by Paul Duffau
The spasming agony of Mitch’s seized muscles disappeared, replaced by a trembling exhaustion. Still gasping, he stepped forward, chin jutted out and pointed. “You don’t mess with Kenzie. You might be right about everything else, I don’t care. You do not mess with her.”
“I don’t intend to, or I wouldn’t be helping you, though she’s bad for you. You go stupid like the rest of them when she’s part of your equations.”
Mitch clamped down on his teeth to stifle his words, but the thought remained, exactly as he’d told Jackson; Kenzie was the best thing to ever happen to him.
Hunter misconstrued silence for agreement. “Good. Now can we complete the project?”
Mitch nodded, still not trusting himself to speak. The “project” had just gotten way more complicated.
Mitch left his phone in the car before he sauntered over to the edge of the clearing and checked to make sure nobody was watching him. He didn’t know how accurately his location could be pinpointed, and revealing a lot of back-and-forth activity would heighten suspicions. He looked again. All clear, as he expected for a Monday morning. It wouldn’t stay that way for long since it was spring break. Time to get busy.
Below him on the hillside sat the amphitheater like the skull of a flat fish, the concrete benches acting as the ribs as they radiated out from the center line. He had abandoned the first location by the picnic area after walking the grounds. The sightlines were so constricted that Lassiter’s gunmen would be right on top of Kenzie. For his plan to work, more separation needed to be created, hence the relocation. This laid out much better.
The stage of the amphitheater was raised about five feet from the ground and curved in an arc of about fifteen degrees. On either side, steps rose to the stage, with bushes hiding the treads from the front. Mitch approached the steps on the left. Kenzie would enter stage right, following a thin ribbon of wooded trail from the paved running path below.
Mitch was tall enough to see over the stage. Kenzie would not be, so he’d have to give her directions. Lassiter would stay away from her. He had already seen how effective she could be in close range. He’d end up about right where Mitch was standing—any farther back, and he’d be into the bushes.
Lassiter, paranoid that he was, expected a trap.
Mitch grinned without showing teeth or a hint of warmth. His penetrating search of the nearby vegetation revealed the perfect spot for the thermite. Close enough to cause confusion without a risk of injury to Kenzie.
The robot could be situated anywhere close. The only purpose it served was to dial the burner phone to summon help and act as a distraction.
The woods, he decided, on the side opposite the trail Kenzie would be on. The security goons for Lassiter would scan for threats. He already knew that they monitored electronics. They could detect Kenzie doing her thing, which still bugged him. He shrugged it off. Worry later, he thought.
Infrared. He could screen the bot for that. Hiding it now gave the metal time to achieve temperature equilibrium with the surrounding growth.
Metal detector? Probably not.
All in all, he considered, this would work.
Mitch carried the robot down, along with a cardboard box and a flat sheet of plastic. The forecast was for sunny skies, making this about the nicest spring he had ever had in Seattle. Normally, the gloom sat on everything, sucking energy out of him until at least June. He basked in the warmth for a minute.
He found a protected spot next to a towering lodgepole pine surrounded by leafy underbrush. With the sole of his shoe, Mitch cleared the leaves. An earthy scent wafted up to him. Into the cleared area went the robot. Mitch checked the balance and ran a test sequence to ensure it would work. The arm moved smoothly to the phone. Mitch jabbed the controls and interrupted the program before the phone could be powered up. Satisfied, he put the robot into hibernation mode.
He tied a line to the actuator arm and threaded it through the branches of the bush. He wouldn’t need a big distraction, just enough to get the man to look over his shoulder. Mitch walked the line twenty yards to the left side of the amphitheater. He stuck the heavy plastic into a bush and tied the fishing line to a prepunched hole he had made. He gave a gentle tug. The bush made a satisfying rustle.
Lifting the box over the shrubs, he finagled the cardboard through the clingy branches. He pressed it down, listening to the scratch of the plants against the side of the box. The flaps hit the soil first, and Mitch bent at the waist to adjust them so they folded out.
“Hey, mister!”
Startled, Mitch cut his forearm as he spun to face the direction of the shout.
Standing up the hillside was a boy, maybe eight or nine, staring at him with curiosity. Mitch cursed under his breath. It could have been worse than a noisy kid.
“What’s up, man?” Mitch hollered, putting a smile on his face. He wiped his hands on the front of his jeans.
“Whacha doing?” The kid cocked his head over.
Mitch forced a laugh. “Just setting some stuff up for a new show next weekend.” He inclined his head at the stage of the amphitheater. “I need to get some equipment in. Want to see?” He gestured with his hand, simultaneously hoping the stupid kid would remember not to come near strangers. Didn’t the little dweeb have a mother somewhere?
The kid eyed Mitch, a battle between his curiosity and caution showing. Caution won.
“I got to find my mom.” He backpedaled.
“It’s cool,” said Mitch. “Tell her the gig is next Saturday, eight o’clock. We’ll have this place rocking, for sure.”
“Un-huh.” The kid gathered steam and turned his back to Mitch.
Sixteen and gonna die of a heart attack, thought Mitch. Quickly, he took tent stakes out of his hip pockets and impaled the flaps of the box to the ground. He adjusted the foliage and added some downed twigs to cover up the box. Stepping back, he inspected his handiwork. Not too bad, he thought. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past.
Mitch hid the thermite in the bushes, covering the old piston with a paper bag. He frowned, worried that he was going to do irreparable damage to the foliage, then shrugged. Added it to the “worry later” list.
Standing, Mitch eyeballed the angles, squinting into the sun. Lassiter would stand about there, and I’ll steer Kenzie to that spot. That put riflemen at the corners by the parking lot. They’d need to establish the proper angles for firing without endangering their boss. He’d insert himself between Kenzie and Lassiter.
Last step. He walked down the path at the rear of the stage. It led to the asphalt path that ringed the island. In a quick jog, he went back to the kids’ play park with the swing. Before it was a patch of poison oak, which park managers had helpfully marked as such with a wooden sign. Careful not to touch the leaves, he winnowed his way up the hillside. Using another stretch of the transparent fishing line, he lashed it into a high crook of an oak tree, where it would stay hidden. He tapped the activation button, and the relay went live. If Lassiter’s men were scanning for the frequency, he was toast, but it was a risk he had to take. The ultrahigh range of the relay probably would be outside their detection parameters. That part was good thinking by Hunter.
His jaw set hard as he thought about his former friend. The changes taking place in the dude were stunning. Always cocky, new Hunter had gone from exuding arrogance toward everyone to outright contempt, with a strong sense of totalitarianism for humanity as a whole.
He wondered what Lassiter would think of the activity at Seward. Did he suspect that Mitch knew about the compromised phones, or did he think that he still held that advantage? Mitch knew that the man examined every possibility. Chances of the crook leaving via the parking lot approached zero. The island was an isolated system with a single road. Lassiter would opt for a water extraction where he could flee faster and in more directions. Mitch discounted the possibility of a helicopter. They were noisy and too easy to track on radar.
He could add explosives to t
he list of things that Lassiter’s crew would search for. The lines of a hard grin compressed his lips. Explosives almost always used nitrogen. They would look, but not find his explosives. They’d also know he’d planted a tracker, discouraging them from opening the Faraday bag until they obtained the security of a shielded room. He planned to announce the tracker during the handover. Lassiter was sure to threaten him again, but Mitch suspected that Lassiter wanted to use Kenzie more than he wanted to snuff a teenage boy. I hope. . . .
Mitch strode back to the Camaro. The easy part was done. Time to make one more stop, to drop off the thumb drive that Hunter gave him, along with instructions for Raymond Graham.
Mitch fingered the envelope in his pocket as he replaced the phone. Kenzie would kick his ass if she knew about it. It contained a letter with everything he knew for a fact, most of what he suspected, and a request for assistance. More like begging for help, since he was acutely aware of how limited their resources were against someone like Lassiter. It would be convenient if Kenzie could wave a wand and turn the man into a slug they could squish under a heel, he mused, but that was wishful thinking. Pretending two teenagers could take out a well-organized crook with a full team behind him wasn’t any more realistic.
He punched the accelerator a couple of times as he turned the key, enjoying the throaty response, the heavy vibration muting the disquieting tenseness in his stomach. He backed out and looped back to the park entrance.
He drove slowly along Lake Washington Boulevard, scanning in front and behind for traffic. As he approached the Grahams’ mailbox, he slowed further.
Now, he thought, hitting the brakes and stopping the car dead in the middle of the road. He launched from the driver’s seat like a pilot ejected from a burning plane, and sprinted across the road. A second later, the envelope was in the mailbox. He was back in the car and pulling away in less than ten seconds.
Ten minutes later he parked the Camaro in his garage and breathed a sigh of relief. Mitch clambered from the car, went inside, and headed directly to his room.
As he opened the door, the other phone, Kenzie’s private line, went off. He reached for it.
I need a ride, read the message.
His thumbs twitched across the screen. Say please.
The reply came in seconds. Please.
The second one came seconds later. Butthead.
Chapter 48
“How long until Jackson, uh . . . recovers?” asked Mitch in the silence that followed him killing the engine.
Kenzie shrugged, ignoring Mitch’s agitation. “A couple of hours, at least, but if we get done fast, I can bring him back up in a sec.” The barrel roof of the church stood stark against the sky while the closed-up front gave the impression of slumbering until the next Gathering. “You can’t stay here in front. Someone will see you. Pull down one street and make a right. I’ll text you from inside when I’m done.”
“I can come in with you. As a precaution?”
“No, you can’t,” Kenzie said with a definitive shake of her head. “I’m not sure I can get myself around the security without alerting my dad. It’ll be double bad if I get caught bringing you in, too.” And I have no idea what the Glade will do to a mundane boy, either, she thought. One of those things she should keep to herself. How the whole thing hadn’t blown Mitch’s mind astounded her, but she felt a thrill that he hadn’t abandoned her.
She put her left hand lightly on his forearm. “I’ll be fine,” she said, meeting his eyes. Mitch’s irises held a violet blue, deeper in color to go along with the pinched forehead. “Wait for me, okay?”
“Forever,” he blurted, then blushed at his naked impulsiveness.
In response, Kenzie leaned close and gave him a peck on the cheek and, as her insides went wobbly, she wondered which of them was more shocked.
“I’ll be right back.”
She slid out of the car and heard Mitch start the big engine that vibrated the air. The pent-up power of the sports car was crazy different than her parents’ more sedate sedans. Mitch revved the motor, shattering the normal busyness of the street. Kenzie loved that sound, fraught with wildness.
Mitch up-ticked his chin, then pulled away from the curb as though he were holding a race horse that desperately wanted to hurtle into a sprint closely in check until the time was right.
Kenzie mounted the steps, absorbing deep soothing breaths with each riser. When she reached the broad oak doors, she reached for the handle with both her hand and her every sense. Safe, so far. She entered the code and heard the click of the lock releasing. Her palm slick against the weighty handle, she pulled. The door squealed. The noise paralyzed her in place while she waited for a reaction. One second, two, and she let out the pent-up air and took a single pace into the dim foyer.
A peculiar spell swirled around her. The Linius spell floated in front of her, waiting to capture her again, but this other spell didn’t seem to do anything. Tentatively, she relaxed, letting the force of her magic drift from her. A feeling of revulsion grew at the back of her throat, bilious and bitter, and for an instant, she contemplated fleeing the building. Swiftly, she reasserted control. The feeling disappeared.
Interesting, she thought, hands trembling. That’s how the Family kept out random strangers who might, through luck, find their way past the locked doors. For a moment, she pitied the stray drunk seeking solace and shelter in the church during Seattle’s incessant rains, only to be driven away. She swallowed, but the nastiness remained.
Kenzie gave a hard shake of her head and her right eye narrowed at the corner. The Linius was nearly identical to the spell of Sasha’s she had broken. Instead of breaking it, though, she needed to bypass it.
Like . . . this?
Her right hand, of its own accord, turned palm up. With a push, the whole fabric of the spell rose like a curtain to the ceiling, leaving an open space below.
Kenzie took one step, searched for another spell. She repeated the exercise four more times. With each step, the inlaid stars at the door gained in brightness, until she thought she could feel the pressure of the cleansing light.
What the hell is this? The last spell was tied to the doors to the interior, wrapped around the handles like woven snakes. A primal quaking shuddered through her body. She placed a hand out, palm forward and fingertips up, to gauge the nature of the spell.
The spell reacted instantly, forming a head that extended toward the proffered hand. Kenzie snatched it back, folding it up under her breasts.
The venomous-looking head returned to its position as sentry.
She studied the trap. As near as she could tell, magic wasn’t directly involved.
That made these quasi-real, imbued with special properties, like scaring little girls. It was working.
She put up a quivering hand, well out of striking range. The head rose to meet it. She exerted some sideways pressure with magic. The serpent went from relatively benign to hostile, jaws opening to release a vicious hiss, tongue flicking toward her.
Kenzie hurriedly dropped the spell. The snake resettled around the handles.
No magic, then.
That left mundane answers, like snake charming—or snake handling.
Her teeth chattering, Kenzie lifted her hand again. Battling muscles that fought to keep her from touching the sentry, she forced a violently trembling hand under the head of the snake.
“Come,” she whispered, and the reptilian shape unwound and slithered onto her arm. Every muscle went rigid to prevent her from flinging the serpent off. The heft of the dense muscular body pressed against her flesh as the snake traversed her arm, before winding itself around her shoulders.
“Enter,” came a disembodied voice.
Trembling, she reached for the handle and pulled it open to see the ranks of pews lined up in front of her. Kenzie stepped through the doorway, and the snake shifted, sliding back to the door. Kenzie turned to see it disappear through the crack of the closing door, getting impossibly thin to fit.
She was in. Still shaking, she proceeded down the length of the aisle between pews, releasing a sigh of relief as the comfortable change into her robe took place, the walls receding as the Glade came to vivid life, the moon brighter than ever. She paused at the base of the grotto, head turning right and left.
Now what? she thought. A brief moment of panic froze her lungs, and Kenzie consciously forced herself to relax. She let the Glade soak into her senses. The stars were scattered across the sky like a jeweled necklace, their glitters accenting the lunar light. Darkness sat below the silent, still trees, deep shadows cast from above. Impulsively, she lifted her hand, and a hint of a zephyr rose to touch her skin. Her robe captured the breeze and flowed against her body in a gentle caress. The air reached the trees, and broad leaves turned to silver as they rustled and reflected silver rays to where she stood.
A peaty scent pervaded the air and carried with it a smoky taste, far from the usual flowery sweetness of the Glade. Not unpleasant, it conjured a feeling of lying near a fire, listening to the crackle.
Kenzie drew in a deep breath as though she could inhale the Glade and its wonder, then let it sigh out past open lips.
She could search for hours and days without finding the object her mother hid. The Glade, with its natural magic, would adapt to her activities and change shape and size to accommodate her.
The Glade isn’t really real.
It was a dumb thought, and probably not quite right, but, in it, Kenzie saw a way forward. She allowed her eyelids to drop. Chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, she brought calm to her center. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Glade, down to the ribbing on the leaves. Into this, she injected a request bearing a feather of magic.