She eyes Ethan suspiciously. “But why are you here? You think the Lowers have something to do with this?”
“We don’t know who’s at fault. But we’ve tracked one of the missing girls here. To the old city.”
“Who?”
“Markay Peterson.”
Jewel is quiet for several seconds. “It’s not the Lowers. Berg knows everything that goes on in the Warrens. You weren’t here five minutes before he found out.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Her lip curls like I’ve said something funny. “My brother.”
I take in her copper skin and kinky curls. They’re obviously not blood relatives, but I don’t press the issue. Jewel would make an excellent ally, and I want to gain her favor. She probably knows as much about the Warrens as Berg. “We could really use your help finding Markay.”
“What is she to me?”
“A human. A person who’s in trouble.”
Jewel shrugs. “She’s never done anything for me.”
“Jewel,” Ethan says, “I don’t think you understand the scope of what we’re dealing with. This is not an isolated case. There are hundreds of girls missing now, in every zone. We’ve got to find out what’s happening to them. We have to stop it, and we need your help.”
Jewel gives him a look of complete disdain. Ethan’s whole persona screams wealth and privilege. She isn’t about to offer him anything.
“Please, Jewel,” I say. “This isn’t about caste. There are Uppers, Middles, and Lowers being abducted.”
She considers my words in silence.
“Can you at least tell us where this is?” I ask and pull up our destination on the holomap.
She gives it a cursory glance. “It’s the old Chemistrad factory.”
“You’re familiar with it?”
She shrugs noncommittally.
“How is it that Berg was on our tail in five minutes,” Ethan says, “but nobody saw anything unusual at the factory?”
She glares at him. “Because no one goes there.”
“Why not?”
She gives him that look of disdain again and holds her silence.
I shoot a look at Ethan that clearly says shut up and let me handle it. “Jewel,” I say gently. “We really need to know what we’re heading into.”
“The factory isn’t stable.”
“Worse than the condition of the neighborhoods we’ve passed through?”
“Chemically unstable. It’s an old fertilizer plant.”
“Fertilizer isn’t explosive,” Ethan says.
Jewel and I both scowl at him, but he continues. “It’s not. Fertilizer is simply ammonium nitrate, which won’t combust on its own. Not unless heat is added.”
“I’m not talking about ammonium nitrate,” Jewel snaps. “The government uses the site as a chemical dump. There’s all sorts of lethal stuff in there.”
“There can’t be. We have laws governing the storage and disposal of harmful substances.”
“Laws or not, they’re storing them at Chemistrad.”
I cut off Ethan’s further arguments. “Regardless of what the government’s doing, we have to check it out,” I say. “Will you show us the way?”
Her nod is short and businesslike. “Girls are missing from the Warrens too.”
“Thank you.” Her response was quick. I wonder if she knows any of them personally.
“You’ll need help.” She leads us outdoors, where the listing sun angles straight into our eyes. The gang of Lowers is milling around the parking lot. Jewel approaches Berg. “The missing girls are at Chemistrad.”
He eyes us sharply, his brown eyes piercing. “All of them?”
“At least one,” Ethan answers. “Likely more if it’s as secluded as Jewel says.”
He jerks his head at his men. “Let’s go.” Within seconds, they fade into the neighborhood.
“Are they coming back?” I ask.
“They’ll meet us there.”
Jewel begins leading us due west. There’s no need to be secretive now as we jog down the main road and skirt through yards. The houses quickly give way to business complexes, warehouses, and factories. Some show evidence of occupation, but we see less and less as we continue on. The vegetation gets thicker and higher till the industrial complex begins to resemble the woods at home.
“Have any wards of the state disappeared from the Warrens recently?” Ethan asks as we travel.
Jewel shoots a glance of incredulity back at him. “Wards of the state?”
“Orphans,” he clarifies. “Anyone who might have grown up on the streets or in temporary homes.”
She stops and addresses him with her hands on her hips. “I was five when my parents died, when Berg took me in. If he hadn’t, I would have died. There are no orphanages here. Just life for the lucky and death for the rest. That’s the Warrens.”
I play the peacemaker again and take over his line of questioning. “We have evidence that young men—not Lowers—who were raised by Children’s Domestic Services may be involved in the kidnappings. We’re wondering if there could be corresponding suspects within the Lower caste.”
“I told you the Lowers aren’t involved.”
“And I believe you in a corporate sense. I’m speaking of individuals who may have dropped out of sight. Young men who may have gone missing.”
Now Jewel looks at me as if I’ve lost my senses. “You people just don’t get it. Folks here move around. They come and go. You can’t tell if someone’s ‘gone missing’ unless they don’t show up for something important. Like school.”
Her words remind me of Caedmon’s observation, that it’s tough for Lowers in the cities. I couldn’t have imagined how impossible their situation is until I witnessed it for myself. “Jewel, I’m sorry. I’m trying to understand, but it’s so different here than in the settlements. We were dirt poor, but my community is smaller. More permanent. We stay in the same place doing the same thing all our lives.”
“Sounds to me like the same governmental failure.”
“The flip side of the same coin, perhaps. But people were content, for the most part. I didn’t see the kind of anger and rebellion I see here.”
“Can you blame us?” she asks defensively.
“No. I’m simply trying to comprehend the difference.”
“It’s simple,” she says. “We’ve lost our fear.”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever the government wants us to be afraid of. They’re constantly shoving it down our throats. ‘Remember the Provocation.’ ‘Prevent another Provocation.’ They use it to manipulate us. To subjugate us. It may have worked on our parents, but we’re tired of the game. It’s just an excuse for the upper castes to stand on our backs and boost themselves higher.” She glances at Ethan. “We’re not going to stand for it like our parents did.”
This is different than what Caedmon spoke of. Jewel is hinting at open rebellion. I exchange a look with Ethan. “Well, if you can think of anyone who’s dropped out of sight,” I say, “it might help us identify how all the crimes are connected.”
Soon, a large rectangular building looms black against the pinking horizon. “That’s it,” Jewel says. “The chemical plant.”
It’s two stories high and roughly seventy yards long, with two circular tanks on one end rising above the roof of the building. The factory sits alone on the stretch of road with several acres of woodlands regenerating around it. The structure doesn’t look very sturdy, just an old pole building, but there’s a lot of room inside, and it’s secluded. A perfect hideaway.
“Where’s Berg?” Ethan asks.
Jewel nods toward a scrubby clump of sumac just as Berg whistles us over. He has at least twenty-five people with him, both men and women. “What do we do?” he asks Ethan.
“I’d like to get a look at the place before we lose our light. I want to see entrances, windows, outbuildings, ventilation systems, everything.”
“I’ll take you aro
und it.”
They creep off through the shrubbery and I’m left with an army of Lowers who all eye my cross country uniform and ponytail suspiciously. I look nothing at all like them. One woman brushes pinkish hair out of her eyes. “You’re a Lower?” she asks skeptically.
“I saw her wrist number,” Jewel assures her.
A gleam of interest sparks in the woman’s eyes. “What’d you get the tat for?”
“Murder.”
My answer raises more than one pair of eyebrows. Let them chew on that.
Berg and Ethan return within fifteen minutes. “All right, gather round,” Ethan calls out. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” With Berg’s backing, he outlines a plan in which he and I sneak inside through the back door and scout the interior while teams guard every opening and catch anyone we flush out. If there’s gunfire, they’re to infiltrate and back us up, although not a single one carries a firearm. At least not openly. Private ownership of firearms is illegal. Of course, enough cash can still purchase one on the black market.
Ethan is every inch Military as he addresses his small army. There can be no question of his caste. “The rest of you will surround the building and wait in the trees to grab anyone who escapes our first net. Stay out of sight and use your element of surprise. We want suspects taken alive, if possible, but be aware they may be armed. We have no idea what we’re going to find in there. Does anyone have questions?”
Only a semi-sullen silence follows. I have the feeling they would not submit themselves to Ethan’s plan at all without Berg standing right behind him.
“All right. Berg, place your teams. Jack, you and I are going in.”
There’s a flurry of sound and movement as Berg takes charge and people scatter to their stations. Ethan and I circle through the trees until we’ve lined up with the back entrance. Ethan hands me his gun. “Take it.”
I don’t argue. He’s as deadly with his hands as I am with a gun. I give him back his blade.
“You ready?”
Since the confrontation in the carpet store, I haven’t felt one moment of nerves. I’ve been too preoccupied with Markay. But now apprehension seizes my gut. I take a deep breath and nod. It’s now or never.
The sun has set, and murky brown twilight stains the yard. I follow Ethan at a silent jog and hold the gun ready as he tries the knob. He needn’t bother. The door isn’t even shut all the way. We slip inside and Ethan eases it closed behind us, casting us into pitch blackness.
As my eyes adjust, I can see the dim remains of daylight filtering through the rust holes in the exterior walls. I set the light on my holoband to its lowest setting. A faint blue glow lights my shoes.
Ethan signals for me to go straight while he moves right. We drift apart, and I can only see his band for a few steps before he fades into the interior. I creep along the concrete floor toward the far side of the building, passing nothing except a huge concrete vat. A few paces beyond, I begin to encounter metal drums. I pass row after row of them, stacked on top of one another and reaching high over my head. I see no sign of human habitation.
I reach the back wall and begin making my way to the right. Between the drums lie shredded conveyor belts, rusted machinery, a decrepit forklift. The debris forms a vast industrial labyrinth. I pick my way through it silently and eventually reach the far wall where I see the faint glow of Ethan’s band.
“Jewel was right,” he whispers. “Someone has disregarded all hazardous waste regulations. This place is a tinderbox ready to blow. Do not fire your gun in here under any circumstances.”
Excellent. I’m weaponless again.
“There’s a stairway over here. I’m going up. You check out the door over there.” He waves vaguely behind him and presses another knife into my hand. “Do not fire your gun.”
I feel my way in the direction he indicated and find the doorway. It opens freely, though the creak of the hinges sounds loud in the dark. I slip inside and count to sixty with bated breath. When I hear nothing after a full minute, I risk a little more light.
A blue glow washes over a short hallway that runs in either direction. Both sides dead-end at doors of far sturdier construction than the one I’ve just passed through. I go to the first one and test the knob. It’s unlocked. I step into an echoing cylinder thirty feet in diameter, empty except for a thin layer of fertilizer pellets that crunch under my feet. I’m in one of the silos I saw from outside. The walls are fashioned of thick, fiber-reinforced concrete and rise forty feet.
I back into the hallway and try the door at the far end of the hall. It’s locked.
I pull out a hairpin and shimmy the lock in the dark. It’s the first time I’ve tried it outside of training. After two minutes of fumbling, I hear a satisfying click and the door pops open. The strong odor of human excrement hits me like a wall.
I step inside.
More fertilizer pellets roll under each step, but I hear another whisper of sound. A soft hitch of breath. Despite Ethan’s warning, I whip the muzzle of the gun in the direction of the noise.
Perfect silence. Then a terrified whisper calls out, “Who are you?”
It’s a girl’s voice.
“Markay?” I whisper back.
There’s no answer.
I spin slowly, the muzzle of the gun pointing outward from stiff arms. As I turn, the light from my holoband illuminates the wide, frightened eyes of a young woman. She’s sitting on the floor near the door. Her hands and feet are bound.
I drop beside her and slash through her bonds with my blade. Her dirty hair is matted, and she reeks of sweat and urine. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Tricia.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head.
“How long have you been here?”
“A week. Maybe longer. Who can tell?”
“Are there others?”
Her eyes dart off to the side. I turn up the beam on my holoband and cast it around the perimeter. It illuminates no less than twenty-five girls tied around the silo’s circumference. I draw in my breath. Then my gaze lands on a figure slumped on the floor. I jog over and roll her to her back so I can see her face.
“Markay.”
I feel for a pulse. It’s strong and steady. She moans slightly and succumbs again to whatever drug Emerson shot into her body.
“She’s fine.” Tricia has followed me on stiff legs. She’s trying to rub feeling back into them. “They always come drugged. It takes a few hours to wear off.”
I slice through Markay’s bonds and prop her upright. Then I travel from girl to girl, freeing them and asking endless questions. No, they haven’t been hurt or abused. The longest confinement has been two weeks. They’ve received little to eat. No one has left the room once she arrived. They all hail from Epson City. They don’t know where their captors are. But every girl knew her kidnapper. Each was a friend, a boyfriend, an acquaintance. Someone they never would have suspected capable of such a thing. Several were kidnapped by the same individual.
It takes time for the girls to work some movement back into disused joints and muscles. Long minutes we can’t spare. “We’ve got to get you out of here,” I say, once they’re mobile. All but Markay. I tuck my gun in my shorts, kneel, and position her over my shoulder, wincing slightly at the strain on my injured wrist. “There’s an exit at the back of the building. Follow me.”
We move into the hallway, the terrified girls pressing behind me in a close huddle. Suddenly, a commotion explodes above our heads. We hear the rapid fall of footsteps. A heavy thunk. A splintering crash. Ethan’s been discovered.
I move to the door and peer into the factory. A shot fires. Then another. I recall Ethan’s warning and urge the girls back to the concrete ring. “Back! Hurry!” If there’s an explosion, we do not want to be running between the barrels.
We wait, breathless, as muffled shouts filter into our shelter. The Lowers. They’ll be pouring into the building following the gunfire. I swear under my breat
h. There will soon be a full-fledged battle happening on the factory floor. For the moment, we’re trapped.
Another gunshot.
Twenty-five frightened pairs of eyes whisk to me. I set Markay back on the floor and glance around the storage vat. I’m not risking these girls’ lives on bullets or explosions. We need to find another way out. I turn my holoband on full power and sweep the beam of light around our circular prison. There isn’t one single break in the concrete. I scan upward and find a ladder secured to the inside of the wall. My eyes follow it. I can’t see a door so far above me in the gloom, but there must be one.
I jog over to the ladder. It’s several feet above my head. Twice I jump for it, but it’s well beyond my reach. I back up, get a running start, and kick off the wall, using it as a springboard to shift my trajectory upward. My fingers close on the lowest rung.
My wrist complains as I pull myself upward, but once my feet bear my weight, I scale the ladder in seconds. At the top, I find the outline of a trapdoor in the cone-shaped metal of the roof. I grapple with the lever—it’s rusted shut. I put my back beneath it and leverage upward with my legs. After a few tries, I manage to wrench it open and pop my head through. I’m looking at the road at the front of the facility. A ladder on the outside reaches nearly to the ground.
“There’s a way down,” I tell the girls once I’m back on the silo floor. “And there are people staked out in the woods who will help you.”
The girls seem dazed. They’re undernourished and dehydrated but uninjured and able-bodied. I grab hold of Tricia’s arm and give her a shake. “Tricia, we can’t go through the factory. This is the only way out. I need you to lead the others.”
Her eyes register what I’m saying and take on a glint of determination.
“Can you do it? Or should I ask someone else?”
“I’ll do it.”
“The rest of you help each other,” I say as I get down on my hands and knees so they can use my back as a stepstool.
More gunshots fire in the factory.
“Hurry,” I urge. “One errant bullet and this place is going to blow sky-high.”
Recompense (Recompense, book 1) Page 17