I’ve reached the wall, but there’s literally zero escape.
The door swings open, and Tiller strides in.
I hurriedly broadcast, Sir, I can explain!
He has a helmet.
I am dead. I am so dead. My mouth hangs open as he approaches and kneels in front of me, a few feet away, hunched down in his billionaire jeans and t-shirt.
His blue eyes drill into mine.
I sputter. I should say something. “Sir, I can explain—”
“No.” The word shuts me down like a smack across the mouth. But his gaze shifts to my cheek. “Juliette tells me you put up a fight.”
“Yes, sir,” I choke out. Hope surges, and I feel like I might drown in it. How long have I been out? Long enough for Juliette to deliver our cover story. Which means I should just smile and nod and agree with whatever Tiller says, but… but why am I still penned up? Hope crashes on the rocky shore of reality when Tiller eases back and stands.
He towers over me. “But that’s not good enough, son.”
Act innocent, act innocent, act innocent. My brain blanks on what that would be. “I… I don’t understand, sir—”
“No, I imagine not.”
I’m choking on not enough air. “I tried to—”
“I know.” He curls his lip, a flash of disgust. I can’t decide if it’s aimed at me. “That’s what makes jackers pure evil, son. They steal the essence of your humanity—your free will. It’s an abomination. And I like you, Zeph, I truly do—but with your mother and sister both being infected with the jacker gene, I just can’t take the risk. Not with Juliette growing so attached.”
“The risk?” I can’t even gauge how panicked I should be. Does he still think I’m a reader?
Tiller sighs and signals the guard with a hand wave. “The risk you’ll turn, son.”
The guard whispers something into his cuff.
The light goes on in my head. “But there’s no way I’ll turn into one of them. You already tested me!” Adrenaline is surging through me, so it’s easy to sound frantic. During Tiller’s first, grueling “test” session, his personal jacker lapdog—Ethan—tried to “turn” me using his fear instinct. It was horrifying and almost gave me away.
Tiller’s eyes narrow. “A test I feel needs repeating. Unfortunately, my previous detection method is currently indisposed.”
A lie. Or close to it. Ethan’s dead—shot point-blank during the assassination attempt. Did Tiller know he was moonlighting with DARPA?
“And I need to be sure, Zeph,” Tiller is saying. “You understand. I can’t take any chances with my lovely daughter.”
I have to clamp my mouth shut. Tiller wants Juliette for his own ambitions, nothing more. He can dress it up in familial “love,” but he’s just safeguarding his genetic property—which disgusts me almost as much as his bigotry. The man is the perversion of everything good in people.
The door swings open. “Ah, good.” Tiller glances at it then turns back. “I’ve brought in some experts.”
A chill flushes through me: Wright.
Director of Jacker Technologies at DARPA. Presidential coup co-conspirator. And the woman who’s held every member of my family captive, including my father, who she still has.
She strides in with a buff military-type escort at her side. Her heels click the floor, and her gaze is just as sharp, pinning me like a bug she’s altogether pleased to have caught. I’d be tempted to kill-jack her and take my chances with Tiller, but she’s helmeted. What in all that’s holy is she doing here? She’s a reader—no way she can “detect” if I’m a hidden jacker. Or terrorize me into turning—though Wright legit scares the hell out of me.
My confusion is complete until Tiller opens his mouth again. But he’s not talking to me. “One way or another,” he says to Wright, “I want the girl. Pull whatever you must out of his memories, I need her back in my lab.”
Wright’s nearly white hair and perfectly white suit match the sterility of the room, right down to the cool look she’s giving Tiller. “She defeated your converter drones.”
“Temporarily.” Tiller almost growls it. “Don’t worry. I’ll take her apart and decode her ability… then I’ll destroy her.”
Holy crap, they’re talking about Sammi.
“When you’re done with her, she’s mine.” Wright says this like it’s non-negotiable.
Tiller grimaces. “I want her dead.”
Wright shrugs and glances at her hulking escort. “They end up that way. Eventually.”
Tiller gives the man a look, and so do I. He’s not just military-precise in his posture and obediently dull-eyed in his stare… he’s unhelmeted. I tentatively reach out with my mind, afraid of tipping him off that I’m a jacker, but when I feel the edges of his mindmap, it’s not rough and static-filled like a normal jacker. No, this guy has smooth spots. Burnt-out spots. The kind that happen when the director of DARPA has turned you into a mindless jacker weapon.
A shudder runs through me and slices pain through my wrists. I keep the yelp inside.
Tiller doesn’t notice.
I need to get a grip. This guy with the damaged mindmap… he’s just like the assassin who killed Ethan and would have killed me. That guy was relentless and mindless. A supersoldier in an empty skin suit. I wrap my mindreach around this one’s slippery mindfield, but I can’t get a hold strong enough to spin it. And even if I did, I would only out myself as a jacker.
Sweat trickles down the middle of my back.
I blink through the rage of cursing in my head and miss the fact that Tiller and Wright have negotiated some kind of compromise.
“—might take a while,” Wright’s saying.
Tiller strides out the door without looking back, taking his guard with him and leaving me with Wright and her meat drone. Tiller’s building the mechanical kind—orbs with AI jackers built in—while Wright has carved hers out of the raw material of this guy’s mind.
“Mr. MacCay.” A smile tugs at her lips, and it’s so unnatural, it sends another shudder through me. Her smile grows.
I curse myself for letting that show. Keep it cool. “What do you want?” I bite out the words. She must want something, or I’d already be dead. Or she would have told Tiller I was a jacker. Or something. Wright’s always after something.
“Everything.”
I open my mouth, but something slams into my mind. I gasp instead of speak, reflexively whipping my head back only to have it bang into the wall. Wright’s jacker drone crosses the room with unnatural precision—like he’s a bot, not a human—and he hauls me up from the floor. His face is right against mine, eye-to-eye, my wild panting breaths bouncing off his placid face and buffeting back to mine. Any closer and we’d be kissing. Or he’d be chewing through my face. Between the pressure on my head and his face crowding mine, the urge to get away is sending me into a frenzy. I struggle, my wrists scream, but he’s got me trapped in his iron grip, my hands tied behind my back, his face up against mine. I think he’s going bite me or throw me or something, but he just tips his forehead closer. With our faces mashed together like this—I’m struggling not to scream.
Then I feel it—his skin on mine, forehead to forehead, and suddenly the banging pressure on my head goes from 10 to 100.
I scream. I scream like my head’s splitting apart because it is and holy gods I’m dying make it stop make it stop—
It stops.
Curses fall out of my mouth. Wright’s drone steps back. My knees buckle, and I slump to the floor, banging hard on my knees, jolting fresh pain through my hands, but it’s nothing compared to the blessed relief of not having my head in a vise. My breathing is so ragged, I’m hyperventilating. Stars swim in front of my eyes. As I blink them clear, the man turns like he’s on parade, a comically precise movement in the middle of Tiller’s white-walled dungeon.
Wright’s heels click until they reach me.
I blearily tip my head up. I won’t survive if she does that again. I’m not sure
what her mindless jacker drone would do once inside my mindbarrier, but this is the first time in forever I’m afraid someone can actually break it.
“Just so we’re clear,” Wright says, that tight, cruel smile curving her pale lips. “I’ll get what I want. Or…” She glances back—the man is standing at attention and looking at nothing. It’s like he’s not even there. “You can try to stop him.” She peers down at me with faint amusement. “You’ve already done that once, now, haven’t you, Mr. MacCay?”
“He was trying to kill me.” On her orders, no less.
She arches a finely-manicured eyebrow.
My mouth runs dry.
But if I kill this one, Tiller will know everything. And he wants to “take apart” Sammi’s mind—I’d honestly rather have Brainless Bob break open my skull. “Why aren’t you telling Tiller about me?” I’m stalling but I legit want to know.
She squints, fine lines showing at her eyes. “You’ve done something… unexpected, Mr. MacCay. I’d hate to waste your skills on Tiller’s petty crusade. I will destroy you, without hesitation, if I must. But I’d rather put you to some good purpose.”
Wright and I do not share the same definition of good. But, strangely, I believe her—Wright is entirely concerned with what’s useful to Wright.
“Okay.” My legs are steadier, so I manage to get up from my knees and face her with a shred of dignity. “I’d like to not have my mind turned to soup.”
She barely tips her head. “Tell me how you did it.”
“Kill your jacker assassin?” I lift my chin in Brainless Bob’s direction. “I just gave it a good yank.”
She narrows her eyes. “You spun his mindmap and then performed a kill jack.”
“No.” I resist the insane urge to smirk. “Whatever you’ve done to these guys, Wright, you’ve left them fragile. Their mindfields are stripped. Slippery. Hard to get a hold of, but once I do, they can’t take it—not even a little spin. It breaks them completely.”
Her eyebrows lift, and I think I’ve genuinely surprised her. I can’t tell if it’s my frank answer or that her brutish jacker drones have a hidden vulnerability. Only to someone like me, granted, but there it is.
“How close do you have to be?” Her intensity has taken over and smothered her surprise.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve only killed the one.” I glance at Brainless Bob. He could kill me, but somehow he seems harmless. And tragic. Like a shark let loose in a swimming pool—it’s not like he asked to be here. I don’t know what Wright did to him, but I’m certain he wasn’t like this when she found him. He was a person, not an empty husk.
Now… I’m not sure what he is. But I’m not letting him touch me again.
I twist around and show Wright my bound hands. Even that small motion slices fresh pain. “Can we take off the torture cuffs?” I grind out between my teeth.
She ignores me. “Be ready when I come for you, Zeph. I’ll require your services soon.”
Services. I swallow that down like the bitter pill it is. “Just don’t blow my cover. Or I’ll be gone, and you won’t be able to find me. I can promise you that.”
She smirks. It’s like a snake slithering over my soul.
“And I want to see my dad,” I add hastily. “I know you still have him.”
Her expression falls flat. “Perhaps. Once I’ve brought you back into the fold.”
That was suspiciously easy.
“Wrap up what you have going here quickly,” she says. “And keep your mouth shut until I return.”
I’m still trying to figure out her angle on my dad, but she’s already turning to go.
Then she stops. “Oh, and that girl—the one Tiller wants. Where can I find her?”
“Under your pillow.”
She only hesitates a split second—then suddenly the crushing power of Brainless Bob’s jack ability slams into my head.
I skitter back to the wall, instinctively putting distance between us. “Okay, okay!” I grit my teeth.
It cuts off.
I glare at Wright through pain-squinted eyes. “Why do you want her?” I can’t give up Sammi to Wright or Tiller—that’s just insane. But I’m scrambling for a choice and not seeing any.
“Her ability interests me.” Wright’s voice is on the edge of a sharp precipice like I’ve got two seconds left of her patience. She obviously knows about Sammi’s jack ability—Tiller saw her fight off his drones, and he’s working with Wright. Sammi lost in the end, but it was plain to anyone who knew how the drones worked—she affected them. That could mean a few different things, but it’s a skill both Tiller and Wright would want their hands on.
Wright’s face is gathering clouds of impatience.
Her meat drone is standing by, impassive—I can’t fight him off physically, and if he gets close, it’s soup-time for my brain. My stomach is chewing itself. My freedom for Sammi’s? Who makes that choice? Who betrays their friends? This isn’t just about me—Kira’s relying on me to bring her proof of all this madness—but that’s about as comforting as it must have been to Juliette. If you betray your family or friends, does it matter that you didn’t have a choice? I’m not sure I can forgive myself, much less expect that from someone else. Like Tessa.
The only way out of a box like this is to take down the people who made it. Like Tiller. And Wright.
I clear my throat. “She’s working for MINDPRINT.” My stomach is in full rebellion. I pray Wright doesn’t discover the CEO is Sammi’s mom. They have different names. It shouldn’t be obvious. But I’m playing with fire here in every way, and I’m responsible for everyone who gets burned.
Wright nods her acknowledgment. “Then we’re done here. Let’s make it convincing, shall we?”
“Convincing—?” That overpowering mind force slams into my head again, only this time, Brainless Bob charges me with all six-foot-two of his muscle. “Wright!” I protest, bracing for the hit and trying to protect my hands.
He slams me back against the wall with one hand at my throat and the other punching my gut. I choke and grunt and struggle to break free, but he’s trying to crack open my mindbarrier again—I’m screaming and thrashing, blinded by pain and convinced I’m dying when suddenly it cuts off. He drops me, and with my bound hands, I land like wet cement, face smacking on the tile floor. My body convulses in reaction, everything screaming with pain.
I’m so dazed, I barely lift my head before Wright and her pet jacker weapon are slipping out the door. Tiller’s beyond the threshold, and I can just make out Wright’s assurance that I’m no jacker and never will be. Tiller sends his guard in after me, but I shrug him off and struggle to my feet by myself, avoiding the indignity of him scraping me off the floor.
I spool up my secondary mind and broadcast sputtering thoughts of outrage before the guard removes his helmet. Tiller strolls in, removing his.
Glad I won’t have to kill you, son. His smile is broad and friendly, but I don’t think for a second that I’m anything to him.
Me, too. My chest is still heaving from the screams. I must look like hell. Can I get these off now?
He gestures for the guard to release me, and when he does, I finally get a look at the torture cuffs. They’re just a thin wire, but the central box is black and menacing. I rub my wrists—there’s not a mark on them. Reminds me of the phantom pain jackers induce—all pain is in the mind—and now I’m wondering if the cuffs are jack-related tech, something special cooked up in Tiller’s lab of horrors. Which just affirms how bad it would be for jack abilities to land in the hands of an anti-jacker bigot.
Tiller’s phone pings, and he turns his back on us, striding out of the room and already forgetting about me. Jackhole.
I shove my way past the guard like I’m eager to get out of the room and back to Juliette, broadcasting anger all the way. A casual brush of my pocket shows, miraculously, my phone is still there.
As my long strides carry me down the hall of Tiller’s lavish private wing, I jack
into my phone and scrit Sammi.
Run.
It’s been only two days, but the walls of our prison are closing in.
Granted, it’s a rich peoples’ prison, complete with an extensive gym, Grecian-bath swimming pool, and full-sized sim-cast theater—all in the south wing with Juliette’s room—but it’s not like we can leave. The four wings ramble around the main building, lots of room to hide out, but Tiller has security at everywhere. There’s no way we can waltz out without tripping the alarm in some overeager guard’s head. Not that we need to leave… yet. But I’ve been looking for escape routes since I passed Tiller’s Are You A Hidden Mindjacker? test, and it’s not looking good. At some point, we’ll have to leave, and we might not have the luxury of taking time to figure out how.
Right now, we’re in the south wing with the fifty-foot-wide screen of the theater looming over us, flickering light across the empty plush seats and curtain-draped walls. The sim-cast is called Ten Days and Counting, and it’s an action-thriller about a kidnapped daughter. Dramatic music rises and falls as people keep running around and shooting each other, a welcome relief from two days of silence in the estate. I’m not following the sim-cast plot—we’re here to search through the footage from Juliette’s surveillance. The theater gets us close enough to her lab in the northeast wing to sync her phone with the processors there, and she’s running through last night’s data to see if her father has left the estate. Tiller’s got the north wing locked down—shielded against jacking with palm-print security to get in—and his office is my prime target, but I can’t risk a break-in while he’s here in the estate. So we’re laying low and waiting... and keeping up the pretense of being together, at least in areas where Tiller might have cameras of his own. Juliette swept the theater—plus her room and the lab—and swears they’re clean, but I stay in mindreading mode just in case. Being seen talking out loud would blow everything.
Any luck? I link into her mind. My broadcast thoughts mindlessly echo the sim-cast.
Working on it! she snaps. Then her thoughts are laser-focused again, flipping through seventeen camera angles. Her light strawberry mindscent has turned fizzy sour with the raging ball of emotion in her head—she’s frustrated with the surveillance, angry at me for interrupting, but mostly, she’s just stressed about Sammi.
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