Lockdown (The Fringe #4)

by Tarah Benner

  Sage doesn’t say anything as I get dressed, but that doesn’t mean she’s dropped the issue. I’ve learned that she’s most dangerous when she goes quiet like that, because it means she’s either too furious to speak or that she’s silently preparing for war.

  By the time I pull on a slightly rumpled pair of cargo shorts and an acceptably clean T-shirt, she’s still sitting on the edge of the bed with her bare legs pressed together, staring down at the cup of coffee in her hands as though it might tell her why I’m such an asshole.

  I pause awkwardly, debating whether I should tell her to get lost or pull her into my arms. She never gives me a chance to decide.

  While I’m still fishing for words, she looks up from her coffee and deploys the one weapon in her arsenal that can absolutely annihilate me: “I still love you, you know.”

  My mouth falls open, and for a second I just stand there like an idiot.

  “You can push me away and hate yourself and keep doing Malcolm’s dirty work if you want, but it doesn’t change the way I feel.”

  “It should,” I splutter.

  It’s the wrong thing to say, but she just cracks a sad smile and raises her perfect eyebrows. “It doesn’t.”

  Sometimes I want to shake her and kiss her and fuck her all at the same time. Sage is endlessly frustrating because she’s so stubborn. She loves me even when I treat her like crap. She doesn’t understand my dysfunction, but she doesn’t resent it either. It’s a rare quality in a woman.

  “Why not?” I snap.

  She ruminates on my question for a moment. Then she tilts her chin up to stare at me with defiant eyes. “Because it’s all an act.”

  “An act?”

  “You act cold and distant, but you’re not.”

  I stare at her flabbergasted, but she just keeps going.

  “Every once in a while when we’re together . . . it’s like you forget that the world has gone to shit. You forget about all the bad stuff, and you let yourself be happy.”

  Her smile gets a little watery, and she stares up at the ceiling. “It’s been less since Malcolm got his hooks into you. You’ve been angrier and more distant. The last time I was here . . . I’d actually come back to end things between us.”

  I didn’t know that. I’d been too stupid to realize that we had anything to end in the first place.

  “It all got to be too much for me, you know?” she says with an apologetic shrug. “But then I came back, and I could tell something had changed for you.”

  “What?”

  “You never talk about your family, Owen . . . who your people were before all this. I know you must have lost them . . . lost someone. It’s why you are the way you are.

  “But the last time I saw you, it was like you had something to hope for again. Malcolm makes you miserable because everything you do for him pulls you farther and farther away.”

  I have no idea what to say. I’m so shocked that my brain barely registers Sage padding around the room to collect the rest of her clothes. She slinks into her shorts, fastens her belt, and runs a hand through her silky hair.

  “It’s not too late, you know,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder for balance as she pulls on her sandals.

  I think I nod, but I can’t be sure. All I feel is the soft flutter of Sage’s lips on my cheek and the light stroke of her hand down my arm.

  “Maybe this will work better once you find what you’ve lost.”

  And then she’s gone.

  * * *

  I’m so flustered by Sage’s little speech that I’m running several minutes late to meet Malcolm. I kick my motorcycle into gear and speed off down the dusty road, running the bike down the centerline.

  Sage’s words are still echoing in my head, poking at me and almost running me off the road at times. Her calm demeanor is more off-putting than any screaming match I’ve ever had with a girl.

  That’s the thing about Sage: She sees into my soul and knows just how to twist the knife so it really hurts.

  I met Sage when I was seventeen and she was nineteen. I found her on the side of the road — battered, bloody, and starved with no shoes on her feet.

  I didn’t ask questions. One look at her haunted expression told me all I needed to know. I just pulled over on the side of the road and told her to climb on the back of my bike.

  I did what I could to help her put herself back together after that. She was nervous and erratic that first year with Jackson’s crew, but she was good company. She could pack up her shit and leave town on a dime, and she didn’t feel the need to fill the crushing silence with meaningless chitchat.

  I never spoke a word about the family I’d lost, and neither did she. Everybody had lost people back then.

  Lately, though, I’ve had this gnawing feeling that she wants something more. And Sage probing into my past isn’t good.

  This off-balance feeling stays in my gut as I pull into the parking lot outside of Master Pawn and kill the engine.

  Gunner is leaning against the chain-link fence outside, keeping watch. Judging from the queasy look in his eyes and the way his pale skin matches his bleached-blond hair, I can tell the whisky must have been flowing last night.

  That’s good news for me. If Malcolm and the boys were in a celebratory mood, it means I’m less likely to get chewed out.

  “Hey, Owen,” says Gunner in that slow, lazy drawl of his.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Oh, you know, you know. Big things are happening. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right, son!” Gunner tilts his head to the side. “If I’m not mistaken, good fortune already found you last night.”

  I roll my eyes, and Gunner gives me a knowing smile. “Yeah, I heard Sage was back in town.” He draws his lip ring into his mouth and sucks in a burst of air. “Yeeeaah . . . She’s the type that could make an honest man out of ya. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Sure.”

  Gunner never stops talking, so it’s always easier just to agree.

  “I’m not sure why you’re messin’ around with that other girl.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get me wrong . . . she’s real pretty, too. But Sage sees into your soul, brother. You feel me?”

  “Yeah.”

  We fall silent for a moment, and my mind races to figure out what the hell Gunner is talking about.

  “So you gonna kick her to the curb?” he prompts.

  “Who?”

  “Harper.”

  That’s when it clicks: Harper is Eli’s girl, which means he must have brought her here when he visited the base pretending to be me. What an idiot.

  “Oh . . .” I trail off and scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Mind putting in a good word for me when you do? She’s just . . .” He closes his eyes and lets out a comic groan.

  It’s kind of disgusting, so I shake my head and rack my brain for a good excuse. Eli and I are on the outs, but it seems like the brotherly thing to do.

  “You don’t want me to, bro. Trust me. She’s crazy.”

  “Ahhh, come on! I like ’em crazy!”

  “Sorry. It’s for your own good,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder as I pass. “I gotta get in there. Malcolm’s waiting.”

  I push open the door and catch a tortured “Help a brother out!” as I enter the hot, airless pawn shop.

  When I close the door, it disturbs the dust floating in the air, and I have to squint to discern the outline of a busted guitar, a sad-looking toaster, and some old stereos.

  Once I’m inside, I hear voices drifting through the beaded curtain behind the counter: Malcolm’s sly, confident cadence and the silky tone of an older woman.

  It isn’t the grating, high-pitched voice of the drifter women who usually surround Malcolm. This woman sounds sophisticated, educated, and smart enough to be careful around Malcolm.

  I push aside the strands o
f beads, and the sound causes Malcolm’s pointed face to swivel over in my direction.

  “Nice of you to join us, Parker.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say. “Overslept.”

  The woman flashes me a strained smile before turning her attention back to Malcolm. She’s got very short blond hair that lies in soft waves over the top of her head. Her jaw is strong and square like a man’s, but her cut-glass cheekbones give her a feminine edge. Her skin is tanned and smooth, and the tiny lines around her eyes are the only indication that she’s probably in her late forties.

  “As I was saying, we successfully breached the firewall.”

  “That’s wonderful,” says Malcolm, barely able to contain his glee.

  “Parker! What’s the report on our end?”

  “Firewall?” I repeat. “You mean you’ll know what’s happening in the compound?”

  “We still have to find a way to access their network,” says the woman. “But yes. Soon. Once we’re in, we can monitor the feeds, snoop around compound records to learn their defense maneuvers . . . the possibilities are endless.”

  “Wow.”

  “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  I nod, unable to form a response.

  “Well?” prompts Malcolm with an edge of impatience. He hates it when he can’t command the attention of a room. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “We sent Kimber and Xavier back. Our eyes and ears near the perimeter tell me they were granted access.”

  “And?”

  “Now we wait.”

  “Good. That’s very good to hear. And how long until transmission reaches critical mass?”

  “It’s too soon to tell,” I say. “But once they make the call, the virus should spread within a matter of days.”

  “Virus?” snaps the woman.

  “This is what we’ll be listening for when we infiltrate their network.”

  “You’re introducing a virus to the compound?”

  “It’s the best weapon we have.”

  “This is how you plan to spread awareness about what’s really going on at 112? By making people sick?”

  Malcolm smiles in a way that says he’s losing his patience. “I hired you to do a job. Your job was to gain access to 112’s network. My job is to deal with the compounds.”

  “No,” says the woman. “You hired me to help with a cause. I was told you wanted to expose the corruption in the compounds. If people just knew there were other survivors . . .”

  “That won’t change anything,” says Malcolm. “The foot soldiers they send out to kill innocents . . . they know the full story.”

  The woman shakes her head. “They’ve been brainwashed by the board and their section leaders. If they knew how they ended up in Recon in the first place —”

  “It wouldn’t change anything. Believe me. We went through six men and women before we found two who would listen to our story.”

  “You haven’t even given the people there a chance. They are innocent in all this.”

  The change in Malcolm’s demeanor is so subtle that a stranger could easily miss it. His patience evaporates like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, and I can tell he’s done with this woman.

  “This is none of your concern,” he snaps. “If you don’t like the way I do things, then you don’t have to stay here. You’re free to return to Salt Lake City at any time.”

  The woman’s face drains of color, and anger flashes in those light-blue eyes. “You know I can’t go back there.”

  “That’s right. The radiation was killing you. You chose to relocate — to live here under my protection.” Malcolm fixes her with a harsh look. “Now it’s time to pay up.”

  For a moment, she just stares at him. She doesn’t bother to hide her contempt, which is how I know she hasn’t spent much time around Malcolm.

  I glance from one to the other, wondering who’s going to break first.

  Finally, the woman stands and excuses herself with a curt nod.

  “Thank you for the update, Mrs. Reynolds,” Malcolm calls at her retreating back. “I hope we can continue to work together.”

  ten

  Harper

  I’m greeted in the morning with an extra disgusting bowl of gruel.

  Even though it’s breakfast time, there’s never much of a distinction in the meals. This one is an odd puree of prunes, wheat, and something salty with an odd stringy texture.

  Holding back a gag, I shovel the stuff down my throat as quickly as possible and prepare for another day of suffocating silence and intimidation.

  It’s shower day, which means I’ll finally get the chance to wash off the dirt and residual blood from my fistfight, but it also means I’ll be herded into the open tile room to mingle with a bunch of women who want to kill me.

  I’m new to the cages, but if there ever was an ideal opportunity to jump someone, shower time would be it.

  As I’m finishing off the remains of my disgusting breakfast, the door at the end of the tunnel slams, and heavy footsteps echo off the concrete walls. It’s the warden.

  There’s no inmate shuffling along in front of him and no visitor behind him, so I can only guess why he’s coming down here on another controller’s shift.

  To my immense surprise, he stops in front of my cage and swipes his key card to release my door. He doesn’t reach for his cuffs, and he doesn’t yell at me when I don’t scramble into position to be restrained.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “You’re being released today,” he says in a tone of mild surprise — as if I should have known this was coming.

  “What?”

  “Looks like someone found you a lawyer with half a brain, darlin’. They’ve dropped the charges against you.”

  The door to my cage swings open, but I just sit there for a minute and let his words wash over me.

  “I can go?”

  “Are you deaf?” he asks in his loud old-man voice. The question is impatient but not malicious. “If I were you, I’d get out now and ask questions later.”

  I nod and scramble out of the cage, nearly moaning aloud at the chance to straighten my spine. The blond girl shoots me a vile look from her slumped position on the floor, and the other inmates’ envious eyes follow me all the way down the tunnel.

  The warden unlocks the door barring the cages from the rest of the station and leads me to Admittance and Discharge. This is the same room where I was forced to strip and don the pink jumpsuit, but my Recon uniform is folded on the plastic bench, calling me home.

  Once the warden leaves me alone in the dingy room, reality begins to sink in. I’m really getting out of here.

  I don’t know how it’s possible, but it would be stupid to question it.

  I unfold my fatigues with a quiet sigh and savor the sensation of the cheap polyester in my hands. It’s thick and luxurious compared to the worn-out jumpsuit, and it feels amazing to put on my own underwear again.

  There’s a wavy plastic mirror hanging near the door. It distorts my reflection too much to make it good for applying makeup, but it’s accurate enough to see that the girl staring back at me is a wreck.

  Sleepless nights on the cold concrete have carved dark circles under my lashes, and it almost looks as though I’m sporting two black eyes instead of one. My nose is still swollen and tender, and my hair is a greasy jungle.

  Eager to get the hell out of Control, I quickly run my fingers through it and pull it up into a messy ponytail. I still look like crap, but it’s closer to my old baseline of crappiness — the way I’d look after spending a night in Neverland.

  Satisfied, I practically run out of the room. I half expect Celdon to be waiting in the lobby wearing his usual shit-eating grin, but instead I see Blaze standing near the exit. Next to him is an older Information man I don’t recognize, which puts me instantly on high alert. Then Blaze breaks into a strained grin, and my body slowly relaxes.

  “Hey . . .”

  “Hey,” says Blaze. H
e looks happy to see me but slightly uncomfortable. I’m sure he’s thinking about our last exchange when I was a hopeless wreck and he called me on it.

  “Did you have something to do with this?” I ask.

  “Well . . . yeah,” he says, glancing bashfully at the man beside him. “This is Jarvis. He’s the best criminal defense attorney in the compound.”

  That would explain the suit.

  “Hello,” I say, extending a hand.

  “Please,” says Jarvis, taking my hand and glancing at Blaze. “He flatters me.”

  “Well, if you were the mastermind behind my release, it must be true,” I say — because the guy did just get me out of the cages when Wyatt Thompson said it couldn’t be done.

  Jarvis pumps my hand once, and I have the chance to study him without being rude.

  The only thing unusual about Jarvis is that he’s completely nondescript. He’s an average height and an average weight, and he possesses average looks. His medium-brown hair is trimmed into a medium-length cut, and his clean-shaven face betrays nothing other than average friendliness.

  “So you got Control to drop the charges against me?”

  “I can’t take all the credit,” he says, offering a sideways smile and gesturing down the tunnel toward the megalift. “Shall we?”

  I nod and follow them out of the Control Station, still stunned that I actually get to leave.

  “So how did you do it?” I ask, walking faster to keep pace with Jarvis’s long strides.

  “Blaze here was the one who really dug into the law and realized that they didn’t have much of a leg to stand on,” he says, coming to a stop just outside the lift. “He brought me in to confirm what he’d found, and I just had a little chat with Walter Cunningham.”

  “The Secretary of Security?”

  Jarvis shrugs. “He’s an old school friend. He was standing firm on your case, but I made him see reason. None of the Recon-related charges against you would have held up in court since you never completed training.

  “You did admit to smuggling illegal contraband, but I made Walter see how it might look for the testimony of another board member to be submitted as evidence when she did not inform you of your rights before the interrogation.”