Going Rogue

by Robin Benway

  I reached across her and opened up the car door. “We’re going underneath the Waldorf Astoria,” I told her. “C’mon.”

  The driver—Markus, I later found out—stood next to the door as we climbed out, one hand concealed under his coat and his eyes looking not at us but at everyone milling around the streets. Jesse started to climb out of the car, then saw Markus and stopped. “Maybe we should wait here?” he said, but I shook my head and gently shoved him out the door.

  “I’m not letting either of you out of my sight,” I told him. “And I think you’ll want to see this.”

  Markus shut the door behind me once I climbed out, then led us over to two huge silver doors on Fiftieth Street. “What is this, the kitchen entrance?” Roux asked, craning her neck to look up at the building.

  Markus and I glanced at each other.

  “It’s part of Grand Central Station,” I told her, digging around in my bag for my tools. “How hard are these locks, Markus?”

  “Wait, Grand Central is that way,” Roux said, pointing down the street. “This is a hotel. This is not a train station.”

  “And there’s only sixty platforms there, not sixty-one,” Jesse added.

  I paused. “Why do you two know so much about Grand Central?”

  Roux ignored my question. “What are we doing here, Maggie?”

  I sighed as I looked back at her and Jesse, both of them very apprehensive and very scared. It was hard to blame them when I felt the exact same way.

  “This is our secret hiding place,” I told them, then winced. “Wow, that sounds so lame. This is where we keep documents.”

  “Documents,” Jesse repeated, like he was having trouble understanding the word.

  “Clock’s ticking,” Markus muttered under his breath. He was right, we could discuss this later.

  “Just trust me,” I told them. “Okay? Please?”

  “Okay,” Roux said, and Jesse nodded at me. I could see in their eyes that I hadn’t lost them, that they weren’t going anywhere without me.

  “Tick tock, tick tock!” Markus yelled.

  “All right!” I cried, then took a deep breath. “Everybody look cool for the next thirty seconds.”

  It only took me twenty seconds to jimmy the lock open, though, which felt even better than it normally did. It was the one thing I really knew how to do well, and in a night of absolute chaos and terror, it was a small comfort to break into something.

  Even if that something happened to be Grand Central Station.

  “C’mon,” I said, opening the door. There was a set of stairs, the light so faint that it took me the entire flight for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  “Where the hell are we?” Jesse asked.

  “It’s a secret platform,” I said, feeling my way along the wall as we rounded a corner. I hadn’t been down here in nearly five years, back when Angelo first brought me and explained the importance of the location, but I hadn’t forgotten it. You don’t forget something like that. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt had used it when he came to New York City so he could hide the fact that he had polio.” I pointed across the musty tracks to an old train car. “That was his.”

  Both Jesse and Roux looked amazed and I took advantage of the situation. “That’s the elevator he used,” I told them. “It goes all the way up into the Waldorf Astoria. He didn’t want anyone to know that he needed to use a wheelchair, so they created this for him instead.”

  “Politics.” Markus shrugged.

  Roux silently fist-bumped him.

  “Can you help me?” I asked Jesse, and he followed me across the tracks to the other side of the train while Roux and Markus waited at the edge of the platform. There were tiny scurrying sounds all around us, the rats no doubt uprooted by our arrival and all the construction, and I watched my step as we walked, not especially eager to step on something with rabies and a short temper.

  The second we were on the other side of the train, I turned and grabbed Jesse’s hands. “You’re okay?” I asked. “I mean, I know you got cut, but you’re not hurt hurt, right?”

  “I-I’m fine,” he stammered. “I mean, not fine fine, but yeah. No major damage. You okay?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to talk. That syrupy burning feeling in my stomach was still there, but there was no way I could give in to it now. It would consume me if I wasn’t careful.

  “Mags?” Jesse’s voice was softer now and he carefully put his hands on my shoulders. “You sure?”

  I shook my head, then took a deep breath and covered his hands with mine. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” I said. “It was such a stupid fight, I was stressed and tired and I’m sorry for putting you in danger and—”

  Jesse cut me off with a kiss. His mouth was warm and familiar, and I felt myself start to give in to the terror that was racing through me. It would be so easy to stay here, hidden from everything I didn’t know and couldn’t yet understand, hiding with him and Roux and—

  “TICKTOCK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

  “Oh, leave them alone,” I heard Roux say. “We almost got killed tonight. At least let them make out for a minute.”

  I pulled away from Jesse and took a deep breath as he did the same. “Not now,” I whispered. “I just wanted you to know that I was sorry. I didn’t know this would happen.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered back. “I’m glad we’re together, all right? It’s you and me now. And Roux, too. You’re going to figure this out and we’re going to help you. That’s what we do, right?” He tried to smile, but it was clear that neither of us was in a smiling mood.

  Still, it was both the best and the worst thing he could have said, and I bit my lip and nodded. “Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s find those documents.”

  Jesse nodded, then kissed me again before taking my hand and helping me up into the train.

  It was so dark and dusty that I sneezed three times (“Bless you!” I heard Roux call) before my hand closed on a manila folder, grimy from construction dust and underground soot. It was thick, thicker than I thought it would be. I grabbed the folder and took Jesse’s hand so he could help me off the train. A passport fell out and he stooped to pick it up.

  “Oh,” he said, his voice a little strangled. “Oh, this is … wow. Okay.”

  “What?” I asked, and he held out the passport to me.

  It had his picture, the same one that was on his school ID, but it had been Photoshopped to look like a standard passport photo. “Andrew Meyers” it read, along with a fake birth date and “New York, New York” as his place of birth.

  I should have known. Angelo said that he wouldn’t let anything happen to me, Jesse, or Roux. This was his rainy day stash. “Welcome to the world of international espionage,” I told Jesse, then handed it back to him.

  “Did Angelo do this?” he asked, shoving the passport in his back pocket.

  “Yes, so don’t worry, it’s the best.” I took mine, glancing briefly at the name—Katherine Randall—then handed Jesse his matching birth certificate.

  “What’d we find?” Roux asked, gingerly walking over the train tracks to our side. “Markus is super pushy,” she muttered under her breath once she was close enough. “He’s making me want a cigarette. This whole night is making me want a cigarette.”

  “Dream on,” I told her, then gave her her passport. She flipped it open, her eyes widening in surprise. “How did Angelo get this?” she asked, pointing at her picture.

  “I don’t ask a lot of questions about how Angelo does anything,” I replied, then gave her her brand-new birth certificate. “You probably shouldn’t, either.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  “What’s your name?” Jesse asked her.

  “My name? Oh, my naaaaame. Um … Margaux Ellis.” Roux thought about it for a few seconds, then smiled to herself. “X marks the spot. Angelo gets me.”

  I knew we were all bantering to keep the night’s sheer horror from seeping into our little circle, and I was grateful fo
r it. Anything that kept the panic of realizing that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing was fine by me.

  “Um, Mags?” Roux asked. She was already starting to nervously crease her birth certificate in half. “Why do we need passports? Why don’t we just have IDs?” Jesse nodded in agreement next to her.

  “Because,” I told them, turning to walk back to Markus, “we’re going to Paris.”

  Chapter 24

  Roux was beside herself. “Paris?” she cried as we climbed back up the stairs. “Paris, France, right?”

  “Do you know of another one?” I asked, hanging on to the railing as Markus said, “Hurry up, hurry up.”

  “Paris, Texas,” Roux shot back.

  “There’s a Paris in Vegas,” Jesse added. “And probably more. We could wikipedia—”

  “It’s Paris, France,” I interrupted. “When did you two turn into gigantic geography buffs?”

  “Well, I did win the geography bee in fourth grade,” Roux said, her breath a little short as Markus urged us to go faster. “I don’t want to brag or anything, but yeah.”

  Jesse snorted in response but didn’t say anything and ignored the dirty look that Roux gave him.

  Once we were back in the car, though, Markus continued his daredevil tour of Manhattan. Our conversation died down, and I felt the panic start to creep back in small doses. “Markus?” I asked, leaning forward over the seat. “My parents are coming with us, right?”

  “No idea,” he said. “My job is to get you three to the airport. That’s it.”

  I sank back against the leather seat, feeling deflated.

  “What about Angelo?” Roux asked. The streetlight lit her face every few seconds or so, and I could tell that she was trying very hard to keep the uneasiness at bay.

  “See previous answer,” Markus told her.

  “Can I ask a question?” Jesse said, raising his hand like we were in school. “Why Paris?”

  “Angelo gave me an address a few weeks ago,” I said, twisting a loose thread from my shirt around my fingertip. The blood started to pulse, making me feel a little better, like I wasn’t dead yet. “He told me to memorize it. He said to go there if anything happened.”

  “Did you know that this was going to happen?” Jesse asked.

  “I knew that it was more dangerous than I expected,” I admitted. “But I thought that if I found what I was looking for, then we would be okay.”

  “And did you find what you were looking for?” Roux’s voice was tight and I knew she was thinking about how she and I had researched the Fabergé eggs.

  “Yes,” I admitted, hesitant to say too much about the coins. As of right now, Angelo, Dominic, my parents, and I were the only ones who knew I had them, and until I knew who to trust, it would stay that way. “I can’t say what I found,” I added quickly, “but I found it.”

  “And is that why a bunch of men just tried to shoot at us and blew up the loft?” Roux asked.

  “Very possibly,” I said. “Very, very possibly. Yes.”

  Jesse let out a low whistle and then slumped down in his seat. “So this thing you found, do you still have it?”

  I nodded just as we passed under a streetlight, now cruising through Queens on the way to JFK International Airport. “I do. I need it. I can’t let go of it. It’s what will help my parents prove that they’re not guilty.” Even as I said the sentence, though, I knew it wasn’t true. This new Collective didn’t care if I had the coins or not. They just wanted to gain power, and the more I was around, the less chance there was of that happening.

  A huge rush of energy hit me when I realized that. Screw them, I thought. The Collective was my family, my home, not theirs. It had introduced me to Angelo, Roux, and Jesse. I wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from me.

  Not without a fight, at least.

  “Listen,” I said, leaning forward so I could talk to Roux and Jesse. “I trust Angelo with my life. He told me the other day that he would never let anything happen to me or to either of you, and I believe him. So if I trust him, then you have to trust me, okay?”

  “Okay,” Roux said. It was as if I had asked her to borrow her history notes or something, she agreed so easily. (Not that she ever takes notes in history, though. Or math. Or any class ever.)

  “Do you even know where we’re going?” Jesse asked. “I mean, besides just an address.”

  I shook my head. “We never know. This is how a job works, and now you’re working with me.” Just saying it out loud made me feel better. “We did it before, right? We can do it again.”

  Underneath the streetlight, I saw Roux’s face break into a cautious smile. “Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured. “If that’s not the truth.”

  “No kidding,” I replied, remembering Angelo’s words from a few days before, then held on to the armrest as Markus made a huge swerve into the British Airways terminal at JFK.

  “I thought you said we were going to Paris,” Roux said, looking out of the tinted window. “Not London.” Then she looked at me. “Is Paris code for London or something? Is there a whole list of words we should know? Is there a secret signal?”

  “You are going to Paris,” Markus said, screeching to a halt and forcing all of us to hang on to something to keep from flying forward. “Our journey has come to an end. Everybody out.”

  “Thank God,” Jesse muttered. “Who taught this guy how to drive?”

  “Well, we don’t exactly get our licenses from the DMV,” I told him as Markus got out of the driver’s seat and came around to open our door. Again, he stood next to us, one hand placed protectively to his hip as we climbed out.

  It looked like a normal airplane terminal, travelers milling around with overstuffed suitcases, the smell of exhaust and jet fuel heavy in the air. I wondered how Markus knew who was a friend and who was a foe, then decided that I didn’t want to know. If Angelo had put us in his hands, then he had a reason. (Bad driving abilities aside, of course.)

  Roux hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder, holding her new passport. “You’re coming with us?” she asked Markus, and I could tell from her voice that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with the possibility.

  He shook his head and pointed toward the check-in desk. “They’ll take care of you from here,” he said, then shook hands with Roux and Jesse. When he got to me, he put his hand on my shoulder. “I know you don’t feel like it,” he said quietly, “but you’ve done a wonderful job tonight.”

  I felt tears rushing up, and I stuffed them back down just as fast. There was no time to break down. “You’re right,” I told him. “It doesn’t feel that way at all.” I glanced over at Roux, who was running her fingers through her hair. Two tiny bits of glass fell and bounced onto the curb. “Ugh, lovely,” I heard her say.

  Markus just shrugged. “What, did you think this was going to be easy?”

  He had, unfortunately, an excellent point.

  Jesse walked through the sliding glass doors first, followed by Roux and me. “So long, crazy driver,” Roux said as Markus peeled away from the curb. “I hope he has a first aid kit in his car.”

  “Where are we going, Mags?” Jesse asked as we looked at the check-in desk. “Do we have tickets?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “Maybe in our bags? I don’t—”

  “This way, please!” a voice called, and I looked up to see a flight attendant beckoning us to the first-class check-in desk. She looked familiar, so familiar that I couldn’t take a step until I could place her face.

  “Thank you, Zelda,” my mom had said.

  Zelda. The Collective had tried to turn her, too. I wondered if she had suffered the same way that Markus had, suddenly a citizen with no country.

  “I know her,” I whispered. She was the flight attendant that had accompanied my parents and me from Reykjavík to New York last year. At the time, I had been so ready for Manhattan, ready to leave beautiful and boring Iceland and land in a city that offered nonstop excitement. I had been read
y for something to happen, and as I looked at Zelda and saw the recognition in her eyes, as well, I realized that I had been so, so stupid.

  “This way!” she called again, her voice brisk and efficient. Roux glanced at me and I nodded, leading our little ragged group over to her.

  “You’re taller,” Zelda said to me by way of greeting, but I could tell that it was something she said because she thought she should, not because it was the truth.

  “You know each other?” Roux asked, but Jesse elbowed her in the arm and she stopped talking, but not before elbowing him right back. “Watch it,” she muttered, rubbing her arm.

  “Passports,” Zelda commanded, and the three of us handed them over. I got the distinct feeling that no one ever directly disobeyed Zelda. At least, no one who lived to tell about it.

  “Do you know where my parents are?” I whispered to her. There was no need, though. There was hardly anyone nearby and certainly no one close enough to wonder why I was asking a flight attendant about my parents’ location. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to raise my voice. The question was scary, but not as scary as the potential answer.

  “My job is you, not them,” she replied, but her voice was a bit kinder this time. “Angelo does such excellent work.” She scanned my passport with a satisfied nod. “The man’s an artist.”

  “Do you know where he is, at least?” I asked, but Zelda just shook her head again as she scanned Roux’s and Jesse’s passports, then printed out our boarding passes. “Follow me,” she said, and we did only because we had nowhere else to go.

  She led us through the maze of JFK and into the hustle and bustle of airport security. Her heels clicked on the floor almost like she was firing warning shots with every step, and I noticed a few security guards following behind us, bringing up the rear. Roux and Jesse were both glancing nervously at them, but I knew they were working with Zelda. Otherwise, there was no way she would have let them be so close to us. I had no dossier to tell me where to go, what to do, who to be. All I had was my training and instincts.