by Scott McEwen
“Dammit!” Ken stormed outside, pulling his cell from his pocket.
The SecDef answered on the second ring. “This is Elaine.”
“We have a problem.”
“I’m listening.”
“Wyatt Brewer—the son of the camp director here—well, he just quit the camp.”
“And this matters to me because…” the SecDef said, staring at her long nails.
“This kid is the best they’ve got. He’s not going to tap out unless he has an agenda. And it looks to me like he’s taken this new kid with him. They were saying something about a train and Las Vegas.”
“What kid?”
“Jalen Rose.”
Silence followed. “You mean the kid who was partly responsible for the attack in Austin? The kid who was Encyte’s pawn? He’s dropping out with the director’s son?”
“Yeah, I didn’t put it together until now, but yes, and they’re gone.”
Elaine sighed and muttered a curse. “I leave you there, and you let this happen. Incredible. Just incredible. So, what do you wanna do about it?” the SecDef said, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“Put Tui on him. Let him follow them for a while.”
Elaine sighed again.
“These boys are up to something,” Ken pressed. “And figuring out what that is might solve all your problems at once.”
“Okay, you got the green light. But, Ken—”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but our conversation never happened.”
“What conversation?” Ken ended the call with an exaggerated click.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 29
Of all John Darsie’s many eccentricities, perhaps the most outstanding was that he required only an hour or two—four at most—of sleep. His life was in constant motion—trains, cars, and planes (when he had to). Like a shark, he was ever coursing along, always alert, always hungry.
His morning began at 3:30 a.m. sharp. It was his practice to wake up and meditate for thirty minutes. This routine he never broke, not for any reason. Perhaps the most dramatic example of his dedication to his practice was when an employee tried (and failed) to reach him during meditation.
“Mr. Darsie, sir, I need a decision … or we’re going to lose a billion dollars,” the nervous assistant called through the door of the hotel suite to his cross-legged boss. Darsie knew what the assistant wanted. He could have taken a two-minute break to give him the information needed, but that would have violated one of his core beliefs—never break your own rules, at any cost.
Following meditation, there was his two-hour workout. Depending on where he was, he would swim, run in water, lift weights, power lift, ending with thirty minutes of cardio (usually jujitsu) for which he had a traveling personal trainer. After a massage and a shower, there was thirty minutes of speed chess, which alternated between in-person and virtual competitions. When possible, the flesh-and-blood opponents were flown in from around the world. On some occasions, Darsie liked to play multiple people at once, and like his meditation, he considered the activity sacred. It was a means of strategic training, but for Darsie, who’d found the sport a sanctuary during a lonely adolescence, it was somewhere in the realm of a holy practice.
With his spiritual, physical, and mental exercises out of the way, exactly three hours later, Darsie’s real day began. Although he’d given almost forty-five minutes to Wyatt, his staff knew that he allocated no more than fifteen minutes for any meeting, unless critically important, and so business associates were ushered in and out accordingly. His evening activities alternated between his two relentless passions: learning and productivity.
But on this particular day, at 7:15 a.m., Darsie was in Paris, in the Louvre. He was, in fact, the only person inside the museum, as it did not open for almost two hours, but through his various contacts, he’d been granted special admittance. So there he was, behind the thick velvet ropes, when his phone rang, shattering the silence.
Darsie’s habit was to avoid physical and verbal interaction when possible, particularly when he did not know the outcome, so he silenced the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He could not be certain, but he had a feeling in his gut: Wyatt had blown the horn.
Darsie wandered through the exhibits, thinking, when the phone buzzed again. This time, a text: As usual, you’ve gotten what you want. Hope you know what you’re doing with these 2 young lives. One of them happens to be like a brother to me. Be careful.—Avi
Darsie again pocketed the phone and stared into the muddy eyes and smirking face of the Mona Lisa. He wandered from room to room, his polished shoes echoing down the great corridors, stopping only when he reached the Winged Victory. It had always been one of his favorites—the cold, headless marble with wings outstretched like a crucifix. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of it. Maybe it was the beauty of the statue, or maybe it was that he always thought four moves ahead, but in uncharacteristic Darsie fashion, he dialed up an old friend.
The number he called from was untraceable, but as he predicted, the call was answered on the first ring.
“Eldon,” Darsie said cheerily. “It’s been a while.”
“Who is this?” Eldon’s voice was angry and frantic.
“What? Don’t recognize your former camp buddy?”
Eldon paused. “John?”
“Bingo. Look, I won’t ask how you’re doing. No need to waste time with pleasantries when I know things are not going well. Here’s what you need to know: I’m on the way to meet your son.”
“You son of a bitch—”
“Ah ah, Eldon,” Darsie interrupted. “Thought you were above the name calling.”
“What the hell do you want with him?”
“He’s going to help with a little mission I’m running. A crucial one.”
“I bet. How many billions are at stake this time?”
“Actually, this doesn’t involve money. This call was an olive branch. I have your son, and I need this to go right. Can’t have Valor meddling and messing this up, so I need you to promise you’ll steer clear. I’ll take care of Wyatt and his little buddy. I’ll keep you in the loop, but…” Darsie’s tone shifted. “I can’t make that promise if you get in the way.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Chill out.” Darsie could almost feel the heat coming through the phone. “I’m telling you the truth. Stay back, and I’ll owe you one … agreed?”
“If Wyatt gets hurt in any of this.”
“He won’t. So long as you steer clear. And listen, if strange things happen back in Charlottesville, cover for me?”
“Don’t see how you’ve left me much choice.”
Darsie ended the call and immediately dialed up his secretary as he strode toward the exit. “I’m leaving for the airport now. Change the route. I’m going to Charlottesville … Yes,” he said after a pause. “Virginia by 8 p.m. And I’ll need four men and a couple syringes loaded with phenobarbital.”
CHAPTER 30
Once the pills were swallowed, Jalen found himself in a semicomatose state. Lights and colors surrounded him, but it was like his whole body floated in a warm bowl of Jell-O. He felt his limp torso shifting to a gurney and then vaguely remembered rolling out of the medical ward and passing the enormous whirring propellers of an airplane.
And then, black. A long weighty sleep, like someone was holding him down by the forehead. Until suddenly, there was a light. It sliced below the curtain, burning Jalen’s eyes as he blinked awake. His head throbbed and a wave of nausea washed over him. He tried to sit up, but his body would not do what his mind asked. He was in a room, in a bed he didn’t recognize.
Where the hell am I? He strained, but he still had no recollection of the place. Lacrosse posters dotted the wall. The birds chirped outside the window, their songs excruciating to his pounding head. He turned and saw a boy on the other bed, eyes closed and mouth wide open. He remembered him vaguely from the safe
house in Clarkston. The kid who beat up the interrogator. Is he dead? And then Jalen saw the boy’s chest gently going up and down.
Again, the nausea. His throat and stomach seized. He rolled from the bed and batted open the door, tripping, then crawling down a short hallway where a toilet was visible through a cracked door. He punched it open and lunged for the rim and retched.
“Wyatt? You okay?” The woman’s voice coming from downstairs was unfamiliar. He could hardly open his eyes in the blinding light coming from the vanity. A few seconds passed and the voice called again, “Wyyyyatt!”
Jalen stumbled back to the room and lay down. He was closing his eyes, trying to let his body relax, when he heard the stairs below groaning beneath a great weight. Who was it? A figure appeared in the hallway, eclipsing the light. He could make out a fuzzy pink bathrobe, and then a shrill, frantic voice.
“Oh, thank god, you’re awake.” A large woman hustled over to him and lifted him by the shoulders, cradling his head. “Jalen?”
“Yes?” Jalen said. “Who are you?”
“Narcy. Wyatt’s aunt Narcy.” The woman dropped Jalen’s head back down on the pillow.
“Who’s Wyatt?” Jalen said, gripping the sides of his aching head.
“My nephew.” Narcy huffed over to the boy on the adjacent bed and give him a not-so-gentle shake. “Wyatt, sweetie.”
Wyatt moaned and his eyes fluttered.
“Lord,” Narcy said. “Thank goodness. Thought y’all were never going to wake up.”
Jalen could finally make out the woman’s full face in the lamplight. “That man from camp told me everything,” she said. “About the fall.”
“A fall?” Jalen said.
“Yes,” Narcy said. “You and Wyatt were rappelling down a rock wall when the rope came loose. Should be dead. Both of ya.”
“Rock climbing,” Jalen said, rubbing his smooth head, feeling for bumps, but he had no memory of any of it: a camp, a fall.
“And I told him,” Narcy went on. “I said this is pretty darn strange. That both of you boys would have the same reaction to a fall. Passed out for seventeen hours from a lump on the head?”
Now Wyatt, too, was attempting to sit. “Where am I?” he said.
“Home,” Narcy said.
“Millersville?”
“Nooo. We left there almost a year ago. We’re in Charlottesville … Virginia,” she continued. “They said they gave y’all somethin’ to help you sleep while they flew you home. But that must have been some Mickey they slipped ya.”
“What about Mom? Where’s she?”
“Took a little trip,” Narcy said nervously. “She’s fine. Just went down to Florida for a bit. To clear her head. She’s on her way back to see you now.”
She pointed to the backpacks at the foot of each bed. “Got your things here,” she said. “I wanted to go through them, but didn’t want Jalen to think I’m nosy, but I could wash your camp clothes.”
“Camp?”
“Camp Tamagame. Or whatever it was called. You don’t remember that?”
“No,” Wyatt said blankly.
“Your dad and brother are still there. Ever since your daddy got back from driving trucks in Iraq, that’s been his job. Remember your daddy was a driver?”
“Vaguely. How did I hurt my head again?”
“Rock climbin’.” Narcy sat on the end of Wyatt’s bed and observed him. “It’s weird, though, I don’t see any bruising.” She squinted, then turned to Jalen. “Don’t really see any lumps on you, either, honey,” she said, and then let her mind go where it always did. “You boys want something to eat?”
At that, Wyatt flung out of bed and fumbled down the hallway to the bathroom.
Jalen looked at the woman and the woman looked back. They said nothing, just listening to the sound of Wyatt’s vomiting.
“Well,” she said, tightening the long cord of her gigantic bathrobe. “I’ll be downstairs watching my programs if you need me.”
Jalen nodded. There was so much more he wanted to ask, but all he could do was lay his head back down and sleep.
CHAPTER 31
Jalen’s eyes opened as Narcy’s shrill voice broke in. She was downstairs, arguing with someone. “James did not tell me you were comin’ … And no, Wyatt’s not here and no, you ain’t comin inside this house!”
“It’s vitally important that you let me speak to Wyatt and the other boy,” a man said. “This cannot wait.”
“Told you, no one is here.”
“But he knows me,” the man said.
Jalen pushed himself up to standing. He looked out the window—a gleaming Mercedes on the curb and a shiny black SUV behind it. A thick man wearing a black suit scanned the street. He wore sunglasses and an earpiece, like he was straight out of central casting for the Secret Service.
“If you don’t back away from this door,” Narcy threatened, “I’m calling the police.”
“Ma’am, put the phone down…”
“I’m warning you. You’ve got five seconds to get off my porch.”
“Ma’am, I just need a second…”
“I’m calling—”
Jalen heard feet shuffling and breaking glass. “Help!” Narcy screamed. “Intruder!”
Jalen ran down the hall, just as a man bounded up the stairs. Another man in black behind him.
“Jalen,” the man said, approaching slowly. “You don’t know me, but my name is John Darsie, and I am a friend.”
The man looked like anything but a burglar: pleated pants, a fancy cardigan over his shoulders. He could have been coming from a racquet club except for the needle clutched like a dagger in his right hand. “You had a fall that hurt your memory,” he said softly. “You need to let me give you this.”
“Like hell,” Jalen said, staring at the syringe.
The man came closer, and Jalen stood his ground, his hands and feet—guided by route training—assuming fight stance, his mind unaware of where he learned the posture.
“Wyatt!” the man yelled as Wyatt appeared beside Jalen. “Wyatt, I’m here. Just like I told you. Please … just let me get something for you to look at.” The man ran through the hallway door to the backpack on the floor. He opened the center compartment and ripped out something from the inside.
“Here,” he said, pulling out a Polaroid.
Jalen watched as Wyatt stared at the photo of a girl.
“Run, Wyatt!” Narcy bellowed from below.
In a split second, Wyatt kicked the man with the syringe squarely in the chest, sending him flying down the stairs, crashing into another man, who waited at the bottom.
Jalen noticed a narrow bookshelf outside the bathroom door. He tipped it, dumping the contents, and dragged it over to the small window at the end of the hallway. Strength suddenly returning, he threw the bookshelf through the glass. Three steps and Jalen crawled through the broken glass and scrambled out.
“Go, go, go,” Wyatt said behind him, and they both sprang out, shards of glass and roof shingles under their feet.
One of the men in black crawled out behind them and chased the boys across the roof. Jalen saw a nearby tree and without thinking, he jumped, grasping for a branch. He swung down and rolled, then popped up into a fighting stance. Once again, without forethought, his hands and feet flew into action as if they belonged to someone else. The first man tried to tackle him, but with speed he didn’t know he had, Jalen dodged the man and came underneath his chin with a right hook, then a knee to the groin. The second man grabbed Jalen from behind, pinning his arms at his sides and pulling Jalen backward. Jalen kicked the man in his kneecaps, and as the man teetered back, he used the momentum to body-slam him. He rolled off his chest and was once again on his feet.
“You’re definitely feeling better,” the man with the cardigan said as he jumped from the roof.
Jalen could see Wyatt out of the corner of his eye. He’d knocked another man in black to the ground. Wyatt held him, his foot on the man’s throat.
<
br /> Jalen raised his fist and motioned the cardigan man forward. “Go ahead, try me,” he said as if someone else were speaking for him.
“Jalen, I’m telling the truth.” The man set the syringe on the ground. “Wyatt, look at this.” Again he held out the Polaroid.
Wyatt could hear sirens in the distance, the loud whine growing closer. “Cops will be here any minute,” Wyatt said to the man. “I’d run if I were you.”
“Her name is Dolly,” the man went on, stepping closer to Wyatt. “You told me to show you this.” Again the man thrust the photograph toward him.
Wyatt stared, hesitating just long enough for the first man in the suit to twist Wyatt’s foot, drop him to the ground, and quickly slam the needle into his shoulder.
And then Jalen too felt a sting in his upper arm. “Ahh!” he screamed. He looked over and saw the man in the cardigan retracting the needle. The burning radiated through Jalen’s upper body, coursing into his chest, and then everything went black.
CHAPTER 32
Cass leaned over the garden—arms, elbows, knees covered in rich, black, ancient soil. She hadn’t tended a garden since she was a girl, but she had enough of a green thumb, and given Valor’s long summer days and Mum’s four decades of labor, it almost seemed there was no better place to get back into the dirt. The sun would rise at 4:30 a.m. and set sometime after 11 p.m. In the light of long summer days, everything seemed to explode from the volcanic soil—the cucumbers, the currants, the massive heads of lettuce—like the children Mum never had, flourishing under her constant care. Row after row, Valor’s organic horn of plenty.
Most recently, Mum had been teaching Cass the secrets of crop rotation, and planting a variety of fruits that would grow in cycles. “Tomatoes would spring up first,” Mum said. “Then beans, summer squash, and sweet peas.” The garden was roughly the size of two swimming pools and fed campers for much of the summer, which worked out, as Valor was not exactly convenient for food trucks. Mum had also shown Cass the spot in the garden where she kept her medicinal herbs.