“How will you hack me?”
They both laughed. “That’s the easy part,” Gwen said. “We’ll just send you a message to open. Our virus will do the rest.”
“But make sure you wait on it,” Sam warned. “Our hack will mask your keystrokes whenever you use my apps for decryption and encryption. It will also delete anything you decrypt after ten seconds, in case someone grabs your tablet, or tries to read over your shoulder.”
“In the meantime,” Gwen said, “Begin to establish a typical model of online behavior that includes Dally and game downloads. Have Middlebrooks set up fan pages on all the social media sites right away, then start interacting with fans.”
“She will love that,” I said.
“More importantly, you’ll establish a habit that will make later conversations with “fans” like Sam, Bess, and Adam seem run of the mill. The goal is to bury the important stuff in a barrage of things that will bore your monitors to tears.”
Sam sent me the all clear last week, but I’m still wary about what I post. I login to Dally and begin scrolling through my newsfeed. After a while, I reject all my date requests and check my notifications. When I’m sure there is nothing new from my friends, I search for my name on music fan pages and start reading.
I hate this part. The gossip, the vile rumors, even the bright curiosity and outlandish predictions are so far removed from my life, I cannot help feeling a strong sense of disconnect when I read them.
That’s not really me, I want to say, even while staring at one of Jan Jen’s pictures and remembering every detail of the shoot. Tonight I abandon the fan pages to watch a video clip of my rescue in the desert. Bess’s team dropped me at the safe house twenty-four hours before we had Middlebrook’s team begin their rescue. I cringe at the terrified look on my face, illuminated by a dozen Readybeams. Adam would tease me about my good acting, but the truth is I had just finally fallen asleep before they broke down the door. After two days of debriefing by the Secret Service, I was reunited with my father. Middlebrooks, of course, was there to make sure the whole thing was filmed. My father’s expression is hard to watch, so I turn off the vids and move on, looking for information on Kino.
I find little.
When I visited President Amaron at his presidential residence and asked if Kino would join us for publicity photos, a look of discomfort crossed the president’s face. He quickly covered it up with a politician’s smile.
“As you know, the trials for Shawn Haak and Paul Mariscal will be starting next week. Major Kino is an important witness. I’m sure she is busy preparing her testimony.”
I nodded and got back to the business of looking grateful. I am not actually in a hurry to meet Kino again, but she is still my best bet for finding out what happened to Oliver. And her relationship with General Northcote is the only reason I was allowed to come back to the Sand, so any information I can pass along is appreciated by Bess.
Every night I search for news about Kino, but all I find is an article about the tribunal that will convict Haak and Mariscal. None of it tells me anything about where Kino is or where she might be holding Oliver.
I open another tab and scroll through gaming apps. I download a puzzle game, play it for a few minutes, then uninstall it. I do that several times, finally keeping both Tilted and Squat. I switch to a shopping app and waste time and clothing credits on a pair of jeans, then I jump around, spending time with makeup apps and several more games, one of which is Operation Gunnerside. I turn up my music and tap in the right sequence to open the dialog box, then I start decrypting messages from my friends.
32
Riley
I take a shortcut through an old ballpark, ignoring a faded “no trespassing” sign as I duck through a hole in the rusty fence and navigate knee-high trash and weeds covering the infield. Afternoon sunlight is waning in the western sky and rain clouds boil overhead, which is why I am risking an untested route. If I can shave ten minutes off my trip back to Chen’s Tea House, I can still beat Reed home from The Rose.
I tighten my grip on the package under my arm and scan the outfield. No one is there, but the wind howls, playing tricks on me. I reach the right field stands and duck through another decaying fence. Wind gusts through an abandoned concession stand, lifting leaves and trash into my face. My heart races and I jump back, swatting at it with fury.
I should set this whole place on fire, I think. Then rain starts to fall, dampening my imaginary blaze.
I control nothing, I am reminded. Not. One. Thing.
Two hours ago, Mr. Chen asked me to pick up tea from the Hong Kong Tea House owned by his brother-in-law. I was thrilled to have an excuse to get away from the familiar streets of Chinatown and explore more of Slick, especially in the light of day. Mr. Chen said one hour should give me plenty of time to walk south through the financial district, get the tea from Mr. Liu and bring it back, but nothing has gone my way.
Just a block from Mr. Chen’s, a double bus collision on State Avenue was my first obstacle, clogging the streets with dozens of passengers and drawing a crowd of the concerned, curious, and crooks hoping to take advantage of the mayhem to see what might be stolen or exploited. Among them I saw thick men dressed in black and bearing a distinctive hawk tattoo on their necks—members of the Sokolov cartel. After nearly being abducted by two of them a couple of weeks ago, I make a habit of heading in the opposite direction whenever I see one.
My detour took me through Memory Park, which must have been beautiful once, with all its trees, fountains, and pavilions. Now the water is toxic, the pavilions are crumbling and covered in graffiti, and many of the trees have already toppled from decay and neglect. The few remaining crackled in the wind, threatening to smash me against the rotting sod if I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Once I reached the other side of the park, my path was again rerouted when I saw a dozen members of the Otieno security force patrolling the perimeter of Goto Tower. I had forgotten there was some big party planned there tonight. All the power players in Slick were invited, something I only know because Reed shares every bit of gossip he overhears at The Rose, hoping we’ll accidentally gain information that will become helpful down the road. He said even a few UDR officers would be at the party, along with a contingent of SS guards for security.
I shouldn’t be anywhere near here, I thought. So I took a sharp left and cut through an alley that dumped me onto Seventeenth, which was teeming with working girls, all dressed in their best to entice partygoers.
Great.
I moved quickly through them, hoping to avoid the attention of any pimps lurking nearby, but garnering several wicked stares from the girls, as if I was there to steal their customers.
I just want to get my tea and go home, I wanted to tell them. But the look in one girl’s eyes reminded me that survival is all they care about. She couldn’t be more than fourteen and yet her fierce gaze warned me to stay away. Still, I felt guilty passing by without so much as a kind word or offer of aid. Xoey would find a way to help these girls, I thought, and she could probably do it without failing to help Lexie escape from The Rose too.
Lexie. The Rose. The rescue plan. They never leave my thoughts, no matter what else occupies my feet and hands. And now, Sam, Adam, and Paisley are in my mind with Lexie, jockeying for first place in my thoughts. It doesn’t help that I’ve heard nothing since Sam’s message insisting he join the fight. I’ve sent word to Xoey to see if she knows anything, but she’s not responding, which has me worried too. What’s going on with that girl? I miss the days when we ended them together, side by side in miserable bunks in a miserable school, but still, there for each other.
Make it through until we can be together again. All seven of us in one safe place.
That’s what Xoey asked of us when we got to Fort Unity with the Liberty Bell. So far, we’ve only managed to pull even farther apart.
I finally got to the Hong Kong Tea House, bowing at whatever Mr. Liu y
elled at me in angry Chinese as I grabbed the tea and ducked out the door. I then headed west several blocks through unfamiliar skyscrapers that suddenly gave way to crumbling ruins under an abandoned highway I didn’t even know existed. I looked to the north and south, where most of the concrete pillars that once held the freeway in place now reached into empty sky—twisted rebar and crumbling concrete all that remained of the road millions of ancient cars once traveled. Some sections were still in place, odd plateaus serving no purpose, yet still there, like monuments to the age of fossil fuel.
I spotted the ballpark to the north and decided it would make a good shortcut. Now I am dodging puddles and zigzagging from overpasses to awnings as the rain falls in earnest and I try to make my way back to Chen’s.
There’s not much chance of me beating Reed home now. He’ll be worried, and probably mad at me for going out alone, even though I’ve told him over and over that I refuse to cower inside just because a couple of thugs got the best of me one night. I imagine how he’ll respond, then what I’ll say next. It’s a full-blown argument in my head before it’s even happened, but my anger feels real enough.
It’s something I struggle with every day.
Reed has been working at The Rose for more than a month now and it feels like we are no closer to getting Lexie out than when we first got to Slick. Okay, I’ll admit that’s an exaggeration. He finally saw her, after all. She’s alive, I tell myself, and that’s more than we knew a month ago.
Of course he couldn’t take a risk and speak to Lexie that first night, not with that goon, Ogas, sitting there, ogling my sister. But it’s disappointing all the same, especially since he’s had no opportunities to be near her since.
The kitchen staff is not allowed near the escorts. No exceptions. Mr. Bell has bouncers lurking in the dark corners all evening, watching for signs of anything out of the ordinary. Even if Reed passes her in the salon, speaking to her would get him fired immediately, so how’s he supposed to show her the cat pin? And even if he does, how’s she supposed to respond?
Reed says the escorts are housed in a dormitory just north of the salon in what was once a religious school. There are locks and alarms on the doors, along with security guards who always accompany the escorts to and from the main building. I picture old classrooms filled with bunks like we had at the House, but until we can talk to someone who’s been inside, we can’t draw up floorplans, which forces us to execute Lexie’s escape from the rooms Reed can see: the kitchen and salon. But does that even make sense, when those are the areas with the most traffic—the most opportunities to get caught?
I get buried under these details, while Reed does a good job of focusing on the moment at hand. “One step at a time, Riley.” He says that a lot. The trouble is, my mind is already five miles ahead and no matter which direction it wanders, every road leads to disaster.
At the top of my list of worries is this one: What if Reed gets caught? Every day he passes through the UDR gate twice. Twice! If Clyde Ferdinand isn’t actually dead, and he ever decides to step back in a Cit-Track zone, Reed’s cover will be blown, and he’ll be arrested on the spot.
Worrying about this has become my primary occupation, but Reed doesn’t take it seriously, which is infuriating since he says he’s constantly worrying about me now, ever since my near abduction by human traffickers.
“How can you not see it’s the same thing?” I asked him.
“Because it’s not!”
“We could revisit the idea of me joining the cleaning staff at The Rose,” I said. “Then we’d be near each other, keeping an eye out for each other.”
“No, Riley.”
“The other cleaning ladies don’t get targeted,” I argued. “You said so yourself.”
“They are old ladies, Riley! So old, I’m surprised they’re still working. You would get dragged into escort service on day one!”
I laughed. “I’m not pretty like Lexie, Reed. And if I cut my hair weird or—”
He snorted. “You are pretty… I’ve seen you bald and you were still beautiful, so don’t give me that.”
Reed thinks I’m beautiful? I turned toward the window so he couldn’t see me blush.
Reed sighed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s frustrating, but we have to be patient. We have to follow our plan—or at least work on a new one rationally.”
I whipped around, angry again. “Are you saying I’m irrational?”
And that was the start of another fight.
Lately when Reed comes home, dirty and tired after a long shift, he has this wary look on his face. Don’t be grumpy tonight, his expression begs me. Sometimes it makes me feel guilty; other times it makes me angry. It’s not fair and I know it, but I’m bored and restless, working for Chen, studying our drawings, reading books, and pacing a hole in our thin rug while I wait for Reed. Something has to change, but I don’t know how to make it happen. And I’m getting tired of having no control over any of this.
But Reed’s doing his best. He didn’t have to come with you. He didn’t have to take this horrible job and risk detection twice a day, so cut him some slack.
As I turn the corner and see Chen’s Tea Shop in the distance, I heave a little sigh of relief and make a promise to myself. I will be more cheerful tonight, no matter what Reed says—no matter how grouchy he is about me being out in the city by myself after dark. I won’t start harping on him the moment he walks through the door either, asking a million questions or blaming him for stuff he has no control over.
Satisfied with my resolution, I step off a curb, ready to dart to the next awning. That’s when someone grabs me, his gloved hand over my mouth as he lifts me completely off the ground.
No! Not again!
I kick the air and try to twist out of his grasp, but I only manage to drop Chen’s bag of tea in a puddle. Rain makes my skin slick, which should help me wriggle away, but he’s stronger than he looks, with stringy arms and a long neck covered in low-quality tattoos.
Help!
I try to scream but his glove is mashed against my teeth, cutting off all sound. No one is nearby anyway, and the alley is shrouded in long shadows. I can’t believe this is happening again—only this time it feels worse. My attacker is silent as he swiftly passes through the shadows, and nothing I do to resist his strong arms is doing any good.
I am going to disappear, just like so many other girls—not to work on Seventeenth Street or in The Rose—but sold as a private slave to some privileged person who answers to no one.
Reed!
Oh, no, Reed! He’ll never know what happened to me!
My anger surges but does nothing to help me resist. My kidnapper carries me down the alley with little effort, all while I vainly struggle against him. There’s a transport waiting at the end, next to a dumpster. Once we are inside it, there will be no chance to escape.
I need to get away from him now!
I resist with every muscle, with my knees and elbows, my fingers, my teeth, constantly twisting and banging against him. He barely responds. He must be used to this kind of struggle. My terror deepens.
The sound of metal scraping against metal above my head would not have caught my attention if it wasn’t immediately followed by someone dropping on top of us. We all crumple to the asphalt in a painful tangle of arms and legs. My hip strikes the ground with enough force to make me cry out. My ankle twists under my captor. He releases his grip on me, turning his attention to the other person, who is now pulling away just enough to deliver two swift kicks to my captor’s head. I can make out his face now, and his familiar form, despite the darkness of the alley.
Reed!
I take advantage of the moment, wrenching my arms out from under my kidnapper’s heavy torso and wiggling, trying desperately to gain traction on the wet pavement. I twist until I am on my stomach, then grip the ground with my hands, pulling myself away inch by inch while he and Reed struggle. Finally I tug hard enough to free myself and jump to my feet. Then I kick the man
as hard as I can in the ribs. When this doesn’t stop him, I stomp on his hand until he has no choice but to reach for me with the other, releasing his grip on Reed.
“You little—”
I interrupt his insult, my anger finally outweighing my terror. Before I realize what I’ve done, I’m on top of him, pummeling his face with my fists.
“Don’t…you…ever…come…near me…again!”
“Alright, Riley! Alright! That’s enough!”
Reed is pulling me backward and I let him, because he’s right. The thug who grabbed me isn’t exactly unconscious, but he’s groaning and lying still enough to allow Reed and me to escape. My ankle throbs painfully as we turn and run back down the alley. Reed notices and puts his arm around my waist, supporting me much like I supported him when he was feverish in the forest. Before I know it, we are back at our hotel, climbing stairs, limping down the hall, then closing the door to all the dangers of RZ life.
“Here.” Reed tugs on the sleeves of my jacket until he peels it off and drops it on the floor. He wraps a towel around my shoulders. “You’re shaking.” There’s an edge to his voice. He’s shaking too.
“Don’t yell at me,” I say.
“I’m not.”
“Your voice is angry.”
My trembling is getting worse. He starts rubbing my hands between his and lowers his voice, but still seems determined to argue. “Why would I yell at you?”
“Because you think it’s dangerous for me to be out in the city alone.”
“It is. Clearly.”
“Don’t start.”
He lets go of my hands, pushes his through rain-splattered hair and raises his voice again. “Riley, I don’t—”
“I said don’t yell at me!”
My voice sounds shrill and loud. Water from my hair is dripping on my face, but I’m crying too, I realize.
“Come on,” Reed says softly, trying to lead me to the bed. “You’re in shock. Sit down.”
Weeping Justice Page 24
