talking about how she’s going to kill herself if the police don’t set me free. “Listen to Griffin,” she tells the crowd. “Because truth changes everything.”
I’m not sure what she said before this, but the people watching are totally riveted. A few are weeping. Suddenly the picture breaks up and a new image appears: it’s the man who tried to kill Janey, head bleeding, face contorted in fury, charging at a girl…Miranda.
This isn’t from the video. My heart lurches into my throat. This is live. King is trying to kill Miranda. Where are they?
I turn in a circle, my neck craned as I search the floors above me. There are lights on in the Jumbotron booth across the arena, on the top level, high overhead.
I race back out to the concourse. “They’re in the control booth,” I shout to Oshiro’s man. I run back to the little car, shove it in gear, and ignoring his shouts, rev it up the twisting spiral leading to the skyboxes and broadcast booth.
Lucky for anyone else, there are no more exhibits—and thus no innocent bystanders for me to hit—this high up. The smell of rubber burning as I skid around the turns fills the air. It tastes like my fear. All I can see is Miranda; all I can imagine is her dead because I’m too late.
