by Jackson Ford
“Nope. Not good enough.”
Annie mutters something unintelligible. Nic swings to face her, suddenly angry. “No, no, no. Don’t just talk shit like I’m not sitting right here.”
“There are things…” Reggie takes a deep, laboured breath. “Things that we aren’t authorised to tell you about.”
“Authorised?”
“Trust me, homes,” Carlos says. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Do you know what I’m doing, letting you guys in here? I’m putting everything on the line. Not just getting arrested for harbouring fugitives. I’ll lose my fucking job.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Paul says.
“You know what?” Nic jabs a finger at Paul. “Don’t even speak to me, man. You don’t know shit.”
“Hey.” Annie wakes up. “Don’t you talk to him like that.”
Nic ignores her. “You’re in charge, right?” he asks Reggie. “That’s your job? You the head of China Shop, or whatever this company is?” His voice is rising. “OK. So you tell me what’s going on, right now.”
“Nic, your sandwich is ready,” I say.
Reggie glares at him. “As I said, we will explain everything to you once this is—”
“Nic. Your sandwich.”
“Jesus, Teagan.” He turns to face me. “I don’t want a—”
He stops talking.
Along with everyone else.
They’re all staring at the frying pan, a sandwich still in it. It’s hovering in front of my face, along with a plate. I’ve got my hand underneath the floating pan—not because I need to, but because I want there to be zero ambiguity. I’m doing this. It’s me making the frying pan defy gravity, me who tilts the pan so the sandwich plops onto the plate, me who floats it over and deposits it on Nic’s lap.
THIRTY
Teagan
“Teagan,” Reggie breathes. “What have you done?”
What have I done? Interesting question, Reggie.
“So here’s what I see happening,” I say. “We were gonna keep telling Nic that we couldn’t tell him anything, and he was gonna keep getting angrier and angrier and then try and kick us out for real. And so you’d give him a few more details to try, I don’t know, to keep him happy or whatever, but he’d keep digging because what you don’t understand about him is that he doesn’t quit, even when he really should.”
I step past the pan, floating it slightly to one side. Nic blinks. He still hasn’t said a single word.
“Then,” I continue, “he’d wanna know why we were in the Edmonds Building, and you’d lie to him, and we’d go round and round in circles, and eventually you’d tell him that we work for the government—”
Paul buries his head in his hands.
“—and then he’d wanna know if we were special forces or spies or the Illuminati or something, and you’d tell him yes. He’d start asking for details, so you’d make something up, and he’d figure it out and tell us to leave again, and by the time we’ve gotten to the fact that I can move things with my mind the cops will be here and we still won’t have had anything to eat.” I grab another plate from the counter, one holding a sandwich I’d already made, and take a jagged bite. “Fuck, that’s delicious. Anyway, that’s what I’ve done, Reggie. Can we move on already?”
They gape at me.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Reggie whispers. “You’re putting him in danger.”
“If he lets us stay, he’s in danger anyway.”
Nic looks like he’s just woken up from a really weird dream. What he said when he told me how I always kept at a distance, left him in the dark… that hurt. A lot more than it should have.
“I am sick and tired of lying to people,” I say. “You ever think about that, Reggie? I don’t care how many bad guys we help put away, we still have to lie to do it.”
Reggie opens her mouth to reply, but Annie gets there first. “You are so full of shit. You know how many people I talk to? Every single day, for China Shop? I let everybody know what we do, that’s half of LA.”
“You’re not listening. You never listen. I get that we have to lie to some people. It sucks, and I hate it, and I don’t have a solution for it. It’s just that… Annie, aren’t you tired of it? Don’t you wish there was another way? At the very least, we shouldn’t have to do it with people we care about. Not if we’re asking them to help us, like we are now.”
Annie says nothing, just shares a look with Paul.
“And the worst is,” I say, “we lie to each other too. I lied to you guys when I didn’t tell you about how strong I’d got, because I was scared you’d think I really did kill Chase. I don’t wanna do it any more.”
The words bring back memories I’d rather ignore. A boy called Travis and the night we spent in that park. I lied to him, and I’m not going to lie now.
Not to Nic.
“Teags,” Carlos says. “Just think for a second…”
“Nic.” I make him meet my eyes. “This is what I can do. This is why we were in the Edmonds Building. We’re gonna tell you everything. If you still want us to leave afterwards, that’s fine.
“Now.” I send more plates floating across the room, setting them down on people’s laps. “I made food. It’s rude not to eat when someone cooks for you.”
“What the fuck,” says Nic. It comes out as one long, blurred word. Whathefuck.
“Yeah. I know. The world isn’t what you thought it was and blah blah blah.”
His eyes are going to swallow his face. “What…”
“It’s called psychokinesia. PK for short. I can only move inorganic objects—I don’t really know why—and only up to about three hundred pounds. Well, five hundred, I guess. Now, I mean. I’m a lot stronger than I used to be. And it’s just me, by the way—Paul and Carlos don’t have superpowers, although they both probably want to.”
“OK.” Annie gets to her feet, sounding resigned. “You guys have fun with this. I’m gonna do some real work. Nic?”
“Huh?”
“You got a USB-C phone charger? Or a laptop?”
“Uh… yeah.” He doesn’t look away from me, gesturing to the bedroom. “Nightstand.”
Annie nods thanks, slipping away and quietly shutting the bedroom door. She leaves behind a pregnant, uncomfortable silence.
“Reggie?” I say, putting a sandwich in her hand. “Why don’t we start with Steven Chase?”
She gives me a Look. But after a few moments she starts talking.
As we eat, she and Paul fill Nic in on what’s happened in the past twelve hours. Mostly, he listens in stunned silence. I sit on one end of the couch, ploughing through a second sandwich. They’re not my best—they’re a little undercooked, the bread not as crispy as it should be—but right now I’d pick them over anything Niki Nakayama could make in her kitchen at N/Naka.
When Reggie finishes the story, Nic sits back. He raises a hand to his face, drops it again. Looking over at me, he says, “This all true?”
“Yeah.”
“OK.” The hands get all the way this time, coming to rest on his chin. In the quiet, Paul delicately munches the last of his crust.
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Reggie says. “Usually, you’d need high-level clearance to even get told that we work for the government.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “These are not the usual circumstances.”
“Wait. Hang on.” Nic turns in my direction. “Before we do anything… I need to know how you can do what you do. I get that doing jobs for this Tanner person keeps you free, but how’d you hook up with her in the first place? Is your… power, ability, whatever it is, really genetic? How the hell does that even work?”
“Long story,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of cheese sandwich.
“I bet.”
He isn’t going to be swayed. I set my plate down. “Well, my parents—”
“OK.” Annie comes marching back into the living room, clutching her cellphone, Nic’s laptop held under o
ne arm. “Think we got something.”
“Hold that thought,” I say to Nic.
“You get hold of Mo-Mo?” Carlos asks.
“Uh-huh. You know what that motherfucker’s doing now?” She points at Nic’s hoodie with its university lettering. “Works for UCLA. In the goddamn library too. I didn’t even know dude could read.”
“Did he have anything we could use?” I say.
“Yep. Took me for fucking ever to convince him the cops weren’t gonna bust through his front window just cos he was talking to me.” She puts her hands on her hips. “But I got him to talk to his moms. Steven Chase wasn’t the only victim.”
“What?” I spin in my seat so fast I nearly smash Carlos in the face with an elbow. “Who?”
“Bryan Hayden, B-R-Y. Killed at his house over in West Hollywood, same way as Chase. Cops kept it quiet.”
“Killed last night?”
“They don’t know. They aren’t sure about time of death yet. But he was killed with a rebar, same as Chase.”
We crowd around the laptop. Even Nic gets involved. Carlos pilots, running Google search after Google search. There are no less than eight Bryan Haydens living in West Hollywood, and the info on most of them is sparse. One works for a movie studio. One runs a home air-conditioner business. A third turns out to be a reserve pitcher for a minor league baseball team.
Which is super-helpful when trying to connect them to a clothing company, as you can imagine.
“Wait a minute.” Reggie narrows her eyes. “Hayden. Hayden. I’ve seen that name. Carlos, let’s pull up the coupler data.”
“Shit. Yes.” I’d forgotten about that. The coupler we planted in the Edmonds building is still transmitting.
Reggie and Annie and Carlos go to work, accessing the coupler’s feed, filling the laptop screen with gibberish. It doesn’t take them long to find what they’re looking for. Chase sent a hundred emails before he died, and one of them happens to be to [email protected].
“What’s Ocean Safe?” I ask.
“Charity,” Paul replies. “That’s why we didn’t spot it before. Carlos, can you…”
But Carlos is already there, opening up a website that looks like it was designed in the 1990s. It’s an environmental charity, the page covered with donate buttons. Carlos clicks on a few links, lingering on projects, photos of demonstrations. One of them shows Hayden—the caption says he’s Ocean Safe’s CEO—above a sea of protest signs, holding a megaphone and looking righteous. He’s bearded, with long hair and an electric-blue Hawaiian shirt.
“I don’t get it.” Paul rubs his temples. “What’s the connection?”
“Got me,” Reggie replies.
I lean over, squinting at the screen. “Were they maybe working together? Some initiative or something?”
“One hell of an initiative,” Annie says.
There’s nothing. No mention of the Ultra clothing label on Ocean Safe’s page. Ditto for the reverse. Googling Steven Chase and Bryan Hayden together turns up nothing. The closest we get is an outdoor summer movie screening they both told Facebook they were going to: a showing of La La Land at a spot in Brentwood. Given that they were among five hundred people who responded, I don’t think it’s a very good lead.
“Unless Ryan Gosling killed them,” I murmur.
“What’s that?” says Nic.
“Never mind. Maybe Ultra had a factory. Maybe they were, I dunno, pumping shit into the ocean or something…”
Carlos’s fingers are a blur on the keys. It doesn’t take long—there are plenty of stories about how Steven Chase built Ultra from the ground up, plenty of long profiles and business reports. Annie wasn’t kidding about not using overseas factories, which would have been a lot cheaper. Ultra’s three factories are all stateside, and they made a big deal about using only local materials.
Problem is, the factories are in Nebraska and Colorado. Neither of which have any coastlines. There aren’t even any rivers or lakes near them.
“There’s gotta be something,” I murmur. “Something in the supply chain, maybe. Pumping industrial waste, or…”
“To where, though?” Annie spreads her hands. “And even if they were, wouldn’t this Hayden guy be trying to stop that from happening? Why kill him too?”
“Maybe they were connected some other way,” Nic says. He’s not as stiff as before, one knee up on the couch as he peers down at the laptop. The dazed look he had is gone. “Maybe they both owed money to someone…”
Annie rolls her eyes. “Who just happened to have a psychokinetic on payroll? You don’t find a dude like that on Craigslist.”
I bite my lip, getting to my feet and wandering over to the kitchen, trying to think. I rest my elbows on the counter, which feels good, then I wrap my hands around the back of my neck, which feels better.
Chase. Hayden. Ultra.
“OK,” I say, turning and leaning back against the counter. “Reggie, can you maybe go through Chase’s emails some more. Maybe some weren’t encrypted, or—”
“Yes, Teagan,” Reggie says patiently. “We’re already doing it.”
“Oh. Right. Good job.”
“Little slow without my Rig, but Carlos should be able to—”
There’s a piercing crash. The window next to the couch blows inward, followed by the sound of tinkling glass. Nic and Carlos yelp in unison, scrambling across the couch.
I stumble back, almost tripping on the uneven kitchen floor. My first thought is that someone’s shooting at us, but then I see what came through the glass: a small black cylinder with a complicated rectangular section sprouting from one end.
Annie’s eyes go wide. “Flash—”
—bang.
THIRTY-ONE
Teagan
Light.
Noise.
Heat. Close.
Down.
Noise. Shouts.
Nic.
Carlos.
Annie.
Crawl. Elbow. Elbow. Can’t hear. Can’t see. Ears ringing.
Tile. Noise. Front door. Crashing open.
Go back. Help. Can’t hear. Can’t see. Get out. Get out.
Door. Close. Elbow. Elbow. Nearly. Reach.
Footsteps. Running. Closer. Reach.
Gun. Back of neck. Barrel cold. “Don’t move.” Barely hear it. Ringing. Ringing everywhere.
Hands pulled behind. Cable-tied. Gun barrel still on my neck. Blinking, but the world is too bright. Annie swearing. Thud. Reggie screaming.
Arms under my elbows. Pulled up. Guys from the alley? This morning? Come back? Spun round, afterimages glaring. Black. Everywhere black. Black armour, black helmet. White teeth.
Mouth moving, but I can’t hear. He’s shaking me. Over and over again. Huge white smile. Big black wraparound sunglasses, reflecting my stunned face. Stubble crusted on his cheeks. Black gloves moving. Around my neck. Pulling tight. Tight. Tight.
Can’t breathe. A burning line at the my throat. Can’t think.
My hearing slowly, slowly, slowly comes back. “… what I’m saying?” His voice is wrapped in cotton wool. “We see a single thing move, and I’ll choke the life out of you. Got it?”
I nod. Then shake my head. I still can’t breathe.
“Got it?” he roars in my face.
He’s strangling me, a length of rope in his fists, digging into my throat. Without thinking, I try to grab it with my PK, only to have my mind slide right off it. It’s organic, thin and strong.
His grin widens. “Spider cord, bitch. Like I said, you move anything, anything at all…”
I don’t know what spider cord is, but it doesn’t sound fun. Grey feathers the edges of my vision for a moment before he relaxes, flipping me over onto my stomach.
The flash-bang has had the same effect as the taser this morning. It hasn’t wiped my PK, but it’s made it fuzzy and useless. I can just, just get a grip on other objects in the room, but I probably couldn’t move anything very far.
“That Tanner’s lad
y?” someone else says.
“Yeah, it’s her. Get the others.”
Tanner.
Then I’m back in the living room, down on my stomach with the others, their hands bound like mine. Even Reggie—Annie, bleeding from the mouth, is trying to tell them that she’s a quad, that she can’t move. They just ignore her. Paul is yelling that we’re American citizens, that they have no right, that we’re entitled to legal representation. A boot in the stomach shuts him up.
There are too many of them, black shapes thundering through the room, shouting at each other. Nic’s terrified eyes meet mine.
There’s a knee on my back. “Give me a reason,” the man says. “Move anything, even an inch, and I’ll end you. Those are literally my orders, and I would be very happy to carry them out.”
“Burr.” It comes from of the others, a giant of a man with a huge grey beard. “Quit the chatter.”
“Copy,” says the man called Burr.
The apartment is a hurricane of noise: soldiers yelling, radios crackling, orders to lock down the perimeter, confirmations that the package is secure.
The package. Me. Has to be. Tanner might have given me a 2 a.m. deadline, but that was before I took down a helicopter, got the whole DA’s office and LAPD in a frenzy. She must have decided that we weren’t worth the trouble.
“Leave her alone!” Nic yells. Like Paul, he gets a boot in his stomach. What I feel for him at that moment can’t be described. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him how sorry I am. And then grab the soldier who just kicked him and bash his head against the countertop until there’s nothing but red paste.
Reggie’s eyes meet mine. There’s real panic on her face, her breathing coming in quick, harsh rasps. Seeing her fear—on a face that has always been calm and cool and collected—is enough to jack my own terror up into the stratosphere. She’s groaning, low and long, shaking her head from side to side.
The jumble of thoughts collides and throws up a word: dose. They’re going to sedate me. Knock me out. If I’m unconscious, I can’t use my PK, and I’ll be easy to handle.