by Jena Leigh
Moving the jeans aside, Alex discovered Hanako’s journal resting on the bottom of the wooden drawer.
Curious to how it had gotten there, Alex lifted the book from the dresser drawer and let it fall open in her hands to a random page. Had Declan moved it?
He must have.
No one else would have known to hide it for her again.
Skimming the pages, she reached the back of the book and stopped. At the top of the last page, Alex found an unfamiliar quote scrawled haphazardly in red ink. The handwriting was completely different from Hanako’s elegant, flowing script, and looked to have been written by someone else.
“What is to give light must endure burning.” —Viktor E. Frankl
What was that supposed to mean? And who could have written it?
Alex thought back to when she’d first opened the book, days before. This quote definitely hadn’t been there then. The glaring red ink would almost certainly have caught her eye.
She’d just assumed that Decks had been the one to move the journal to the dresser drawer two days before, when he carried her back to her room after she collapsed.
But that was definitely not Declan’s handwriting.
If it had been Kenzie, Nate, or Aiden that found the journal, they likely would have held onto it, then questioned her about its contents the moment she woke up. Ozzie would almost certainly have taken it to Grayson. Grayson and Aunt Cil would have wanted to know how she’d gotten her hands on it in the first place.
And Brian… Well, the boy had even better handwriting than she did, and Alex took no small amount of pride in her penmanship. He certainly hadn’t written this.
So who else…
“Brandt,” she muttered to herself. “Of course it would be Brandt.”
He was the only one at the compound who might have been nosy enough to go looking for it… and then brazen enough to give it right back to her, laden with fresh clues.
Assuming the sentence was a clue and not just his warped idea of a joke.
Taking it on faith that the quote really was meant to be helpful in some way, Alex considered its possible meanings. After a while, metaphors and profundities gave way to something a bit more literal.
“What is to give light must endure burning,” she recited. “Surely he’s not telling me to set the book on fire. That’s ridiculous… But what if…”
Going on a hunch, Alex returned to the dresser and felt around beneath the pile of jeans where she’d first unearthed the book. Sure enough, her fingertips soon stumbled over a small, thin square sitting at the bottom of the drawer.
Alex pulled out the matchbook and smiled.
Ripping off a match, she struck it against the rough strip on the back cover and sparked it to life.
Tossing the matchbook aside, Alex pulled the tiny flame into her palm, careful to resist the urge to let it grow.
Ever so slowly, she brought the marble-sized orb closer and closer toward the pages of Hanako’s journal… and watched on in amazement as the heat from the flame kickstarted a chemical reaction that revealed two full pages of previously hidden text.
Hanako had used some type of invisible ink to write one last entry in the back of her journal.
And Brandt had just helped her to unearth it.
Thrown by the fact that a morally ambiguous hitman for hire had decided to help her, Alex didn’t immediately register the date scribbled at the very top of the left page.
Three days before Hanako’s death.
Three days before Samuel Masterson went crazy and started killing off his teammates one by one in an attempt to get his hands on Alex.
With a trembling hand, she dissolved the fiery orb and set the book down on the bed in front of her. What Alex read next caused her stomach to sink, her hand to fly to her mouth, and her eyes to widen in disbelief.
She now understood exactly why Declan was so desperate to know what secrets might be hidden in the journal. Reading this, she could understand the sudden doubts he seemed to have formed about the man that raised him. Reading this, Alex realized that he was right to be concerned.
Because if the details Hanako had transcribed in the slowly fading ink regarding Samuel Masterson’s visions were true… then the resistance leader had one hell of a skeleton lurking in his closet.
And odds were good that once the contents of this journal finally saw the light of day, John Grayson’s secret would inevitably rip his family to shreds.
* * *
Declan read the rapidly fading script of Hanako’s final entry for a second time.
Then he plucked another match from the booklet, struck it against the abrasive strip along the back, used the flame to refresh the nearly vanished text, and read it again.
Hello, Kento.
If you’re reading this, I guess it means Sam’s visions came to pass after all. After we spoke last night, I changed my mind and took your advice.
I went to John, like you suggested. I told him everything.
Every bit of it. Not just about the vision involving Jonathan and Gwen. I told him of Sam’s other visions, too. The ones I couldn’t bring myself to share with you.
He wouldn’t listen.
When I described Sam’s predictions about Gwen, lying unmoving on the floor of the lab in a pool of blood and shattered glass, Jonathan hovering over her… About seeing the lab go up in flames and the gruesome deaths of our team members… About seeing the whole world descend into fire and chaos and the child that would one day save us all…
John actually laughed.
Well, he scoffed, anyhow. You know how he can be. And while I’m fairly certain the man was born entirely without a sense of humor—he still refused to take Sam’s visions seriously.
He kept insisting that Sam was wrong. That he’d mistaken his own nightmares for visions. That he was too new to the gift to possibly be seeing so much, anyway.
John seems convinced that Sam wouldn’t be capable of more than a few brief glimpses of the near future. Apparently, apocalyptic visions are reserved for more “experienced” psychics.
I want to believe him. With everything I am, I truly want to believe that John’s right and Sam is simply confused.
But I don’t.
Sam was too shaken by what he’d seen. Too certain of it.
Which is why I’m making this entry. If something happens—if the worst comes to pass and my teammates and I don’t make it—I want you to tell others of what Samuel saw.
Because if he’s right about our deaths, then he’s probably right about the rest of it, too.
Take care, cousin. Be safe, live well, and make sure that Holly and Murphy grow up knowing I loved them both dearly.
Hana
Alex paced slowly back and forth beside him, chewing anxiously on her thumbnail.
“Shit,” Declan muttered.
Alex made a strangled noise of agreement. “The only thing that hasn’t happened yet is that bit about the end of the world. And while that possibility is absolutely freaking terrifying—the idea that Grayson could have murdered Nate’s mom in cold blood seems a little more pressing to me.”
Declan grunted in agreement.
“What should we do now?” Alex asked.
Dissolving the flame, he ran his fingers lightly over the quote Brandt had scrawled at the top of the page, a plan taking shape in his thoughts. Closing the journal, he dropped the book onto his cot and slowly shook his head.
“Now?” Declan repeated. “Right now, Lex… we do nothing.”
She stopped in surprise, her arms falling limply to her sides. “What do you mean, ‘nothing?’”
“I mean we can’t tell anyone about this journal, Alex,” he said. “No one can know about what we discovered.”
“What?” Alex choked out. “But shouldn’t we at least tell Nate?”
“Nate’s the last person we should share this with.”
Alex stared at him in disbelief. “Why in the world would you want to keep this from him? It�
��s his mom, Declan! He has a right to know!”
Declan imagined the entire conversation playing out in his mind’s eye, following it through to its most likely conclusion.
The second Nate found out that Grayson could be responsible for the death of his mother, there wouldn’t be a power on Earth that could stop him from confronting the boss outright… and Declan couldn’t envision a single scenario where that confrontation resulted in a happy ending. Nate’s blind rage could easily lead to the deaths of one—or more—individuals before his brother even had time to fully process the information he’d been given.
“No, Lex,” he said. “Nate has a right to the truth. This is just a vague, secondhand account of something that Samuel Masterson might have seen. Plus, in the vision Grayson was just standing over Gwen. That’s hardly proof that he was the one to kill her. And for all we know, Masterson could have been lying about all of it in an attempt to make the original team turn against Grayson. The guy’s a next level puppet master with a genius IQ and a history of inciting chaos.”
“But what if—”
“We need evidence, Lex. We need real, indisputable proof of the boss’s guilt before we reveal any of this information to anyone. Trust me, I know my brother. And I know without a doubt that if we take this to him now, he’s not just going to wait around for justice to serve itself. He’ll act before we’re able to confirm anything.”
“Alright,” she said. “So then how do we go about confirming something that happened over a decade ago? It’s not like we can stroll into Grayson’s office and say, ‘Hey boss, did you kill Gwen Palladino in cold blood and then turn around and blame it on Samuel Masterson?’ Somehow I see that ending… painfully.”
“So we don’t accuse him flat out,” said Declan. “We just make sure we’re listening in on the right conversation at exactly the right time.”
“Listening in? I don’t… Oh. The surveillance package. That’s why you wanted it.”
Actually, he’d purchased the package in the hopes of finding out the more minute details of the resistance’s battle plans—and to make sure that the boss wasn’t withholding any vital information that could get the rest of them killed or captured. But some of that listening equipment would definitely come in handy for what he now had in mind.
Alex shook her head. “I still don’t see how spying on his actions right now is going to help anything, Decks. I mean, it’s not like he’s just going to flat out confess to committing a murder he got away with almost fourteen years ago in the middle of a casual conversation.”
“Not with any of us, maybe,” said Declan. “But I think I might know someone who can get him to talk.”
Alex’s gaze traveled back to the discarded journal. “Brandt. You think Brandt will help us?”
Declan shrugged. “He already has, in a way. You never would have found that entry if he hadn’t helped. And you know what a hard-on the guy has for ‘justice’… We just have to make sure he agrees to an actual conversation and doesn’t impulsively decide on something a little more permanent.”
Alex considered it. “He won’t hurt Grayson. At least, I don’t think he will. If that’s what he wanted, he could have done it the moment he found Hanako’s entry in the journal.”
“Yeah, about that,” said Declan. “How did he know about that hidden entry? And how did he know that’s what it was we were looking for?”
Alex shrugged. “He and Hanako were both fire-wielders. Maybe that special ink she used is something Brandt was familiar with, so he knew where to look for it. As to how he knew… Beats me. Your guess is as good as mine on that one.”
Declan narrowed his eyes. “Or maybe he’s known all along.”
“What?”
“Think about it,” said Declan. “If Grayson needed help covering up what he’d done, who do you think he’d have turned to?”
“The fire in the lab. You think he brought in Brandt to destroy any evidence of the crime?”
“It’s possible. The boss never told us when the fire that destroyed the VX serums happened. And he never told us how the blaze started, either.” He scowled. “There is one thing I know for certain though, Lex.”
“What’s that?”
“If we’re ever going to get any answers, then I’ve got to find a way to sneak out of here and pick up that package waiting for me at Benji’s.”
Alex stared off into the distance, musing over the problem. Outside the cabin, Declan could hear his sister loudly lamenting her current state of caffeine deprivation and firmly insisting that it could be considered a form of torture in most civilized nations.
“What about the supply run?” Alex suggested. “We could volunteer to go and then hit up The Corner Pocket before heading to the store.”
“No good,” he said. “The boss will never risk it. Both of our faces were just plastered all over the news, remember? The only jumper he’ll probably be willing to send out right now is Oz.”
Alex chewed on her bottom lip, her attention shifting to the window. “You know,” she said, “our faces might have been released… but Kenzie’s wasn’t.”
“So?”
“So, Red’s on surveillance duty right now… but if she left, the responsibility would shift to one of us, right? What if we suggested that Kenzie take part in the run?”
Almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Alex’s hopeful look fell.
“No, that wouldn’t work either,” she admitted. “We can’t leave the compound defenseless.”
With nearly a dozen Top Fives wandering around the place it would hardly be defenseless, but Declan took her meaning. And Alex was right. It wouldn’t do any good to sabotage their own defenses just so that they could sneak away for a little while.
Although…
“It wouldn’t be a problem if I went alone,” he said. “We convince the boss to send Kenzie, you take over the surveillance sweep, and then I slip off to New York.”
Alex frowned. “By yourself?”
“Unless you have a better idea,” he said. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be in and out and back again before anyone even has time to notice I’m missing.”
She still looked doubtful.
“It will be fine, Lex,” he repeated. “After all, it’s just a quick jump to The Corner Pocket. What could possibly go wrong?”
Seventeen
Trent Marsden tracked the dark clouds in the distance with mounting trepidation. From the compound’s position near the ridge line, he had a perfect view of the storm approaching from the other side of the valley.
The sun was setting behind the oncoming front, illuminating the low level clouds from underneath and turning them unearthly shades of gold near the horizon with the occasional violet pop of lightning. Strange teal accents differentiated the various layers of the charcoal tinted sky.
The panoramic view of the encroaching shelf cloud was absolutely breathtaking. A nature photographer’s wet dream.
To Trent, however, it was the worst of ill omens.
Only three times in his life had he witnessed a storm like this one roll in.
The first time, he was an eight-year-old kid living in the suburbs of Southern California. Earlier that day he turned down an invitation to go skateboarding with his friends in the empty L.A. River, site of countless Hollywood car chases and one memorable scene from Terminator 2 that was a popular hangout spot for the kids in his neighborhood.
None of them were stupid enough to stick around during the occasional monsoon-like LA downpours when the drainage system would, during particularly heavy rains, fill up with the fast moving runoff.
That day, a sudden deluge caught them off guard—and when the group decided to stick around for just a little too long, those flood waters stole the life of one of Trent’s very best friends.
The second night he’d seen a storm like this one taking shape, Trent and his beloved Nana Loa had been sitting on her patio when a bolt of lightning struck the tree in her front yard.
The sudden shock of the brilliant light and the deafening crack of thunder sent his eighty-year-old Nana into cardiac arrest.
His grandmother took her last breath long before the ambulance he summoned finally arrived.
And the third time…
Well, the third time found Trent tending bar at The Corner Pocket in New York.
He stepped outside for a cigarette, took one look at the incoming clouds, and felt the cold tendrils of dread twist themselves around his stomach and lungs. He’d tossed aside the barely lit cigarette and gone back inside—then spent the rest of the night waiting for the inevitable phone call.
His cell rang an hour-and-a-half later.
One of his roommates, Toby, had been driving home from work. Blinded by the heavy rains, he’d driven his car off an embankment and died on impact.
That was four years ago.
Slender arms wrapped around his waist and Jezza’s chin settled lightly on his left shoulder, her minty bubblegum-scented breath warm against his cheek.
In the distance, the thin line of a lightning strike lit the clouds from within, tinting the shades of teal a brilliant purple.
“Pretty,” Jezza whispered.
He nodded once.
“But something about it’s bothering you,” she said. “I can tell.”
“It’s nothing. Really,” he said. “Just a few bad memories is all.”
Trent’s voice wasn’t altogether convincing, but it also wasn’t a topic he was open to discussing. Even with Jezza.
She shifted, ducking around his left side and moving to stand in front of him. When she met his eye, her gaze held no challenge, simply curiosity.
He was still wondering what she might be reading in his expression when Jezza took a sharp step back, one hand reaching up to massage her forehead as she scrunched her eyes closed.
“Jezza?” Trent reached for her and she took another step back, moving out of his reach.
“I’m fine,” she said a little too quickly. Jezza bowed her head. “It’s nothing.”
Now it was Trent’s turn to be concerned. He moved forward and ducked down to get a better view of her face.
