When he turned the corner, Landon found himself face to face with Washington Sykes. Landon skidded to a stop inches before crashing into the Sentry.
“Well, well, Mr. Wicker,” Washington said as if surprised, “just the man I was looking for.”
Peering around Washington, Landon watched as Celia disappeared into the staircase. He shrugged, knowing his catching her was hopeless and that, of all people, it would have to be Washington who stopped him.
“Shouldn’t you be headed to training?” Washington asked. “Do you realize it’s three minutes past ten? I thought you were obligated to attend the team training at this time on Saturday mornings”—he cocked his head to the side as he looked at Landon with prying eyes—“unless there’s something you deem more important than your responsibilities to the Pantheon—and your country.”
Team Pantheon training had completely slipped Landon’s mind. He wasn’t intentionally shirking his responsibilities; he had simply forgotten them. Since the Qualifiers he found himself forgetting to do a lot of things.
“Come with me,” Washington commanded. “We’ll walk to your training together. I have some questions for you.”
Landon reluctantly agreed and they started toward the Olympic Tower.
“So I’m curious,” Washington said once they were on their way, “why haven’t you met with Ms. Hammond?”
“It’s optional, isn’t it?” Landon tried to act as nonchalant as possible.
“Yes,” he conceded. “But don’t you find it the least bit odd that you of all people have declined her invitation?”
With a raised eyebrow, Landon turned to look at Washington, whose gaze was fixed on the Olympic Tower entrance. “Me of all people? Why’s that?” he asked, confused.
“Well, let me see . . . one of your close teammates is brutally murdered by your ‘best friend’ in front of the entire Gymnasium after I believe you intentionally let her beat you, then his twin brother, another close teammate, leaves after having a mental breakdown, and you seem completely unaffected by the whole thing. You’re one of the closest people to the entire situation, yet you don’t think you should meet with the counselor?”
“What are you implying? Do you think I somehow knew Celia was going to kill Joshua?” Landon asked, growing irritated by Washington’s insinuations.
“Oh no, I didn’t say that,” Washington said as if taken aback. Firelight from the gas lanterns that lined the massive hallway reflected off his glasses, making it impossible for Landon to see from his eyes whether he was being sincere or not. “I just underestimated your strength, I guess.”
“We all grieve in our own ways, Mr. Sykes,” Landon snidely commented. “And I know you’ve studied my file, so you know I’ve had more experience handling it than most. I don’t need someone to tell me what I already know I have to do to cope with all of this.”
“Yes, you are right. I have read your file quite thoroughly and I’ve studied your time here as well.” As he spoke, Washington went up and placed his hand on the bio-scanner beside the heavy metal door, granting them both access to the Olympic Tower.
Landon entered into the Temple level of the tower, but as he passed Washington at the door he turned, and with a bit of misplaced confidence said, “When you finally find something on me, I’m all yours.” Landon left Washington standing at the doorway. He wore an aggravated scowl on his face as he watched Landon weave through the crowd of people working on their computers and descend the stairs to the Palaestra.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WRATH OF THE
GODS
The Palaestra had been transformed for their training exercise. Instead of white light, the panels that coated the walls, floor and ceiling projected images that, when pieced together, made it appear as if they were standing outside in the dead of night. Grassy fields extended off to Landon’s left and a dense forest was visible to his right, the trees disappearing into black as he looked more closely. Encasing the ceiling and walls, a clear, starry night hung over them. Even the floors had been transformed; Landon’s black, acrobat-like shoes were positioned on what appeared to be a worn patch of grass with dark soil peeking out all around his feet.
In the center of the massive training area, a makeshift building with walls and passages had been erected. Painted a dull grey, it blended nicely into the night background. Gazing at its façade, Landon noticed bits of paint that had chipped away and patches of raw wood that had become exposed after years of negligence. A weak, orange-tinted glow eked through one of the windows, so dim it could have been from one of Edison’s original light bulbs. It honestly felt like he was standing outside a house in a field in 1930s Oklahoma or something.
After being briefly scolded for his tardiness and commanded to change into his tactical uniform with as much haste as he could muster, Landon still was breathing heavily when Dr. Brighton prepared to explain the exercise. In the simulated darkness, it was difficult to see his teammates as they too had adorned their black uniforms as if on a real mission. The only one Landon could easily make out was Peregrine. Her platinum blonde hair glowed in the dark.
But even though he couldn’t see them, he could feel the unease and awkwardness in the room. This was their first training since Joshua’s death and Jeremiah’s departure. It reminded Landon of that feeling one gets upon realizing that something valuable is missing. It was an all-consuming mood of grief and loss. Yet no one talked about it. It had only been two weeks and the Pantheon seemed to expect them to disregard the whole thing as if they’d lost a pair of shoes.
“First, you should all know that ops tech is still working on a new identity confirmation system after what happened to Brock and Landon on their last mission. When they come up with something, you all will be informed.” Dr. Brighton was acting so serious and aloof, as if he was intentionally trying to distance himself from the rest of the Pantheon. Perhaps the loss of the twins affected him more than Landon would’ve anticipated.
“Now, this is a hostage rescue exercise,” Dr. Brighton said outright. “Our target sits inside the house, held in the compound by a force of insurgents. It is your mission to enter the compound, proceed to your target area without alerting the drones, and rescue the hostage before any harm can come to her. Is this understood?”
“Yes,” answered Cortland, Brock, Peregrine, Parker and Landon in unison.
“Now, I will not be participating in the extraction itself. You all will have to manage this on your own, and I will be observing.”
Landon wondered if there was to be some lesson in this mission. Dr. Brighton seemed to only excuse himself from those exercises that he believed would impart a fundamental truth of teamwork that he believed youngsters were lacking. Dr. Brighton understood the importance of participating in the exercises firsthand as he needed to build camaraderie with the team. If he didn’t, the ones under his command wouldn’t know how to manage under his leadership style on actual missions. Nonetheless, on occasion he liked to throw in exercises like this.
“Imagine I am stationed in the Alpha Chariot, hovering overhead,” he continued. “We’ve set up a scaffolding system that you must rappel down as if you’re being dropped from the transport. And before we begin, I want to say something.” Dr. Brighton became suddenly somber and quiet. “There’s no denying that what happened to the twins is horrific and that their absence is felt by all of us, but we have to persevere. The Pantheon’s mission is to protect this nation of ours and I know Castor and Pollux would want—no, expect—us to move on and do our duty.”
“No one protected them,” Brock interjected with brooding aggravation. Landon couldn’t believe his outburst. It was completely unlike Brock’s usual demeanor when in the Palaestra.
After a prolonged pause, Dr. Brighton clapped his hands together, which startled everyone—even Peregrine jumped back a foot—and said, “All ri
ght, let’s go save us a hostage!”
It took only a few minutes for the entire team to make their way up the camouflaged scaffolding to the platform, where two black ropes dangled in front of them. There they awaited the go-ahead that would start their mission to rescue the “damsel in distress” being held inside the provisional home the Gymnasium had constructed inside their training area.
Landon worked to put on a pair of gloves invented by Alexandre Verne and his team in the Forge. To the naked eye, they looked like a normal pair of fingerless gloves, with finger tubes stopping at the upper knuckle of every finger. Landon wasn’t sure why they decided to keep the tips of his fingers exposed. They were constructed out of the same carbon fiber as their tactical uniforms, but on the palms and finger tubes, small pads had been seamlessly integrated into the fabric. Landon found them fascinating. Once he’d secured them properly, he ran the tip of his right index finger over the palm of his left glove. It felt smooth, like water on glass, but the instant he applied the tiniest bit of tension to his muscles, the pads activated. Embedded in them were millions of nano-molecular loops and hooks that extended, turning the silky-feeling glove into an ultra-sticky surface that made a person capable of holding onto or scaling a solid wall. Verne had told Landon excitedly that they were modeled on the feet of gecko lizards.
“Everyone,” Brock called out to the team with jarring force, “remember I am in charge on this mission.” His tone was off-putting. He was taking the loss of the twins the hardest, and for the first time Landon had to question the viability of Brock’s leadership. “Hector, Apollo, you’ll lead the pack. Atalanta and I will follow after, and Echo, you come behind me, and stay close as we infiltrate the place.” He turned to Peregrine and pointed at her for emphasis. “We’ll need you to tell us what’s coming and to guide us through the place. We don’t need any surprises.”
“Yes, sir!” Cortland interjected with good-humored, mocking inflection. Someone had to try and lighten the mood.
The scaffolding wobbled under their feet as Brock darted across the platform and towered over Cortland. Brock invaded every ounce of Cortland’s personal space and pressed him closer and closer until they were dangerously near the edge of the platform, a more than three-story drop awaiting them should they tumble over. “This isn’t a game! Do you understand me?”
Landon glared at his roommate. He thought it appropriate that Brock took the exercise so seriously, but this was overdoing it. He was jumping down Cortland’s throat for a harmless joke they’d all heard countless times before from the twins. Oh, Landon thought as he realized.
Landon hurried across the platform and pulled Brock away from Cortland, tersely saying, “Yes, he understands.” He acted so quickly, he didn’t even register the possibility that Brock could at any second divert his attentions to him.
But to Landon’s surprise, Brock merely responded with a pointed “Good.”
Eyes darted around, the teammates bouncing their gaze from one person to the other with uneasy glances. The tension on the rappelling platform lingered for an extended period before Dr. Brighton’s voice reached them from the floor of the Palaestra.
“Get on with it!” he screamed up to them. “What are you waiting for?”
The professor’s eruption shocked the team back into focus. Without waiting for the command, Landon and Cortland grabbed hold of the ropes in front of them and, holding their breath, leapt off the platform. The rope zipped through Landon’s hands as he sped toward the ground. Rappelling wasn’t something they practiced often, but with their special gloves, the descent became relatively easy. The trick was finding a grip somewhere between relaxed and tensed, for if Landon clutched the rope too hard, the gloves, with their microscopic barbs, wouldn’t let him move down at all.
Landon hit the ground with a loud thud, quickly released his hands from the rope, and backed away a few steps, making room for Parker to land as she trailed closely behind him. Even though it wasn’t a real mission, and the patrols were only automaton dummies, Landon crouched low to the ground to avoid being seen. He tried his best to be in the moment and commit fully to the scenario, but when the tips of his fingers touched hard ground, and not the grass he saw, it took him out of it for a second.
The rappel had placed them along the side of the house. Brock peered around the corner to check their entry point at the front door before turning back to the team.
“All right, Cast—” Brock stopped. “I mean . . . Atalanta, take out the guards. Once it’s clear, Hector, I’ll need you to pick the lock.” Brock scanned the team as he nodded in anticipation, but his focus lingered on Landon when he said, “Remember, we need to do this quickly and quietly, so don’t make a single noise.”
Brock pointed at Parker, which prompted her to move from her position in the back of the pack and sprint forward. As she crossed the short distance to Brock in a dead sprint, he interlaced his fingers together and lowered them down. Parker’s movements were silent as a mouse, and with ease, she placed one foot into Brock’s awaiting hands and was effortlessly launched onto the roof of the building.
She moved with the stealth and precision of a jungle cat stalking its prey from above, and disappeared from view. Landon couldn’t see her but he sensed her silently traversing the roof and pouncing onto the unsuspecting automaton guards that patrolled the front of the hostage compound. It was only from the most muted of sounds that Landon knew Parker had descended on her victims and successfully incapacitated them.
Brock peered around the corner, and then with a wave of his hand, beckoned the team to make their way to the entrance. Landon followed closely behind Cortland, who went first. He sprinted up the stairs to the porch and knelt down in front of the door. Placing his hand around the lock and grasping the knob between his fingers, Cortland shut his eyes and a few seconds later, they were inside the compound. Cortland had a knack for fine telekinetic manipulation, so lock-picking was one of his specialties.
The first room had a muted glow cast by a dull light bulb dangling by a wire from the ceiling. Cortland closed the door softly behind them once everyone was gathered inside, and then the focus shifted to Peregrine.
“There are seven people positioned throughout the house.” Peregrine spoke slowly as she focused her attention on the entire house, building a schematic in her mind. They had coated the outer walls in ichorium-infused paint so she hadn’t been able to see the home’s interior until they entered. Her blind, violet eyes stared off, as if trying to recognize someone standing a block away. “And our target is being held in a back room. I think we’re going to need to split up.”
Brock nodded in acknowledgement. “Hector and Apollo, you two take that door,”—Brock pointed to a yellowish door on the left side of the room—“and Atalanta and I will take this one.” He motioned to a second door on the adjacent wall that proceeded deeper into the house. He directed them like a quarterback in a huddle, reading out their next move as if it were the last play for the win in the final seconds of the fourth quarter. “Echo, you stay with me.” Brock stalled for a moment before reiterating to the team, “Remember, our mission is to get in, grab the girl, and get out without being noticed. If you come into contact with someone, take them out—but do it quietly.”
Landon watched as Brock, Parker and Peregrine crept through their door and disappeared, on their way to the hostage. Instantly, Landon thought, Now it’s a race. Who could get there first? Landon thrived on competition, and he knew enough about himself to know that he performed better when there were stakes involved, real or imaginary. Landon turned to Cortland and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“Let’s do this,” Landon said softly but excitedly.
Cortland stepped up to their door. The discolored yellow paint was chipping and the handle looked old and rusty. Leaning his ear against the door, Cortland shut his eyes as he gripped the knob.
Landon held his breath in anticipation. After another few seconds, Cortland softly turned the knob and slowly maneuvered the door open. The instant the gap was wide enough, Landon slunk through the door with ninja-like speed. The room resembled a living room, but the couch and recliner were both ragged and stained—and picked up from a garbage heap, judging from their smell. Behind the recliner, one of the Gymnasium’s automatons slid along its track like a man on patrol, his head turned away from Landon.
Staying on the balls of his feet, Landon silently shuffled around the furniture and pressed the deactivation button on the side of the dummy’s neck. Intended to simulate a real-life operative, these automatons had motion sensors for eyes, auditory sensors in the place of ears, and a series of buttons and pressure sensors all over their bodies to emulate the senses of a real person. They also had an advanced microchip embedded in their heads that processed all the sensory information the dummy gathered, which allowed it to react to the situation in real time. Depending on what it sensed, the dummy could scream out, activate a building’s alarms, or fight back.
The next room Cortland and Landon entered was a dining room complete with a battered wooden table, a hodgepodge of mismatched chairs, and a battered chandelier with cracked, chipped or missing crystals.
Continuing on their mission, Cortland pushed open the swinging door that led to the kitchen. As the door swung shut behind them, two dummies suddenly jumped out from behind some large cabinets. Landon instinctively reached out with his abilities and telekinetically pulled the closest one to him, yanking it like a fish caught on a line. It squeaked as it slid across the floor, and when it was close enough, Landon laid a strong right hook to the dummy’s rubbery jaw, effectively knocking it out.
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