Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3)

by David Estes

  Eventually there’s just a massive snow-blanketed field, and the road ends at a thick stone wall and a metal gate. He’s been inside before, but that feels like a lifetime ago.

  He peers through the gate. The president’s private residence sits on a hill a mile or so away, framed by tall leafless trees cloaked in white.

  “Back away from the gate, sir,” a guard says from inside, his gun levelled on Michael.

  “I have a meeting with President Ford,” he says.

  The guard eyes him skeptically, taking in his old-looking clothes and battered face. “I have no record of any meetings tonight. The president took the night off because of the concert.” He approaches the gate, squinting into the blackness. Another guard emerges from a hut, his gun also drawn. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. But it’s Michael Kelly. And I think the president will want to see me.”

  The guard’s eyes widen and he almost drops his gun. “Holy…”

  “You’re thinking of someone else,” Michael says. “There’s nothing holy about what I have to say to him.”

  “Call it in,” the guard fires behind him. “Tell the president Michael Kelly is outside the gate.” While the other guard scrambles back into the hut, presumably to make the call, the first guard jams his thumb down on a button and the gate starts to open.

  “Get down on your hands and knees or I’ll shoot you in the face,” he says.

  “Is that any way to speak to the president’s former best friend?” Michael says, but he obeys, dropping like a dog next to Lola, who licks at his face. “Good girl,” he says, the cold seeping through his pants and into his bones.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Check can’t stop seeing Geoffrey’s face in the crowd. Everywhere he looks he sees him, but every time he gets close, the boy vanishes, his face replaced by that of some stranger.

  There are Crows everywhere, but Check just pulls the brim of his hat lower and does like he’s done his whole life: blends in. They’re making their way toward the city center, using the Tubes to keep warm like all good law-abiding citizens do.

  “Did you see Geoffrey before you left?” he asks Rod, who’s traipsing along beside him.

  “Si, why?”

  “Was he acting funny at all?”

  Rod considers the question, looking up at the arcing glass ceiling overhead. “I don’t think so. He wished me luck. Said we’d avenge Gonzo tonight. It was kind of emotional. I got choked up, I don’t know.”

  “He said ‘we’, as in him too?” Check’s blood is suddenly rushing in his head and he feels hot all over.

  “Si, but I figured he just meant it like all of us. The Lifers. You know, a united front.”

  “Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”

  “No. Nothing. Just goodbye.”

  “Not ‘See ya’?” Check asks. Geoffrey almost always says ‘See ya’ Check suddenly remembers. Come to think of it, ‘Goodbye’ is exactly what he’d said to Check when he left, too.

  “No,” Rod says slowly. Then more confidently. “No. What are you going on about?”

  “Was he in the room when you left?”

  “No, I spotted him in the hall talking to Jarrod.”

  The crowd seems to melt away and all Check can see is that glimpse of Geoffrey’s young face amongst the troop of suicide bombers. That glimpse he thought he imagined. The glimpse he now knows he didn’t imagine.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Check says, fighting off the desire to stop and run in the opposite direction. Blending in is suddenly even more important. Three lives may depend on it, rather than two.

  “What is it, amigo?”

  “Geoffrey’s going to blow himself up to avenge Luce,” Check says, the words feeling even truer when spoken out loud.

  ~~~

  To everyone else, Geoffrey is just a kid, which is his biggest advantage. Jarrod reminded him of this fact time and time again. “They don’t need to know you’re really a cobra,” the Lifer leader had told him, which made him smile.

  Which is exactly why his part of the mission is all on him. He doesn’t have a couple of burly Lifers flanking him like some of the other bombers will in order to carry out their parts. He just has himself. An unthreatening kid. Barely a flea worth swatting to the agents of Pop Con.

  Another advantage he has is that the concert is drawing so much attention to the concert hall next to the Pop Con building that security is much weaker at the back entrance. There’s a large black gate that usually only opens for authorized personnel and delivery trucks. Beyond the metal bars, two bored-looking guards sit in a shack with music playing. It’s live music from the concert, Geoffrey realizes. Sonic Boom’s #1 single of the year, When the Bombs Rain Down, bursts through a staticky speaker.

  Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Geoffrey wanders up to the gate. His hand is in his pocket casually. “Hey,” he says.

  One of the guards flinches and drops a holo-screen while the other scrambles to his feet. “Get the hell outta here, kid.”

  “My dad told me to meet him here,” Geoffrey says, the memorized lie coasting easily off his tongue. Pretend like you’re supposed to be there. Act like you need help from a parent. Act a little scared. Jarrod’s reminders play somewhere behind the lies, like background music.

  “Who’s your dad?”

  “Jonas Garman,” he says. “I’m his son, Tony.” They’re real names of real people who are allowed to be where he’s not. He can almost see the man’s guard lowering like a drawbridge as each new piece of verifiable information falls into place.

  When Geoffrey had asked what to do if the guards tried to scan him, Jarrod had said simply, “They won’t.”

  “Are you sure he’s still here?” the guard asks.

  “He said he would be,” Geoffrey says, shrugging. Just a dumb kid who doesn’t have the first clue about where his dad might be.

  “We’ll check.”

  “Thanks,” Geoffrey says, hugging himself and shivering slightly. With the night as cold as it is, he doesn’t even have to act. “Is it warm in there?” he asks, pointing to their little hut. Before the guard can respond, he says, “It’s freezing, can I wait with you guys?”

  The guard doesn’t even stop to think about it for a second. After all, he’s just a weak little kid. “Sure, Tony,” the guard says, opening the gate just enough for him to squeeze through. At the same time, Geoffrey’s fingers tighten on the device in his pocket. The device Jarrod gave him. Not the bomb detonator—that’s in the other pocket—but the one that’s like a gun, only quieter and not deadly. He doesn’t need to bother making a ruckus with these guards. Soon enough, everyone in the building will have bigger problems to deal with.

  The guard walks ahead of him, his back turned. He could so easily take him out now, but then the other guard would be alerted. “What’s your last name again?” the guard in the hut shouts.

  Geoffrey waits a beat before answering, until they’re practically inside the hut. Then he says, “Garman,” and pulls the tranq gun out, shooting once into the first guard’s back and then a second time into the other guard’s leg. The first one slumps hard to the ground while the other guy lands face first on his holo-screen.

  As Jarrod had warned, there are two cameras in the hut, and a third aimed at the gate. But their red lights aren’t on. They’re dead. Wire completed his part of the mission like a champ. His body buzzing with adrenaline, Geoffrey works fast, unclipping both guard’s ID badges, just in case he needs them. Theoretically, he shouldn’t, but he’d rather they didn’t have them either.

  He pockets them, along with the tranq gun, and retrieves another ID badge, this one with no face and no name on it. Another of Wire’s gifts. It should get him inside, but even still, he holds his breath as he swipes it across a scanner on the backdoor. The light goes green and he exhales, his warm breath sending a white cloud into the cold air.

  He opens the door and steps inside, leaving it ajar. Whet
her the doors are closed or not isn’t going to matter soon enough.

  The space inside is a small warehouse. With no deliveries planned for tonight, only the dim security lights are on, casting shadows. Tall shelves are lined with food and office supplies sufficient to maintain Pop Con’s day to day business. The business of murder, he reminds himself, feeling a bite of anger in his chest. The business of killing my sister and my friend and ruining my life.

  “Time to pay,” he mutters under his breath, just as the lights go out.

  ~~~

  When the power outage hits the concert hall, it should be terrifying. Instead, for Harrison, it’s a godsend, just the distraction they need. “Destiny!” he shouts, grabbing for the last place he saw her hand.

  “Here,” she says, and somehow their fingers meet in the darkness, above where the crowds are screaming and pushing.

  He pulls her onto his board. “Nice riding,” he says, using the glow of the dozens of portable holo-screens to guide them off toward the side of the stage. He steers them around a massive speaker and into abject darkness.

  “You too,” Destiny says. “What’s with the lights?”

  “Not sure.” A prospect hits him. “This smells like my friend Wire.”

  “The hacker?”

  “Yeah. We always thought the Lifers might be planning something tonight too. This confirms it.”

  “Maybe the electricity’s just out.”

  “Not tonight. And they have backup generators. Only Wire could take it all out like that. He’s done it before.”

  “What do we do now?” she asks.

  He realizes Destiny’s hand is still in his. It’s so warm, full of heat from busting into the concert without being scanned, the weapons detector flashing and screeching behind them. He tugs her closer. “I could think of a few things,” he says, whispering against her lips.

  “Harrison Kelly, this isn’t the time or the place,” Destiny says.

  “Sometimes that’s the best sort of time and place.”

  Despite the fact that he can’t see her, Harrison can sense her eye roll, but he knows there’s a grin behind it. “I swear half the time I’d rather punch you than kiss you.”

  “And the other half of the time I’m irresistible, right?”

  “You wish,” Destiny says. “As irresistible as sticking my hand in a bowl full of piranhas.”

  “I’ll scratch that off my list of Things to Do on Future Dates with Destiny.”

  Destiny laughs, and Harrison loves her for it. Only she would laugh in their situation. Well, and him. “Get serious. If this is the Lifers, there’s only one thing they could be planning.”

  All humor falls away from Harrison as he realizes she’s right. “Crap. They’re going to blow this place up.”

  “We have to find your brother. We have to abort before it’s too late.”

  “We’ll find him,” Harrison promises. “But we’re not aborting.”

  He floats them back into the air, taking the long, circuitous route around the edge of the hall and landing on one of the private upper balconies, the ones usually reserved for Pop Con big shots, like his dad used to be.

  “Huh,” Harrison says. The box is empty. Destiny steps off his board, hovering in the air. “They got out of here in a hurry.”

  “Or they were never here,” Destiny says.

  “What would keep them away from a big event like this?”

  “Maybe Charles Boggs suspected something. Maybe this is all a trap for us.”

  He knows his ex-best friend’s father well. For a while, he was like a father to him, too. He knows how smart he is. He managed to get to a member of Minda’s inner circle, the dead woman with the code name BloodyMary. It’s possible he got the information from her that he needed before killing her. It’s possible he’s waiting like a spider right now, as his brother the insect flies blindly toward his web.

  “We have to hurry,” he says, grabbing his board and exiting the luxury box.

  ~~~

  The cylindrical tunnel is long, and wriggling through it is slow going. It’s a good thing Simon stayed behind to replace the vent cover and guard the door, Benson thinks. He would’ve gotten himself stuck. Benson gets into a rhythm—elbow, knee, elbow, knee, repeat, repeat, repeat—the thin metal flexing under his weight. In front of him, Janice does the same, occasionally blinding him when she shines her flashlight back into his eyes. “Just checking,” she mutters each time, as if he might disappear, or crawl away from her.

  Eventually the tube climbs upward, levels out, and then begins descending. Going down is easier than up, and they’re able to half-crawl/half-slide their way to the bottom, where they reach another vent. According to the schematics he and Minda pored over for three days straight, they’re now firmly inside the Pop Con building, although there’s nothing to prove them right. There’s only darkness on the other side of the vent.

  “Damn,” Minda says. “I guess I should’ve gone first. To remove the vent.”

  “Give me the tool.” Minda hands it to Benson, who hands it to Janice. “Mom. We need you to poke your fingers through the slats and twist the screws. Can you do it?”

  “Slippery slippery slippery tools,” she says, but she turns away to get to work, her flashlight between her teeth. A moment later there’s an obscenely loud clank and clatter. Benson cringes and Janice says, “Oops.”

  “Now what?” Benson says. “Do we have a backup plan for this?” Getting through the air vents was always supposed to be one of the easier parts.

  “Brute force,” Minda says. “This opens into a supply closet. Hopefully the noise doesn’t carry too far.”

  “Ooh,” Janice says.

  “Maybe you can squeeze past us,” Benson says. Or I could squeeze past Mom.”

  “No. I have experience,” Janice says. Under the glow of her flashlight now clutched in her hand once more, Benson sees her bend her knees as far as they’ll go in the confined space, coiling them like a snake preparing to strike. They flash out and thud heavily against the vent, which rattles in its metal housing. “Back at the asylum…” THUD-rattle. “…I tried to kick out the bars over my window.” THUD-rattle. Bend her knees, coil coil, tighter tighter, snap! THUD-rattle. Each blow seems to drive a new nail into Benson’s head.

  “Did you manage to break the bars on your window?” Minda asks.

  “Nope,” Janice admits. “They tied me to the bed until I promised to stop.”

  Minda groans.

  “But I didn’t give up, no matter how many times they tied me down. And I won’t now.”

  Benson groans too.

  The racket continues for five awful minutes, but then the sound changes, adding a creak and a groan to the THUD-rattle. One more kick and the metal vent shoots forward, clanking off the wall and banging raucously against the ground.

  All three of them seem to hold their collective breaths at the same time, but no one comes. Darkness and silence greet them on the other side.

  “Phase two,” Minda says. “Control room.”

  ~~~

  Michael Kelly is taking a lot of risks, but not on getting inside. His former friend is arrogant to a fault, and Michael knows President Ford will jump at any chance to lord his success over him. So he’s not surprised when the guard says, “You’re in luck. Follow me.”

  His two guns are gone, confiscated immediately, as he knew they would be. He had to give them something to allay their suspicions. They make Lola wait outside the gate, and this time she listens when he says, “Sit. Stay.” She eases onto her haunches like an obedient little BotDog. One of the guards even says “Cute pup. Too bad you’ll never see her again.”

  The sharp-edged cap of the device in his mouth is cutting into his cheek, but he ignores the twinge of pain, giving away nothing.

  To his surprise, they handle him gently, leading him inside the gate without tying his hands or roughing him up. Everyone knows he’s a traitor to the government, and yet these government employees are han
dling him with velvet gloves. Following orders, Michael realizes, unable to stop a wry grin from spreading across his lips. Again, his former friend’s arrogance is to his advantage. He doesn’t see Michael as a threat.

  Inside the gate, they load him into an aut-car, which whisks them away without any instruction; it seems its only purpose is to transport the guards to and from the gate. Michael stares out the window as spotlight after spotlight flashes past, illuminating the snow-covered grounds.

  “Saw your video,” one of the guys says.

  “Yeah?” Michael says. “How’d I look?”

  “Like hell.”

  “I knew the Destroyer should’ve filmed from the other side,” Michael says wryly.

  The guard doesn’t laugh. “I also saw the vid of your escape. How the mob killed that cyborg. President Ford almost had a heart attack.”

  Michael continues to stare outside. “Why?” he asks, genuinely curious about what the president has told his employees.

  “No idea. But he’s matching the faces of the mob to the Pop Con database. Anyone involved will be prosecuted. Probably terminated.”

  Michael’s jaw tenses. The president is way out of control. Although such rash actions will only continue to turn public opinion against him, Michael doesn’t want to see more people die for him. He runs his tongue over the dispersal device tucked firmly in the side of his mouth. The cold metal is literally the line between life and death, agonizingly close. The only question is whether the line is for him, or for the president.

  Maybe for both of them, he thinks. Even if he’s successful, there’s a more-likely-than-not chance that he’ll be killed before he can escape, mowed down by one of the very guards sitting on either side of him now. Internally, he reminds himself to focus. This isn’t about him—was never about him. If he dies so his family can live, then he’s won the greatest victory there is.

  The aut-car slows, pulling up to a grand entrance, marble columns standing like noble sentries. Supposedly, the president’s residence is a smaller replica of the old White House, which is now under water.