I hadn’t seen a single weapon or nervous-eyed person. Not a thing appeared out of the ordinary. Everything looked exactly as it should for a Celestial Orchestra performance: in sync with a ladder climb of musical suspense and theatrical flair.
The entire amphitheater went dark and I cursed under my breath. I hadn’t scoped out a full mental schematic of my surroundings yet, and at least for now I wouldn’t be able to. The show was beginning.
Pockets of light illuminated the aisles, each beam highlighting a different orchestra member who’d stopped in place and played their instrument with abandon. The light traveled to a makeshift floating platform, upon which Ivan stood, that was descending from the amphitheater’s ceiling.
Ivan, who appeared to be favoring one side of his body, held his baton perfectly still, chin sharp and pointy. His hair was drawn into a ponytail that dangled down, outstretched only by his cape. He swung his baton with both hands as if gripping a sword as heavy and magnificent as King Arthur’s. He turned to the Celestial Orchestra and shot his hands up at the climax of the music.
The composition wound down to light background music, and all light faded to black.
“From the dawn of time,” Ivan whispered in the blackness, “what has proven itself . . . immortal? What has surpassed time’s cruel grasp? What has shown itself godlike?”
That was it.
I reached for my firearm slowly, trying not to cause a panic.
“It was there in the beginning, when all fell to chaos. It was there in peace and war, prosperity and famine. And it will be there when you leave this wondrous place tonight, ready to lift you and shield you and fight for you.”
A red glow, the only light in the entire building now, started pulsing over Ivan’s heart. “The human will. It has watched over those who’ve gone before us, and it is in this very moment pumping through your veins, as real and beautiful as your own DNA.” The pulsing red glow of tiny lights on his chest started pumping out a blood-red hue to his neck, arms, and legs. The orchestra’s basses began thumping along to the rhythm. “You cannot gain it, you cannot lose it—you can only discover it, for it is the hidden nucleus within you if you would only open your eyes to it. Please, do that tonight.” His voice started faltering as if he himself were succumbing to duress. “Whatever happens, don’t let him break your—”
“Will,” another voice said.
The lights on Ivan’s suit partially went out. But no, they hadn’t. Someone was standing on the floating platform with him, gripping him from behind.
I had my gun in hand now, pressed flat against my thigh, but I couldn’t take aim at anything in this blackness.
“Come now, Ivan—we both know that’s rich, do we not?”
It was him. The real conductor.
A spattering of chuckles worked through the crowd, but most of the audience simply leaned forward, trying to see just what was happening on Ivan’s platform.
“Gotcha,” I whispered.
“I want to welcome you all to the symphony, my symphony,” the conductor said. “Good show so far, really something, but with ‘I’ here spewing bunkum, I couldn’t help but interject. No need reaching for phones—lines are busy, it seems.”
Ivan tried speaking, but the conductor’s hand was covering his mouth. “Question one, Ivan. Where’s your will now? Why isn’t this immortal drug, which you’ve spun into millions, showing up? Because it seems I have the stage. Which means I have the more powerful will, correct? Or did yours betray you, off to spend time with its mistress?” The conductor chuckled. “Now, I know you’re all trying to think ahead, trying to see where Ivan is taking this. Let me put your mind to rest and introduce the fine work of Janet Blevins.”
My head suddenly felt light. Janet was supposed to be at the hospital. The conductor had gotten to her, used Janet’s sister as leverage.
Or . . . had she been a part of the conductor’s plan the whole time?
I thought back to what had happened at the communications building. I hadn’t actually seen the conductor attacking her, and neither had Alec, for that matter.
Alec. He had betrayed Cody and me.
Janet was the one who’d introduced me to Alec. And now Janet was working with the conductor.
Had it all been an elaborate ploy?
While everything else remained black—except for Ivan’s suit with the pulsating red lights—overhead spotlights suddenly shone on the red-jacketed security guards, each of whom now wore masks and were holding the weapons Cody and I had taken from the armory before losing them to Mitchell’s men.
Gasps and screams echoed throughout the amphitheater, then the conductor said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Ivan Mikolaev!”
A loud wheezing sounded over the loudspeakers, as if the conductor had stuck a knife through Ivan’s esophagus. “That boy you seduced all those years ago—me, actually—sends salutations,” he said. “Unlike your tumble at the gym, this fall you won’t survive.”
The glow of Ivan’s suit fell from the platform, a blur of red plunging limply to the ground, and the world-renowned musician smashed into the middle aisle of the auditorium.
The entire audience jumped to their feet, and several people screamed. The gunmen in masks and red jackets aimed their weapons at the crowd.
“Behold the will,” the conductor said over the loudspeakers. It sounded like he was moving, even in the darkness. Had he found a way off the floating platform? “Ivan’s seemed strong, but mine is real.”
A few dimmed lights turned on, and the screams intensified as members of the audience rushed to where Ivan had fallen.
“Now let me be clear, rules rule the world,” the conductor said. Where had he gone? “And the first rule is: abandon your seat, you die.”
The gunmen fired shots into the air, freezing the crowd.
“Back in your seats,” the conductor said.
I craned my neck in every direction, but the hysteria made it difficult to see. People who’d gotten out of their seats began scurrying back to them. The conductor was nowhere to be found. All I knew was that he was no longer on the floating platform. Was he among the crowd, behind the curtains, outside?
“These cameras, these angles—they really are quite celestial. I love seeing your faces, compliments of Janet. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, isn’t about the orchestra, Ivan, or even me.” The conductor’s voice dropped. “It’s about the real human will.”
Two projectors lowered on either side at the front of the amphitheater. Members of the orchestra crouched in place, cowering.
“I learned much about the will right here. Like you, scales fell from my eyes.” The conductor appeared on the big screens, his black-and-white makeup now contrasted against fiery red eyes, flitting his fingers and slowly letting his hands fall to his sides.
Where was he live-casting this? It couldn’t be far.
“Invited to meet the Celestial Orchestra in person—can you imagine the thrill? But the corridor I walked that night didn’t lead to a reception line. It was just Ivan, taking his newest and youngest fan backstage—introducing me to the will. His will. This your Jackson Renfroe knows, Anita Postma and Franklin Iseman too.” He snarled and nearly spit out his words. “But they’d become university darlings for their discovery, basking in the celebrity they’d created, never once considering who they’d created.” He let out guttural breaths. “Ivan’s will was akin to a Bugatti—flaunted to drive others’ perception of him and submission to him. It was wrong! The will isn’t four-wheeled eye candy; it’s petroleum-derived liquid deep within the mainframe. That”—he raised one finger in the air—“is what drives the great ones. The greater ones.”
The conductor tilted his hand toward the camera in a way that pointed toward Ivan’s lifeless body. “Know what separates the Ivans from the greater ones?” His eyes narrowed as he stared into the camera, lingering in silence. “The rival. Ivan has sucked strength out of the weak—starting with a boy. The only greatness in that is death.” He leaned clo
se to the camera projecting his image. “What’s great is what’s happening tonight: one man’s unstoppable will clashing with another’s immovable will. So would the gentleman in row 1, seat 28, in both the amphitheater and gymnasium, please withdraw what’s under your seat—and stand.”
I looked down. Grabbed my ticket.
Row 1, seat 28.
People started turning my way as recognition set in. It had been a setup? The chief, the tickets?
Images flashed in my mind: first of the conductor whispering into Renfroe’s ear, another of Renfroe trying to tell me something after Cody had beaten him to a pulp. The conductor had meant for us to overpower the chief, hadn’t he? He knew we’d use the tickets and sit exactly where we were.
Cody. He was in the same position in the gymnasium: row 1, seat 28.
“Our winner needs no introduction: you know him as the local hero. I know him as the star of my show, my string. Mr. Markus Haas. For the cheapies in the gymnasium, your lead role belongs to Cody Caulkins, whom you may have also read about in the paper. Welcome to the string. Participation is mandatory. And refusal will ensure a dear price is paid.”
Before I could form a thought or utter a word, the projectors switched to video clips of me arguing with Chief Renfroe in the press box, getting tossed out of the gym, sneaking into police headquarters, stuffing duffle bags with guns, running from Trenton officers, shooting one of them at the armory, strapping a woman—Stephanie—into a chair, and watching as a man—Cody Caulkins—beat the chief purple.
I could almost feel the collective gasps and shock of the audience. How had he compiled all this footage, some of which had just occurred?
“This man is your white knight, Trenton—living a code that could only be fueled by a will so cemented it should be immovable.” The conductor chuckled. “Tonight you experience this immovable object meeting the unstoppable force.” He paused, looking at different places in the camera as if searching for me. “Under your seat, Markus. Under your seat, Cody.”
I balled my hands into fists.
The conductor snapped his fingers, and all the masked men and women in security uniforms took aim at all different segments of the amphitheater. “Rude to keep us waiting,” he said.
I reached under my chair, grabbed the first thing I felt, and shot my hand up. “I’ve got it! Put the guns down.”
Others gasped and cursed all around me. I could hear the same rumbling coming from across the sky bridge in the gymnasium.
I looked at my raised hand to see I was holding what appeared to be a crude but elaborate bomb.
“I told you the breaking was coming,” the conductor said. “I’m just happy you didn’t care.” He pointed down, twirling his finger. “Remove the stick from the device. On that stick is a switch, and under that switch is a button. Ready?”
The two projector screens at the front of the amphitheater split into four mini screens apiece, displaying live feeds from within my house.
I put my hands, along with the bomb I was grasping, against my head. What felt like my very heart collapsed inward, as if being squeezed by an industrial-strength vise. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t straighten my face, which was stretched tight and gaunt.
“In Mr. Haas’s hands is a bomb capable of dismembering fifty of you—guts, blood, and bone.” The conductor paused. “Markus, pass the bomb to the young lady next to you in the blue blouse. Then, blue blouse, pass it to the gentleman next to you—and so forth. For those in the gymnasium, follow the lead of the ruggedly handsome one, Mr. Cody Caulkins.”
I looked at the bomb. Slowly dropped it to my side. The woman next to me choked back tears, nearly hyperventilating. She extended her hand to take the device.
“Good,” the conductor crooned. “Markus?”
I gazed at the two projectors. Different angles of Isabella and Tilly sleeping, and of Steph tapping on her laptop in the kitchen nook. How had he gotten past Zoe’s security detail so fast? Or had my place been bugged the entire time and I’d missed it?
I handed the device to the young woman, whose hands were shaking. I knew my face was telling her that I was sorry, but inside I was an inferno. What was the conductor doing? And all for an ego trip of his will?
“Calm down.” The conductor waved his hand at the screen. “You’re now free to pass it to the gentleman to your right and proceed to the sky bridge. Shoo.”
The young woman handed it to a middle-aged man beside her, who appeared to be her father. He gently pushed her up and watched her make her way to the back, trembling.
“Pass it,” a harsh voice said from somewhere behind my row. “Get that away from my son.”
The projector screens switched back to the conductor, who was cupping one ear as if trying to hear better. “That didn’t take but a few moments. Rule two: I just activated a little feature in this particular explosive, rigged to blow based on decibels.” He raised his brows. “You itchy fingers with the instruments, well, a few well-jammed chords and the device detonates while a safe distance from you. Now wouldn’t that be celestial? How much do you value your life? How much do you value the lives you’d be leaving behind? Decisions, decisions. Certainly we have some Machiavellians among us? Sadists, perhaps?” He grinned mockingly. “All it takes is one.”
The woman in the blue blouse, still choking out sobs, started crying in louder bursts as she neared the door to the sky bridge.
“Quiet, please,” a voice said to her. “You’ll kill us.”
More sobs echoed from the back.
“Shut up,” another replied on behalf of the young woman.
She pushed open the doors, shaking. Before the door swung closed, I noticed that there was another person walking into the sky bridge from the gymnasium side. The same ritual was taking place in the overflow seating.
“Pass it, come on, follow your daughter,” said that same angry voice a few rows behind me.
The father of the young woman looked at me, but not with scorn or malice. This was the look of a man who hadn’t bought what the conductor had painted of me. His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, then he passed the bomb and walked the aisle, his shoes padding against the floor.
“The thing about rule three is that it’s forgettable,” the conductor whispered as he pressed his fist to his head. “As in, those boom boxes being passed around are on a clock, set to explode the moment it hits zero—but when?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Mr. Markus Haas and Cody Caulkins have a choice. Click the detonators in their hands and one of the bombs will deactivate. Capisce? Let the battle of wills rage.”
People started passing the bomb like it was cancer, jumping from their seats and moving to the aisle.
Some cried. Others shushed.
But all looked at me.
“Do it,” a woman said.
A man in the second row back started babbling, even stood up. But before he could move to the center aisle, another man punched him. Women and men around them gasped through hand-covered mouths. Every time one person shut up, another started talking. The tones, though hushed, together created a low rumble.
I looked at the device in my hand, then glanced at the two projector screens picturing the live feeds of Steph and the girls. I knew exactly what flipping this switch would do. It would blow up either the bomb in the gymnasium or . . . Stephanie and the girls. I wasn’t about to let that happen and could only pray that Cody wouldn’t either.
The bomb passed through several rows of the amphitheater without incident, and the single-file line to the sky bridge started bottlenecking, jamming the center aisle. Strangers bumped shoulders, made pleas for why they needed out, and inched toward the door when any space opened in front of them.
I remained at my seat, unsure if movement from me would cause the conductor to blow the bombs.
The white-faced demon had disappeared to somewhere, and it had to be close by. Backstage? In an adjacent building? How could I get out of here and find him?
Just then somethin
g tugged at the hem of my pants. I looked down to see a hand at my feet, unraveling a crumpled note for me to read: Be ready for the boom. P.S. Janet says hi.
The hands dropped the note and pulled back under the chair. I turned slightly, trying to see who had crawled on their belly through the chairs behind me. But I couldn’t see a face.
A flustered voice from somewhere behind me had grown from a whisper into a mini panic, and I turned to the commotion.
The bomb, which had barely been touching fingers as it whipped through the amphitheater, had stopped on a person midway through a row near the middle of the room. The person had not only received the bomb but stayed in their seat, clutching the bomb to their chest. They wore a black top and a gray hoodie underneath, which covered their head.
“Now this, ladies and gentlemen, I did not see coming: a rogue will, a renegade, someone so absolutely uncaring of the begging souls around them . . . that they’d embrace the very device that would tear the guts from their chest.” The conductor waved his finger at the camera. “I like you, rogue one. Tilt up that head of yours before we never get to see it again.”
The person slowly raised their face, then brushed off the hood with one hand. It was a girl with black locks of hair and fair skin. This was the girl who’d manned the ticketing booth for the basketball game the day before, greeting NCAA fans with all the enthusiasm and brightness of an entertainer. But now she was sullen with tearstained cheeks and a quivering lip.
“Rosetta,” the conductor whispered. The name had exited his lips in such a way that it seemed to carry off half of the madman’s soul. The conductor knew this girl, maybe even cared for her—deeply.
His weakness, his Achilles’ heel, was right here in the form of the girl who ran the ticketing booth.
Everyone in the amphitheater watched the conductor on the two projector screens intensely, only shifting gazes momentarily to check on Rosetta.
A frustrated voice called out, “Hello, the bomb,” in a tone bordering on the loudest decibel raised since the bomb started moving.
The conductor’s eyes shifted to the voice, morphing into an inferno.
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