by Ellery Kane
“No way. I’m not leaving you.”
“I’ll be safer here,” he insisted. “You can handle this. I trust you, remember?”
I put my hand on his knee, keeping my focus there. “Stay down, okay?” I was afraid to raise my eyes to his. Afraid of what I would find there, afraid I couldn’t turn away, afraid that look would be the last. My breath caught in my throat making a small, pitiful noise.
“Alright, alright,” String said, shaking his head at us, exasperated. “I can’t take any more of this star-crossed-lovers bit. Here.” He produced a tiny key from inside his vest and freed Quin’s hands. I raised my eyebrows at String, and he shrugged.
Shaking his head, Quin rubbed his wrists. “I knew Augustus didn’t spring those cuffs by himself.”
With fresh hope, I signaled to Elana. “One … two … three!” This time we both angled beneath the car and the General fell, clutching his knee. Our small army advanced on Xander, but there was another army gaining ground. A platoon of masked soldiers was running past the checkpoint toward us. The row of motorcycles parted, allowing them entry as Xander ran zigzag down the freeway. Just before I ducked behind the hood of the red convertible, a bullet—not ours—pierced his side and he fell.
“Where did that come from?” I asked, doing a low spin around on my heels. Another shot. Xander’s body writhed, then went still. Valkov fired at us from behind the trunk of the car. I couldn’t see him or General Maze, but I could hear his raspy, growl of a voice.
“If anybody’s gonna blow, it ain’t gonna be me.”
“Well it’s not gonna be us either, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Max retorted, pinging a few shots off the concrete.
“Don’t be so sure about that,” General Maze shouted as the soldiers’ boots and the rumble of a military jeep announced their imminent arrival. Several of them stopped to attend to Xander. The general paused there too, removing something from Xander’s pocket. Don’t be so sure about that. I couldn’t shake those words. They stuck like burrs in my brain. The other soldiers pressed on—and I could already smell it. Lilac. Forced surrender and whatever came after. It reminded me of the fog, the way it rolled in, white and wet.
“Cover your face,” I said. I stretched my T-shirt over my nose and mouth, but the odor was overwhelming. I dove into the passenger seat of the red convertible, averting my eyes from the mangled driver. The dead soldier draped across the door was still warm. I unclasped the mask from his face and secured it on my own. My breathing sounded unfamiliar, unnatural inside it. Quin did the same, affixing a mask discarded in the melee. Max, Elana, and String hadn’t covered in time. They were sitting quietly with their backs to the car watching the commotion. Langley and the detective fared no better.
“What now?” I asked. I sounded like a robot, my voice dead-ending inside the mask. I watched Quin’s back, waiting for him to turn and answer me. Behind him, Valkov limped to the waiting jeep, repeating an artificial thank you, thank you, thank you to the two soldiers offering him their shoulders. General Maze followed, his face protected by a camouflage rag.
“Quin?” Finally, he faced me. I staggered backwards, horrified by the small crack in the mask’s plastic—like a fissure in a lake of ice—and his stupefied smile.
“I’m going to rest for a while,” he murmured. “Fighting is exhausting. Can’t we all just get along?” I started to argue, but I knew it was futile. As he joined the others, I watched the jeep drive deeper into the chemical cloud until I couldn’t see it anymore. Like thunder came the rolling rumble of Satan’s Syndicate speeding away. They’re all leaving us. They’re leaving us here to die.
On the pavement to my right, the foil blanket covered two shapes. To come out now would render Edison and his father just as useless. I was utterly alone. I crawled into the backseat, scooting around Emma’s body to examine the open trunk. A brittle sound from my throat reverberated inside the mask. I had never seen a bomb before. More rudimentary than I’d expected, its simplicity was menacing. Just like the General’s cryptic threat. Don’t be so sure about that.
And that’s when I noticed.
Emma.
Colton.
Their faces masked. Not dead. Very much alive.
Buzzing from their earpieces, General Maze’s voice. “Stay low. Keep your mask on. Await further instruction. Stay low. Keep your mask on. Await further instruction. If necessary, activate the alternate detonator. If anyone approaches—”
I snatched the mic from Emma’s ear, then Colton’s—pushing them aside—then from the other soldiers piled beneath them. I slammed my foot down onto the floorboard, smashing the tiny buds like insects.
“Edison!” I stepped out of the car, took off my jacket and waved it wildly, clearing a space in the Docil-E fog. Under the blanket, movement. There wasn’t much time now. Each second passed with the promise of obliteration. I raised my mask and yelled again. “There are two bombs! Maze has one of the detonators. As soon as they get far enough away, he’s going to push it. We have to drive both cars off the bridge.” It sounded completely insane. Like something Quin would say. Or worse—my mother.
Edison lifted his cover a little, looking out at me with shell-shocked eyes. “My dad.” That was all he said. When he stood, I saw a small pool of blood forming under Mr. Van Sant.
“Go get in the other car,” I directed him, surprised at the ice in my tone.
“Lex, I can’t do it. The bridge—I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You have to.” More seconds passed, and we were—one thousand, one thousand two, one thousand three—closer to death. I held the car door open. “Emma!” She raised her eyes to mine, then lowered them in submission. “Give me your mask and get out.” She complied, passing it to me with a sweet smile. If only she was always this way.
“Colton! Out of the car!” He joined Emma and they watched me, waiting. “Out! All of you!” Two other soldiers filed out behind him. The fifth lay face down, unmoving, his jacket pierced with bullet holes.
I passed Emma’s mask to Edison. “Put this on.” He snapped it in place and stood up. I pointed to the spot where the edge of the road ended, and the clear sky began, the spot just before the guardrails. “Floor it and jump out,” I told him as he marched somber toward Quin’s sports car—like he was walking the plank.
I took a last look down the freeway ramp, toward the checkpoint. Three shapes. Three gut-wrenching shapes. Artos was running full speed toward us, my dad and Carrie at his heels. I should’ve known. Bill Knightley, the journalist, could never resist the lure of the story.
“No! Go back!” I screamed, but my protest was muffled. My heart—and everything else—seemed on the brink of explosion. I could hardly stand it.
“What?” my father yelled back, running faster. I opened my mouth and closed it again. There was no time to explain. I fished the keys off the floorboard and started the engine. Edison was already in the driver’s seat, his ragged breath fogging his mask.
“Floor it and jump out,” I reminded myself, like it was that easy. Who am I? I was about to drive a car off a bridge. I was my mother’s daughter after all. I closed my eyes and pictured her face the day I took that impossible walk away from her into the fog. I heard her voice. I’m so proud of you, my girl.
I raised one finger …
Two fingers …
Then three …
And floored it.
CHAPTER SIXTY - EIGHT :
EDITED FOR CONTENT
“And then I said Floor it, Lex! And as soon as I could see the water, I jumped like this!” Edison sprung from his seat into the air and did a clumsy pirouette, landing on all fours. “And boom!” That car exploded behind me like a stick of dynamite. It even singed me a little. But I kept going for my dad.” Mr. Van Sant pumped his fist from his leather armchair, where he sat with his wounded leg propped. “I carried him all the way to the ambulance. I owned that bridge.” Nearly a month later and Edison was still retelling the tale every chance he got—edited
for content, of course.
Max chuckled. “And to think, you did it all in your boxers.”
“You gotta do, what you gotta do,” Edison replied, winking at Elana.
“Wow. That’s some story.” Mr. McAllister grinned across the Van Sant’s antique coffee table at Edison, then turned to me. “Is that really what happened, Alexandra?”
“More or less.” My proud father put his arm around my shoulder. Langley’s special report—Zenigenic CEO By Day, Terrorist By Night—had topped five million views and landed Eyes on the Bay the first non-government sponsored television slot in years. She was in Washington D.C. covering a special hearing on Zenigenic’s suspected involvement in the 2037 bombings. With Xander dead and Zenigenic defunct, justice seemed too little, too late. But for the government, late always meant right on time.
Quin nudged me with his elbow and pretended to whisper a secret, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “I think String’s rubbing off on Eddie a little. You can really only trust about half of what he says.”
“Hey,” String feigned insult. “That’s completely, absolutely, one hundred percent … sort of true.”
Mr. McAllister chuckled. “Well I’m glad the judge bought the half about me being innocent.” I squeezed Quin’s hand, and he squeezed mine back.
“Me too,” String replied. “That little nugget was my bargaining chip, my ticket to freedom from an orange jumpsuit. And believe me, orange is not my color.” He laughed a little, then sobered as he faced Mr. McAllister. “I know I’ve said it before, but I apologize—”
Mr. McAllister extended his hand to String. “No hard feelings. If you hadn’t been following me, you never would’ve seen what really happened. It’s not too often you get to thank the guy who was trying to kill you for saving your life.”
“Well, when you put it that way, I guess I am a bit of a hero.”
“Okay, Augustus,” I teased. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Speak of the devil, I can’t believe you conned him and Xander,” Max said to String. He sounded equal parts repulsed and wonderstruck. “That’s impressive—in a really twisted way.”
String shrugged. “Well I did learn from the best. Jack Croft was quite a con man. He taught me—”
“Wait a second,” Elana interrupted. “You said your dad was a blue-collar guy.”
“Industrious, yes. Blue collar? Nah. He did work his fingers to the bone though. He was a masterful pickpocket. That’s why we were at the rally that day. Cleaning up.”
Mr. Van Sant’s phone beeped, interrupting me mid eye roll. “Dad!” Edison scolded him. “You promised no work tonight.”
Grinning, Mr. Van Sant snuck a glance at the text on his screen. “This isn’t work. It’s Katie.”
“Oh! Kaaaa-tie.” Edison teased. “Is that what we’re calling her now?”
From his position in the corner of the room, Scooter chuckled. “Barry—may he rest in peace—always did say you had a little thing for her.”
Splotches of red began to crawl up Mr. Van Sant’s neck. As he put it, he and Detective Brewster had become better acquainted in the hospital, recovering from their gunshot wounds. Edison snickered. “So what did she say, big guy?”
“Son, you’re walking a fine line.” His voice was stern, but his eyes were bright. “It’s the ballistics report from the autopsy. Alexandra, you were right. The bullets they removed from Xander’s body are a probable match for that missing sniper rifle.”
“Looks like Augustus got the last word after all,” String said.
I nodded. “Doesn’t he always? You know what I can’t figure out though? Why did he settle for $250,000? It seems pretty unambitious for a free bird.”
String guffawed. “Two hundred and fifty thousand? Are you kidding? He had way more than that. That was one of the first things he told me when I started working for him again after you found him on that boat. He wanted a nest egg—and he wanted Xander to fund it. I was siphoning off stacks of cash every week from Zenigenic’s illegal EAM sales and hiding it in that disgusting tunnel. He left here with at least two million. Half of which was supposed to be mine … ”
String put his arm around Max. It lingered there for a less than a second before Max shoved him off. “But I’m sort of glad Augustus bailed on me. Aside from my brother, you guys are the closest thing to family I’ve got.”
“So we’re third in line behind Augustus?”
String winked at me. “Now that he’s out of the picture, you’re a solid number two. In fact, I haven’t felt this happy in a long time. I just wish I could bottle it.”
“Already been done,” Edison joked.
Quin pointed at the television. “Turn that up, Mr. Van Sant.”
On the screen, Zenigenic’s headquarters backdropped a somber Barbara Blake.
“Today marks a painful milestone for the San Francisco Bay Area as Zenigenic Corporation closes its doors. In the wake of CEO Xander Steele’s tragic death, Zenigenic has faced significant financial hardship. Pending an extensive government investigation, the company has ceased business operations.
The announcement also falls on the heels of a wrongful death suit filed by the family of Peter Radley. Radley’s mother alleges that her son—as a member of the Guardian Force Elite—was forcibly administered illegal EAMs while carrying out missions favorable to Zenigenic, including a staged assassination attempt to boost the company’s approval ratings. This morning, interim CEO Gwendolyn Steele issued the following exclusive statement for our viewers.
“‘How do you want to feel today? That question has served as our slogan since this historic company began its groundbreaking mission in 2030. At Zenigenic, we have always strived to make our customers’ lives better. With Emovere, we delivered mastery over fear—with Euphoractamine, limitless joy. It was my son’s hope Docil-E would make our world a kinder place. Unfortunately, our world is anything but kind. He was shot in cold blood by an unknown assassin, likely a member of the New Resistance. So how do I want to feel? Today, I simply desire peace. Some of you may have heard rumors about my son and my late husband. I can assure you those are nothing but vicious lies concocted by Zenigenic’s enemies to sully our good name. Rest assured, this great company will rise again, better, stronger—’”
Then came the knock at the door we were all waiting for. With his best hello bark, Artos bounded over, ready to lead the welcome wagon. “It’s them,” I said, as Mr. Van Sant muted the television.
I could see Emma looking in through the side window, her new tattoo visible on her collarbone. A stick of dynamite and the words the bomb. The girl was clever—I had to give her that. I was surprised she’d agreed to accompany Colton back to the rehabilitation program for detox and counseling. And even more surprised Carrie agreed to pick them up there this morning. “Eventually, we all have to stop running,” she’d said. “If I don’t stop now, I never will.”
Over Emma’s shoulder, a face both familiar and new. “I’ll get it.” I was on my feet, halfway to the door when Mr. McAllister’s chair scraped the floor in protest. Even as he stood, his hands shook. He seemed to be walking a tightrope—one side, tears … the other, laughter. My eyes met Quin’s with complete understanding as his father spoke.
“Let me.”
EPILOGUE
I read our poem aloud to her from her book, the one she gave me, the one she taught me to love. Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Walking the endless rows to the stone that was hers—Quin’s hand embracing mine and my father trailing behind us—those words beat as true as my own heart. She’d been gone two years today, but it was the first time I’d come here. To Fernwood, the place where my mother was buried.
There was a picture in my pocket, a picture that asked unanswerable questions but demanded answers nonetheless. How could you kill someone you loved? Did you love her? I’d written those words to General Jamison Ryker after he’d refused my visit at Larkhill Federal Penitentiary.
I wasn’t expecting a reply, not after he’d been sentenced to an additional fifteen years for his involvement in illegal sales of EAMs. In exchange for leniency, Valkov talked and talked and talked. He revealed Ryker’s plan to escape prison—Docil-E in the air ducts, and he’d walk right out. Xander’s sights on world domination—bombs to explode in nine major cities after San Francisco. And his scheme to use the Legacies—Colton, Emma, Quin, any soldier at risk for the Prophecy gene—to pin it all on the New Resistance. Valkov even confessed to Shelly’s murder.
How could you kill someone you loved? I’d saved it for the end, hoping to leave Ryker with something that would burn, a lit match to the center of his chest. Sitting here, her book in my hand, her bones under my feet, it wasn’t my question after all. Who were you really? Sometimes the sharp teeth of those words gnawing in my head were so persistent I wanted to scream them. The worst questions—the ones that drive you mad—are the ones you have to answer for yourself.
I’d lost count of all the things I didn’t know. Why did my mother stay so long at Zenigenic? Maybe she had made a deal—sold her soul—to protect me, the way she did for Quin. Maybe the punishing whip of her own ambition drove her. Maybe she’d fallen for a man with real demons … a man who was not like my father in every way. Maybe she spent a lifetime pining for the one she let walk out the door, hoarding my father’s letters as artifacts of a love lost. For a girl who always asked why, the silence was deafening.
I felt Quin’s warmth beside me, his hand set upon my shoulder. He let me be alone, but not, which was exactly what I needed. How could you kill someone you loved? Quin knew that question by heart. It was written on the slate of his soul, and even his father’s best attempts would never erase it. The worst questions are riddles that can’t be solved. How does the sky taste? What does red sound like?
“She loved you more than anything, you know,” Quin said. There was only one thing I knew for sure about my mother. And that was it. That was enough. It had to be.
