by Scott McEwen
* * *
Jalen raced the i8 into the marina parking lot and jammed on the brakes. The car skidded and slammed into a Mercedes G-Class, setting off a crescendo of car alarms and chaos. Jalen abandoned the vehicle, leaving the door open and key on the driver’s seat as he ran down the dock. He scanned the Ocean Guardian fleet, one of the slips open, like a missing tooth. The Kid Captain was out to sea. The Bahama 41 with the three Yamaha 425s. The fastest in the fleet. There was no other boat that could possibly catch it.
Thinking, he looked around then stopped, noticing the glint of the pneumatic fishing spear tucked in the stern of one of the dive boats. There was no choice; he jumped into the boat and grabbed the spear.
“Hey, what are you doing!” a man called after him.
Jalen tucked the spear into his waistband and ran down the dock, dropping down onto a shiny new Yamaha WaveRunner FX Cruiser SVHO. It was maroon and super light. He took the key, which was still in the ignition, and cranked it up.
“Hey, kid!” Another man screamed as Jalen, with no life vest, went from zero to sixty out of the marina and toward the open ocean.
He had no radio, no GPS, only his memory and a hunch. He headed straight out toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the Farallones beyond them.
* * *
Recalling the trip and its heading on the Kid Captain, Jalen kept the throttle down, punching through the swells like he was on a bathtub-sized bullet. Just like the previous day, the fog rolled in, and the northern Pacific churned and bucked. The sunset he rode into was a red wash of haze. By the time Jalen approached the desolate islands, he could barely make out the jagged formations against the black sea. His gas tank was nearly empty, and it was dark and soupy with fog. He killed the motor and let the WaveRunner drift, listening.
A voice cut through the greasy night air. “Technology, brother. There’s nowhere to hide anymore, and that’s a shame.”
Jalen spun around, seeing nothing.
“I just wanted to help, you know,” Morg’s voice echoed as the Kid Captain came into view like a ghost ship. Morg stood in the helm, a preacher’s grin on his face. “But then it hit me—I can clean up the oceans all day, but what about all the shit going on on land?”
The Kid Captain began circling Jalen, wrapping the WaveRunner in a whirlpool of waves and wake. Jalen held the handlebars, goosing the jets, steadying the watercraft, riding it out.
“What side of history do you want to be on?” His voice bounced off the rocks. “I was changing the world and then you had to show up, Jalen. Or should I say, Javelin?” Morg paused, reaching down and lifting up Hi Kyto by her long black hair. She cried softly through the gag in her mouth.
“Put her down!” Jalen yelled. Walls of water coming over the nose of the WaveRunner.
“There are many killers among us,” Morg continued. “Kids like you and Julie, who think their actions in a virtual world have no consequences. But I say a little pinch to wake us up is a good thing. I mean, think about it, Encyte only killed a few thousand people—a hundred-millionth of the planet. A tiny prick. We’re all so … insignificant in terms of life … but a nice wake-up call for the planet. Until you showed up. You really ruined things. And that pissed me off.”
Morg reached down under the helm and once again retrieved the sawed-off shotgun. He leveled it at Jalen and fired. A slug tore into the rear quarter of the WaveRunner, punching a five-inch hole a foot behind Jalen’s leg. Morg racked the gun. Jalen dove off the side of the WaveRunner as another slug hit it. Gas and oil poured from the hole. Wyatt took a breath and dove down. He looked up at the surface and felt the concussion of the water as the WaveRunner exploded on the surface. A flashing, burning light pulsed through the water around him.
Jalen turned in the water and swam toward the Kid Captain. He felt a tug at the back of his pants. He panicked, then remembered the speargun. He reached back and retrieved it from his waistband.
He pointed the gun at the Kid Captain, holding on to the handle as he kicked toward the surface, lungs now burning for breath. In the faint light from the flaming WaveRunner some ten yards off, he saw Morgan leaning out, peering into the sea around the wreck, now with a submachine gun in hand. He scanned the water, looking for Jalen to surface.
Jalen aimed for Morg’s torso and squeezed the tight trigger. A firm burst of air jerked the gun back in his hand as the spear whistled from the barrel like an arrow without feathers, wobbling through the air. Morg, hearing the shot, turned just as the spear came angling up toward the helm. It caught him in the neck, just below the jaw, and came out his cheek, a pin rammed through the face of a doll. He was hooked, fishlike. He turned the gun on Jalen, bullets tearing through the water. Jalen yanked hard on the handle of the gun, jerking Morg forward as he fired down at his feet. Jalen pulled again. Blood poured from Morg’s face as he stumbled to the side of the boat. Morg dropped the gun and held on to the boat. Jalen yanked hard once more, pulling Morg overboard, face first, his fresh blood pouring into the sea.
Jalen treaded water, still holding the speargun. He felt the bump of something underneath him. Sandpaper skin. Another bump. Jalen looked down and saw what looked like a car in the water. At first, he thought it was the remains of his WaveRunner. But it swam. The shark now moving toward the young scientist who bled and thrashed in the water a few feet from him. He felt the handle of his speargun gently tugged from his hands. Then—a terrible pull, a giant jerk—as the speargun was ripped from his hands, tearing the skin on his palm.
Jalen swam hard for the boat that was drifting away. He took several strokes and then—a scream. A gurgling scream. He turned to see half of Morgan’s body above the water as the great white thrashed him back and forth like a seal’s plaything.
Jalen swam harder, lungs screaming, until he reached the Kid Captain. He was unsure how he was going to get up on deck. He took off his belt and, looping it over one of the rear motors, he pulled himself up on the motor mount and flopped into the stern.
He looked down to see his own legs bleeding. He scrambled to his feet and glanced around for Hi Kyto. He went to the bow, belowdecks, and pushed the door to the small aft cabin, and there she was, curled like a bird on a nest of life jackets. All around her, blood.
He lifted her up and held her. “He’s gone,” Jalen whispered, loosening the gag on her mouth as she sobbed. “It’s over. He’s gone.”
CHAPTER 66
Though the body of Morgan Whittendale was never found, there was sufficient evidence to prove categorically that he was, in fact, Encyte. His young life and utter brilliance misdirected and wasted. The absence of a corpse caused a problem for Jalen, and though he and Hi Kyto both testified to what they had heard him confess that night, both teens were still grilled by various authorities: FBI, San Francisco PD, and even zealous park rangers who were the stewards of the Farallones.
Even Mr. Yellow joined in the questioning. “You have to understand,” he said to Jalen. “It was a foggy night, and with the gunfire and the waves, coulda been easy for him to slip away.”
“I saw him being ripped in half by a great white,” Jalen said. And to him, it was the most appropriate death for what the press was calling a “deranged ecoterrorist. An entitled millennial who used his talents to terrorize the world and teach it a lesson.” This sparked a political debate, followed by finger-pointing from the Left and Right. To Jalen, labeling Morg anything other than a monster and making his life fodder for politicians to sling mud at one another was a sin in itself and a terrible shame.
* * *
Before Jalen left to go back to Detroit, Hi Kyto agreed to meet him on the bike trail. No phones, no tech, no tricks—that was the rule.
“Don’t even know why I’m here.” Hi Kyto stood arms crossed, looking out at the summer moonrise above the bridge. “I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anything about you.”
“How’s Darsie?” Jalen asked, hoping that she’d gone to the hospital to visit him. That maybe from his recovery bed, the g
reat Mr. Darsie had put in a nice word.
“John?” She snorted. “His currency—his heartbeat—resides in his secrets … he sees no problem with deception, conspiracy.”
“So what did he say?” Jalen persisted.
Hi Kyto rolled her eyes. “He said you were in a secret military spy group … and you were one of the bravest kids he’d ever met.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am … for deceiving you. And I know it doesn’t mean much, but…” Jalen stepped behind some bushes and pulled out a new mountain bike. “Here.”
“What? It’s awesome—” Hi Kyto stopped, catching her own excitement. “But you didn’t have to…”
“It’s a Kona, like you wanted. The seat might be a little high, but you can lower it.”
“It’s great, but I can’t accept this…”
Jalen took a deep breath and nodded, looking out at the bay and the city beyond it.
“You thought I was a terrorist,” she said softly. “The world’s worst. Which is sorta flattering, but … it’s just … done. Whatever we had is gone.”
“I understand, and I promise I will leave you alone. But before I do, do me one favor?”
She laughed. “You’re something else, you know that? I don’t owe you shit.” She pulled the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands. “What?”
“You know how you said all families are psycho?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I was thinking. The thing I’m most afraid of is letting someone meet mine, to see who I really am. I know you say you’ll never trust me, but I want to show you … ya know … that you can.”
“I have no idea what you’re getting at,” Hi Kyto said. “Are you saying you want me to meet your psychotic family?”
Jalen shrugged and nodded.
“Where?”
* * *
Jalen waited shyly beside a large Latino family, probably awaiting the return of a cousin or grandmother, holding balloons and signs that read, BIENVENIDOS. He checked his watch. It was 7:30 in the morning in the McNamara Terminal at the Detroit Metro Airport. The red-eye from San Francisco should have landed minutes ago. He had no sign and he didn’t need one. As arrivals started shuffling past TSA security and into the baggage area, he saw her: Beats headphones on, eyes puffy from a nap on the plane. Backpack slung over her shoulder.
Hey, she mouthed, smiling as he approached. Should he hug her? Fist bump? Jalen hadn’t decided before she slipped off her headphones, reached out, and grabbed him.
“Hey, you,” she said, pulling him in for a quick hug. Her cheek brushed his under the hoodie. He could smell her face lotion.
“Welcome to Detroit,” he said, pulling back and smiling. “I thought Darsie wanted to give you the jet.”
“He did. He wanted me to work along the way … probably wanted to keep an eye on me.” Hi Kyto rolled her eyes. “But I didn’t take it. I want to disconnect. I want this to be a break. In fact,” she said, pulling out her cell phone, “I’m going to turn this off.”
“Okay.” Jalen pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it off.
“And…” She took a small paperclip out of her pocket and proceeded to eject the SIM card.
Jalen did the same; both kids smiled, ensuring there would be no connection. “Me too. You know, I’m surprised you still work for the guy.”
“Yeah,” Hi Kyto said, “but the truth is he does cool work. And I get paid a lot.”
“Sign me up.” Jalen laughed. “This way. It’s bright outside.” He took off his Guccis and handed them to her, then stopped. “You sure you’re up for this? My parents can be a bit much. They’re trying things out again, so that’s like weird too.”
“Up for it?” Hi Kyto smiled. “I’m just an observer. You’re in the hot seat.”
“Okay, well, you’ve been warned.” Jalen texted his dad: We’re out.
His dad responded with a black thumbs-up emoji, and moments later, a white Range Rover pulled to the curb, and his mom and dad both stepped out of the car.
“What up, what up?” his dad said as he came around the car and shook Hi Kyto’s hand. “Heard so much about you. My name is Ronnie Rose, but you can call me Mr. Rose.”
“What?” Jalen said.
“Ah, I’m just kidding. Call me Ronnie. And this is Tyra, my beautiful and hopefully soon-to-be wife again.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Tyra turned to Hi Kyto. “Thank you so much for coming to Detroit. We’re happy to have you. Now, let’s get back home. We’ve got a lot to do.”
Jalen slipped in the back behind Hi Kyto and Jalen caught his dad giving him a wink in the rearview mirror. The drive back to Jalen’s house in the Palmer Woods neighborhood of Detroit included a short tour of the newly resurgent downtown area of Detroit, Jalen’s father pointing out the casino, Comerica Park, then slowing by Ford Field. “Here’s where the Lions play,” Ronnie said. “What I used to call my office, back in the day.” He pointed out the Shinola Hotel, the Nike store. “You wouldn’t believe it, but fifteen years ago there was nothing here but woodshops and bars.”
“He’s not lying,” Tyra said.
“I used to have to drive around with a—you know what, we’re not gonna go there.”
Jalen’s mom rolled her eyes. “Ronnie, you never had a gun in your car in your life.”
“You don’t know everything about me,” Ronnie said, joking.
Back at Jalen’s house, the Rose Labor Day reunion was already in full swing. In front of the house—a large, renovated home formerly owned by one of Detroit’s pioneering auto executives—was a big tent filled with Jalen’s family who’d already arrived. The cousins were playing in the yard and Ronnie’s brother had already fired up the grill and was bragging about his special rub.
Ronnie wasted no time making his rounds, introducing Hi Kyto as Jalen’s girlfriend, and each time, Jalen followed it with a wince. “No, no, no,” he said. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends? Oh, from where?” his aunt asked.
“A gaming tournament.”
“Gaming? What do you mean?”
And at this point, Ronnie stepped back in and said that Hi Kyto was a genius, professional gamer. Not only was she taking college courses, she was already working as a professional. “Some spy kind of shit.”
“I do a little programming for a security technology firm.” Hi Kyto smiled politely.
After these somewhat embarrassing introductions were made and guests started digging into the food coming off the grill, Jalen and Hi Kyto found themselves having a pretty good time. Jalen’s cousins had fired up the Xbox in the living room. The game for the day: Call of Duty: Black Ops. The cousins grew raucous, as the bullets streamed down, firing incessantly.
“You want in?” Jalen looked at Hi Kyto. “Clean these fools up?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No. We’re disconnecting, remember? Besides, I don’t think humiliating your family is the best way to get them to like me.”
In the backyard, sprawling along the lush sweep of green grass, a game of pickup football had started. Mostly Ronnie, his brothers, two cousins, and a neighbor who’d already sprained his back. They’d divided themselves into two teams: Ronnie and Tyra’s brother (who’d actually played running back at Clemson) against everyone else.
Both families were full of great athletes, so the competition every year was fierce. It was apparent that Ronnie, who’d spent eight years in the NFL, had a clear advantage and probably should not have been playing in a pickup game. But still, Ronnie was in heaven: to stretch his legs and run and pull down balls from someone who, Ronnie admitted humbly, could actually throw a football.
So Ronnie was loving the shit-talking and joke-cracking, especially at the expense of the neighbor who had instantly pulled his back. He was having such a good time, in fact, that he hadn’t noticed Jalen stepping quietly onto the other team.
“Can I play?” Jalen asked.
“Sure, Jay,” his cousin said. “Jum
p on defense.”
Hi Kyto raised her eyebrows from the sidelines, hearing him called Jay.
“See.” Jalen shrugged. “I wasn’t lying about everything.”
Jalen lined up, not across from his father but on the opposite side. As instructed, he took the guy with the bad back. Jalen’s family was all too aware that Jalen had no interest in live sports, only electronic ones. No one had noticed that over the summer, Jalen—the scrawny video-game king—had put on a solid ten pounds of muscle, grown almost a half inch, and also simultaneously became harder, sharper, and more present.
The snap went back to the former Clemson running back, and Ronnie broke off the line, threw a juke, danced past his defender and was halfway to the makeshift end zone, marked by a paper dinner plate. The ball hummed through the late-summer air. Ronnie watched it, his eyes clocking the brown torpedo as it cut a line through the blue sky. He came up, hands in position to receive yet another touchdown pass, when another set of hands entered his view. Thin and wiry, they rose up between him and the ball. The look on Ronnie’s face showed where his mind went, the look of Oh shit. Someone’s about to pick me off. And indeed, the ball was snatched out of the air.
“Intercepted!” someone yelled across the backyard.
Ronnie was confused to see his son switch the ball from right to left and throw a spin move, sending the Clemson QB sprawling. And then, to Ronnie’s utter disbelief, Jalen actually put ground between the two of them and ran back for a pick-six. Jalen crunched over the paper dinner plate smeared with barbecue sauce and dropped the ball.
A cacophony of cheers and whistles tore through the yard.
Jalen’s uncle stood up from the grill, tongs in hand. “Ronnie,” he yelled. “Your boy just schooled you!”
Jalen stood awkwardly in the imaginary end zone, wondering what would happen next. His dad in the yard, bewildered, the family laughing, Hi Kyto on the sideline, smiling proudly.
Ronnie put his hands on his hips and shook his head, a hint of humiliation on his face. “Damn, boy, you got me.” He slapped his son’s hand. “Where the heck have them skills been hiding? You’re awesome.”