Resist

by Tracey Martin

  “No way. You know that’s a bad idea. Malone will have people watching for you.”

  “Yeah, and if he does, they could recognize my mom. She’s had her face altered, but what if it’s not enough?”

  I want to put an arm around Kyle or squeeze his hand, do something like I once would have done to offer him strength, but I don’t dare. “It’s like I said last night: if Malone finds your mother, he’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am right. I’ve been wrong about an awful lot, but this I’m sure of.”

  We return to silence, trailing several feet behind Cole and Summer. The distance between us feels almost companionable, and I’m reminded of the last time I was in a mall. I was shopping for a formal dress with Audrey.

  Not only was she my roommate at RTC and the first civilian friend I ever made, she was my unknowing instructor in all things normal. She made buying a dress less of a practical problem I had to solve and more of a bonding adventure. I’d felt almost like a real college student that afternoon with her, trying on clothes, thinking about going to a dance with the boy I liked.

  Strolling through this mall now, it’s not quite the same, but it’s the closest I’ve come to normal in a while. And not for the first time, I wonder how Audrey’s doing with finals and what she thinks about my disappearance, and I’m sad I’ll probably never see her again.

  One day, I wish. One day, I’ll walk through a mall with Kyle and when I gaze at the holiday decorations, I’ll be able to enjoy them, not wonder if there’s a RedZone operative lurking behind the inflatable snowman. I’ll shop for gifts, not gauze so I can wrap a gunshot wound, and I’ll stuff myself with peppermint hot chocolate and other sweets rather than worry about finding high-protein food that can tide me over in case my next meal isn’t for a very long time.

  One day.

  The food court is on the third floor almost directly across the way from where we entered. As it’s about lunchtime, I can tell as we take the escalator up that it’s crowded. On the second floor we get off and have to walk some distance to the next set of escalators. Ahead, Summer is looking down to where people are lining up for photos with Santa on the first floor. I pause to ogle the mounds of fake snow in the elaborate set too, but something else catches my eye.

  On the other side of the second floor, people coming out of a shoe store are pointing and exclaiming. I assume it’s at another holiday display, then my heart drops to my feet.

  It’s an AAD. RedZone has found us again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday Noon: One Day After Escape

  The AAD makes its way down the floor, its camera pausing for a split second to scan every face it comes across. Some jackass stuck a Santa hat on top, covering the gun, and so the clueless shoppers have no idea that the AAD is not a harmless decoration, part of the over-the-top holiday extravaganza.

  I pull myself together and snatch Kyle’s and Summer’s arms. “They’re here. Look across the way.”

  Summer instantly latches on to where I’m staring. Hissing a swear, she backs up.

  “Is that one of those things from the camp?” Kyle’s eyes open wide.

  “Yes.” I release Summer, searching for Cole. He hasn’t seen the AAD yet, and he’s heading right toward it. I tug his jacket and motion silently in the weapon’s direction. If there are AADs, there are also operatives.

  “How did they find us?” Kyle asks through clenched teeth.

  I grab my phone and start texting a warning to the others. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Your phone?” Kyle glares at Cole.

  “I got rid of that hours ago. We tossed it on a garbage truck.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cole turns red at the suggestion, and I put a hand on Kyle’s chest. “Stop. We’ll have to figure this out later. For now, we need to get out of here.”

  But getting out of here just got a lot harder. Somewhere, nearly right above us on the third floor, one of the AADs opens fire.

  Panic explodes in the mall. Everything turns to chaos in the length of a heartbeat. People scream and start dashing in all directions for cover. Instinctively, I crouch down, my hand wrapped around the hem of Kyle’s jacket. The AAD on our floor responds to the shots by zipping our way and upward, but as it does, it must get a clear enough lock on one of us to become suspicious. It diverts course and flies in our direction.

  I have a gun tucked in my waistband, but the vulnerable area on an AAD is small—just its camera eye. And with so many people scattering, the odds I might hit one of them are too high for me to risk shooting. I jump to my feet, dragging Kyle with me. “Run.”

  He doesn’t need encouragement, and neither do Summer or Cole. We take off in two directions. Kyle and I go one way, Cole and Summer the other. The AAD chooses us to follow. Behind me, gunshots enliven the cacophony of confused and frightened shoppers.

  It’s one of us, I assume. One of us is shooting at the AAD on the third floor.

  I don’t turn around to confirm my thought or see whether it’s been hit. My gaze roams the area ahead of me, scanning the mall for cover. My best bet is to lead the AAD somewhere more isolated, but where? How many more are there? And how many RedZone operatives with it?

  Not everyone has gotten the danger message yet, or they don’t understand what the noise they heard was. The AADs aren’t firing bullets from the sound of it, but small stun bursts. Malone still wants us back at least mostly undamaged.

  As a result, the farther we run from the initial attack, the less likely people are to realize what’s going on. Some stand around gawking at us as we tear down the floor. I plow through them, shoving them out of the way if I have to, dodging only the children so they won’t get hurt. The AAD, which hovers a couple meters in the air, doesn’t have to worry about obstacles, but Kyle does. Vaguely, I’m aware of him at my side. He can run—I know from experience—but this isn’t a track course.

  With a dull whine, the AAD’s stun ray charges behind us. Yanking Kyle with me, I throw us around the corner of a storefront. The blast misses us, but glass shatters. Now the people around us begin to scream as well. As they flee, mall security rushes in, yelling at us, as though we’re the ones firing.

  “Go!” I shout at them. “Get out of here!”

  More shots rip through the mall, and the guard on the left drops. His partner reaches for his gun, but he’s too slow.

  It must be RedZone operatives. The AADs would be programmed only to go after me and the other members of my unit. If civilians are being shot at, humans are doing it. I close my eyes in frustration and anger. Then, channeling that anger into action, I whip out my gun. My hands shake as I peer around the display case we dove behind. It’s awkwardly shaped—showing off many rosy hues of lipsticks and other makeup—and it doesn’t look quite capable of stopping a bullet.

  The RedZone operatives are casually stepping over the bodies of the downed security guards. Glass crunches beneath their feet, and for the moment they haven’t spotted me nor do they have any cover. Gritting my teeth, I aim for the easier target. The kickback feels like a punch to my resolve not to kill anymore, but what can I do?

  I duck back behind the case as the second operative returns fire with lightning reflexes. In the silence that follows, the whir of the AAD’s motor grows louder.

  More stunning shots from the operative blast the display case, and cosmetics go flying. Kyle and I collapse to the floor under the assault of plastic and powder. And there’s the AAD. Finally, I see its distinctive hovering motion from the corner of my eye.

  Kyle sees it too, and he takes aim and misses. I shove him aside, pushing him toward the sturdier-looking checkout counter. “Go!”

  I fire wildly, keeping to his heels and hoping my shots are holding back the AAD and the operative. How many rounds do I have
left? I haven’t been keeping track, and that could be fatal.

  A couple of my shots destroy part of the glass case behind the operative, and the exploding perfume bottles suffuse the store in a powerful stench. Kyle coughs, clutching his gun at chest level while he catches his breath.

  “You okay?” I ask, kneeling next to him. In their haste to leave the store, some of the customers dropped their shopping bags and purses. The spilled contents shift hazardously under my boots, and I kick them aside.

  Kyle hauls himself to the balls of his feet. “I’d be fine if I could breathe.”

  “What’s your ammo situation?”

  We’re both running low. A quick check tells me I have two rounds left in this clip and one full one in my pocket. That’s not a lot when facing down an AAD. Unless…

  My eyes fix on a lighter lying next to a pack of cigarettes. They both appear to have fallen out of one of the purses, and on their own neither is particularly helpful. But beneath the cash register is an aerosol can of air freshener. I take it and the lighter. It’ll be far easier to destroy the AAD’s sensors than it will be to shoot out its camera.

  Kyle pokes his head above the counter, and we’re rewarded with a stunning blast for the effort, one that comes from the direction of the operative. It hits a tower of winter-themed nail polishes, knocking them over but missing us.

  “Is that going to work?” Kyle asks, dubiously eyeing my makeshift flamethrower.

  The hum of the AAD is getting louder again. It takes it several seconds to track us once we’re out of the camera’s sight—a design flaw in its predictive software that RedZone’s been trying to fix—but it will calculate our likely position soon enough.

  I adjust my grip on the aerosol can. “Yes, it’ll work.” Then, because that much confidence is undeserved, bordering on lying, I add: “I think.”

  “You think?”

  I shrug self-consciously, annoyed by my own hesitation and doubt. What happened to me? I used to believe I knew exactly what to do in any combat situation. I’m highly trained. Highly intelligent. The perfect soldier.

  But these feelings of insecurity have been creeping up on me for a while, haven’t they? It’s not only my anxiety over my relationship with Kyle. It’s the result of being duped by Malone and dragging Kyle into this mess. My confidence in my abilities has been badly damaged.

  Do not think you know something. Just know it. Do not try to do something. Just do it. Hesitation is weakness, and weakness will kill you. Come out strong even if you’re wrong.

  Of course, Fitzpatrick would berate us for being wrong during training, but like everything else she taught us, she had a point.

  I grit my teeth. “It will work, but I need you to provide cover.”

  Kyle closes his eyes briefly, but his jaw is set. “I can do that.”

  As though he can hear us, the operative fires a couple shots our way. Chunks of the checkout counter splinter. I swallow, my mouth a desert. Those weren’t stunning shots this time. Those were real bullets. If there’s a reason the operative’s changed tactics, this is no time to ponder. Since it shouldn’t matter to Kyle, I opt not to point it out. He can probably tell the difference anyway.

  “On three,” I say, feeling the AAD’s buzz in my veins. “One. Two…”

  At three, we both pop up from behind the counter. I’m scarcely aware of the pain in my ears as Kyle fires so close by, and the reek of gunpowder mixing with perfume registers, but it’s like someone else is smelling it. My vision is reduced to the metal sphere flying my way, to the camera in its face and the two sensors blinking like red ears on either side of the central gun. The stupid Santa hat is long gone, giving me clear access to what needs disabling.

  I charge, seeing my face reflected in the camera. The gun swivels my way, and I hope that—no matter what the operative is firing—this thing is still set only to stun.

  I hope more strongly that its setting is irrelevant because I’ll take it down before it can fire.

  Flicking the lighter, I shoot a stream of air freshener at the AAD as I charge it. The flame twinkles with flecks of blue and purple, and it hits the device right in the center.

  The AAD also fires. I anticipate its angle and fling myself behind a shelf. Somewhere in the store, Kyle and the operative are continuing to exchange shots. I spare only a moment to consider where the operative is firing from, then I dart out into the aisle again.

  This time I can clearly tell that the flame damages the AAD. My stream lands right on its camera, and when the AAD shoots, the blast goes wild. It moves faster, flying in my direction, but it’s blinded and it crashes into the shelf next to me. Taking advantage of its disorientation, I aim at the blinking sensors, engulfing them in the flame.

  The AAD is completely helpless now, but its gun continues to work, and it—as a result—fires randomly. Keeping low, I drop the lighter and spray can, and I grab the AAD from beneath. Its motor whines, fighting against me. I jump on top of it, and it’s strong enough to lift my feet into the air, but not for long. With a grunt, I wrestle it to the floor and smash the gun into the black-and-white tile until it breaks off. The AAD scuttles across the store when I let go. Its dreaded hum sounds dispirited, and though I realize that’s merely because I’ve damaged the motor, it amuses me.

  My good humor is short-lived though. The store is silent. Kyle. My heart lurches, and I climb to my feet, my hand reaching for my gun. In a crouch, I race back to the checkout counter, glass shattering with my steps and damaged cosmetics skittering beneath my heels. The floor is slick and dangerous.

  “Kyle?” He’s not behind the counter. “Kyle?”

  KYLE! My brain screams it, but I hold my lips shut. The operative is out there somewhere.

  A couple drops of blood draw my eye toward the opposite side of the store. Trying to maintain cover, I creep along to the hair-care section, following the trail. Before I find Kyle, I find the RedZone thug. He’s not dead yet, but blood trickles down his face and his eyes are closed. His vest blocked Kyle’s shots, but he either fell from the impact of the hits, or he tripped on the debris and banged his head on a shelf corner.

  “Kyle? He’s down.” As I snatch the man’s .45 and his stun ray, his radio crackles with an update.

  Cautiously, Kyle appears from behind the next row, breathing heavily. He tucks his gun away and wipes bloody hands on his jeans. “Just cuts from the glass,” he says, seeing my expression.

  “Good. We have to get down to the department store at the other end.” I take the operative’s radio while I’m at it, listening to the woman on the other end reporting.

  Any moment, I expect to run into another AAD or simply more operatives, but we don’t. The mall is deserted, the civilians having fled or in hiding and mall security having vanished. I can’t blame them. They probably had no training for this sort of situation, and besides, the cops are likely already outside. Getting caught with a gun in my hand wouldn’t be wise, but I don’t dare put away my weapon either.

  Staying away from the balcony railings, Kyle and I jog past the food court. He looks down. I look up. We keep our backs together. I want to skywrite a thank-you note to his mother and stepdad, wherever they are, for everything they’ve taught him about how to protect himself.

  The giant decorated tree in the center of the mall has been partially knocked over, and ornament shards sparkle in the twinkling lights. The path my friends took, and the path by which they were followed, is obvious. Aside from the broken glass, chunks of wood have been blown off the walls, shopping bags have been dropped, and there’s even deserted women’s shoes to guide our way—slip-ons that fell off feet when people ran.

  Kyle and I enter the large anchor store at the south end of the mall as someone on the radio puts the word out about the local PD. I shut the radio off so no more noise will give us away.

  As it turns out, doing so is unnecessary.
A RedZone operative and a smoldering AAD are down in the men’s outerwear section. Stepping over them, I spin to my left when one of the racks shake, but it’s only Jordan’s head that pops above the rows of wool coats.

  She lowers her weapon when she sees it’s us. “We split up.”

  “So did we. Cops are here.”

  Kyle rubs his eyes, leaving bloody marks on his cheek. “We can’t be asked questions.”

  Questions are the least of our concerns with the cops. RedZone will be infiltrating them as we speak. But I don’t get a chance to point this out. A crash reverberates from the floor above, and we take off. The fighting up here is over fast. Two more RedZone operatives don’t stand a chance against all of us. We’ve found the rest of my unit, but unfortunately not before they sustained injuries.

  “Lev!” Octavia rushes over to him.

  Two enormous racks of shoes have toppled over, and he’s pinned beneath them. While Cole, Gabe and Jordan struggle to remove the large metal cases, Octavia and I try to pull Lev out from underneath. For every inch he moves, Lev’s face crumbles in pain.

  “Block it out,” I tell him, but it’s easier said than done when the pain is intense.

  “RedZone’s got control of the cops,” Summer says. She has the radio to her ear so she can hear despite the racket we’re making. “I can’t figure out what they did, but Malone must have some way of convincing them they have authority.”

  I doubt Malone’s smokescreen will hold for long, but he doesn’t need long. Just enough time to get us out of here. At the camp, we were told RedZone was a black-ops group sanctioned by the government. Although that was just another lie, there’s no question Malone and company have the right fake credentials and people to pull off a convincing story. I mean, if he has moles who outed Kyle and his mother at the CIA, Malone can temporarily fool a suburban police department.

  With a great squeal of metal and a crash of shoes, the others shove the last shelf off Lev. But when we try to help him to his feet, he can no longer hold in his grunt of pain. Blood has soaked through his clothes, and his left leg is twisted at an unnatural angle.