99 Lies

by Rachel Vincent

  Neda doesn’t even glance up from her screen, where she’s scrolling through her contacts, probably looking for her doctor’s number. She’s lost in Neda-land, and this time I can’t blame her.

  “I need your phone!” Genesis whispers fiercely.

  “What’s going on?” I dig in my clutch, an uneasy feeling crawling across my skin.

  “Silvana’s here,” Genesis says. “And she’s not here to eat catered chicken Kiev. Plan B is a go.”

  Fear shoots up my spine, leaving chills in its wake. My words carry almost no sound. “Here? With all those people in there?” My father’s plan B is targeting two hundred of the wealthiest people in the country. And again, he’s dragged my friends and me into it.

  “Are there bombs?” Luke pulls his phone from his pocket. “We should get out of here.”

  “She says there aren’t, but she could be lying. We need to clear the ballroom without panicking anyone.” Genesis is already heading for the double doors.

  “You guys, my doctor’s not answering,” Neda says, oblivious to the turn the conversation has taken. She holds her hand out again. “If this is anthrax, should I just go to the hospital?”

  “What?” Genesis spins toward us again, and I can see what she’s thinking. When she twisted her ankle in the jungle, Neda practically thought she was dying. Her “anthrax” could be a mosquito bite.

  Or it could be my father’s backup plan.

  “Show her,” I say, but Luke’s already pulling up the pictures on his phone.

  “Noo,” Genesis says. “That can’t be anthrax. Did you touch anything weird? Get into anything you don’t normally? New soap or lotion?”

  “No.” Neda frowns. “Well, I washed my hands here last night. With that cheap pump soap in the bathroom at the back of the building. There was some residue after we blew up the . . .”

  My gaze slides toward the sign on the wooden tripod, advertising the sixty-four-year-old scotch. To be won through a ridiculously juvenile balloon stomp. At a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-plate benefit.

  “The balloons . . .”

  “Oh my God,” Luke whispers. “They’re full of anthrax.”

  “I thought it was just dust.” Neda’s voice sounds hollow with shock.

  “The balloons were a last-minute addition.” Words spill out of my mouth as things begin to fall into place, my thoughts spinning so fast I can hardly focus on them. “Julia said someone approached Holden and donated the scotch, but wanted the giveaway to be part of the celebration of the fund-raising total. They’re going to announce the final tally and drop the balloons. Then—”

  “Then people will pop them,” Luke finishes for me. “Anthrax everywhere.”

  My head spins while I try to process what I’m hearing. This can’t be real.

  “One of us is supposed to trigger plan B,” Genesis whispers. “But we all did it. We blew up those balloons. And we helped plan the event.” Neda had one tank all to herself. She blew up more balloons than any of us.

  “Holden gets to push the button,” I tell them, numb with shock. “To drop the balloons. It’s his only part in the whole fund-raiser.” He’s literally going to trigger a terrorist act. Just like Genesis did. Except . . . “Oh my God, you guys, he knows.”

  “What?” Genesis frowns at me.

  “He knows about the balloons. He has to. I heard him on the phone with whoever donated the scotch. It’s someone he knows. And if this is plan B, it has to be my dad. Or . . .”

  “Silvana,” Genesis says. “She’s been in the States for days. Maybe as long as we have.”

  “But Holden hates her. She nearly had him killed,” I point out. “Why would he have been in touch with her?”

  “And where would she get a seventy-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch?” Luke asks.

  Genesis’s eyes close. “From my dad. He bought one at auction a few years ago—I think it was the same year as the prize bottle.” Her eyes open and her gaze lands on me with the weight of the whole world. “Maddie, he gave it to your dad for his fortieth birthday.”

  Holy shit. I remember that. My dad thought it was a huge waste of money that could have gone to charity.

  The irony burns straight into my soul.

  Blood drains from my face. I feel cold all over. Plan B was orchestrated by my father. Put into place by Silvana. And will be triggered by Holden. Infecting two hundred of the country’s wealthiest philanthropists—people my father believes to be hypocrites who’re “part of the problem”—with anthrax.

  Does he even care that he’ll also be infecting the caterers, waitstaff, and other employees? Not to mention his own niece and daughter?

  “So, I should go to the hospital, right?” Neda eyes are wide and scared.

  I can only blink at her.

  Luke nods. “Take a cab. Go now.”

  “By myself?” Her hands are shaking. “Am I going to die?”

  “No.” Luke takes her hand—the one with the blisters—and I realize he’s trying to calm her down. To show her he’s not afraid, and she shouldn’t be either. “Anthrax is a kind of bacteria that forms spores. It isn’t contagious. Cutaneous infection is the most common kind, and the least dangerous. All you need is some heavy-duty antibiotics. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Okay.” She nods and starts backing toward the front doors. “Okay. I got this.”

  “I know you do.” Genesis smiles at her. “Call 911 from the cab. Tell the police what’s going on. We have to get everyone out of here. But then we’ll be right behind you.”

  “We’ll all have to get checked out,” Luke adds, still smiling confidently at Neda. “We were all handling those balloons. You just got the biggest dose.”

  She gives us another shaky nod, then disappears out the front doors.

  “You’re amazing,” I tell Luke, fully aware that he just did a very nice thing for someone who’s never been anything but rude to him. But he shrugs the compliment off with an embarrassed smile. “Was any of that true?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “A strong dose of antibiotics will fix all of us right up. A cutaneous infection is really no big deal. But if those balloons pop, the spores will be distributed through the air . . . If people breathe them in . . .” He looks suddenly grim. “If the spores germinate, they can cause internal bleeding and necrosis. Your lungs can fill up with bloody fluid. Anthrax can even cause hemorrhagic meningitis. All of which means that inhaling even a little bit of anthrax can be fatal. And it’s a horrible way to die.”

  I know just how to cheer us all up.

  GENESIS

  “This can’t be happening,” Maddie whispers. “We have to warn people. We have to get everyone out of here without starting a panic.”

  “The fire alarm.” I spin around, searching the lobby until I find one by the far left set of doors. We race across the slick floor toward it and I pull down the handle, my heart pounding. Braced for a brain-splitting siren. Flashing lights. Chaos.

  Nothing happens.

  “Damn it.”

  “It’s broken?” Maddie frowns. “Tonight? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It’s been disabled,” I guess. “If Silvana snuck in here to leave anthrax-laced balloons, she would damn well have disabled our only quick-and-easy way to evacuate the building. But there are probably dozens of alarms in a place this big. Surely she didn’t disable all of them.”

  “She could have snipped the central wire at the control box,” Luke says. “Cutting them all off at once.”

  “We have to be sure. Any idea where are the rest of them are?”

  “Building code requires one at each exit,” Luke says. “And one in each of the bathrooms. The kitchen . . .”

  “I’ll take the ladies’ room. You take the men’s room,” Maddie tells him.

  “And I’ll see if there’s one in the ballroom,” I say. “If the ones in the bathrooms don’t work, meet me in there. We’ll have to evacuate this place the hard way.”

  They take off in different
directions, and I slip back into the banquet to find that the first course is being served, a few tables at a time, by several teams of waiters. Elizabeth Wainwright is still at the microphone, but I can tell from her tone and cadence that she’s nearing the end of her opening remarks.

  Standing against the rear wall, trying to be unobtrusive, I scan the large room and finally find a fire alarm on the far side of another set of doors to my left. I head that way, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm, flinching with every soft click of my heels on the floor.

  Indiana catches my eye and lifts one brow in my direction. Silently asking the obvious question. I nod subtly toward the exit as I walk. His brows rise even higher as I reach for the alarm.

  I suck in a deep breath. Then I pull the handle.

  Nothing happens.

  I pull it again. And again. And again. But it only clicks ineffectually.

  On the dais, Elizabeth sits at the head table, and Holden stands. His gaze narrows on me, and he smiles.

  He actually smiles!

  Then he calmly steps up to the podium.

  “Holden!” Elizabeth snaps softly from her seat, but I can hear her clearly from across the room.

  He gives his mother a placating smile. Then he starts speaking into the microphone.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Holden Wainwright, son of our lovely hostess. For those of you who might not watch the news, I’ve had a really rough couple of weeks, which began when I was kidnapped at gunpoint by Colombian drug lords—from whom my father declined to ransom me—then culminated last night, when I was publicly disinherited by my parents.”

  Awkward mumbles rise from the audience. Some people seem to think this is a joke. Others realize he’s committing the social version of a nosedive off a tall building.

  Holden’s mother looks humiliated. His father looks ready to breathe fire.

  On my right, the lobby door opens, and Maddie and Luke step into the ballroom. She gives me a soft shake of her head.

  All of the fire alarms have been disabled. And Holden clearly already knew that. I can’t quite wrap my mind around this. This isn’t shooting a kidnapper in self-defense. This isn’t stabbing a rescuer mistaken for a terrorist.

  This is an attack against innocent American citizens.

  What the hell happened to Holden?

  “Anyway,” he continues as his mother stares at her plate, her face scarlet. “I thought some of you might also be having a rough week, and I know just how to cheer us all up.” He pulls something from his pocket, and for a second, I think it’s his phone. But it’s a remote control with a single black button.

  Shit. Now that he knows we’ve figured it out, he’s expediting the balloon drop.

  “I assume you’ve all heard about the bottle of sixty-four-year-old Glenfiddich donated by a very generous anonymous benefactor. And I assume you know that the only way to go home with that very rare bottle is to find the golden ticket.”

  “Holden!” his father hisses.

  Holden laughs and holds up one hand, palm out, as if his father’s anger is something to be shrugged off. “This was supposed to happen at the end of the evening, but I think we could all use a little fun right now.” He lifts the remote control.

  My pulse spikes so painfully that my vision flashes gray for a second.

  Then he presses the button.

  Adults gasp and several children squeal in delight as black, red, and silver balloons rain down over the room. The effect is stunning.

  “Wait!” I shout, and my shrill cry carries over the excited mumbles of the men and women as they stare around at the display. “Don’t move! Don’t touch the balloons! They’re full of poison!”

  I don’t know anything.

  MADDIE

  I watch in horror as balloons settle onto the floor all over the ballroom, my cousin’s shout echoing in my head. Heads swivel all across the room. Shocked eyes focus on Genesis.

  Holden sets the remote control on the podium, then turns and flees in a fast walk across the dais—away from his parents. He jogs down the steps and heads for the nearest door. Quickly.

  Genesis turns to Luke and me. “I’ll go after Holden. You get up there and tell people not to pop those balloons!” Then she races around the perimeter of the room—where the balloons have not fallen—and out the door without waiting for my reply.

  Damn it!

  I grab Luke by the arm. “Get Indiana and Penelope out of here!” I whisper urgently into his ear. Then I kick off my heels and rush toward the host table, wading shin deep into a carpet of large, shiny, deadly balloons. “Don’t touch them!” I shout as I go. “They’re filled with poison!”

  A low murmur washes over the crowd as people stare, trying to decide whether or not to believe me. I dodge balloons as I weave between the tables, and on my way toward the dais, I see a small boy in an adorable and obviously expensive three-piece suit pick up one of the red balloons and squeeze it. I slap it from his hands.

  He starts screaming.

  “Seriously!” I snap at his parents. “Poison!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright stare at me in shock as I race up the steps and rush past them to the podium. I grab the microphone, and it squeals through the speakers mounted in the corners of the room. But before I can say a single word, the sharp pop of a balloon breaking echoes across the room.

  “Shit!” The microphone picks up my curse and amplifies it. Some people laugh. Others stare. I can feel the weight of their focus like an invisible pressure.

  “Maddie!” Elizabeth Wainwright stomps toward me in her heels, and I backpedal, determined not to let her have the microphone. Feedback squeals again, and several people drop balloons to clutch their ears.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin. “I don’t want anyone to panic, but we have reason to believe those balloons are filled with anthrax.”

  Elizabeth’s flush deepens until she looks like a tomato with arms. “Give me the mic!” she demands softly.

  “This is not a joke!” I insist into the microphone. “My friends and I blew up those balloons last night, and Neda just left here with anthrax blisters on her hand. She’s on her way to the ER. You should all be doing the same thing.”

  “What the hell is going on?” someone demands from the audience, but I can’t see who spoke. “Is this a joke?”

  “It’s not funny!” someone else shouts.

  “I’m sorry. But I’m totally serious. Even if you don’t believe me, are you really willing to risk it?”

  A grumble rises from the audience, and one parent snatches a balloon from her daughter’s hands, her eyes wide and terrified.

  “The balloon that popped . . .” I glance across the room, trying to figure out where the sound came from. “Did any white powder come out of it? Any residue?”

  “Oh my God!” A woman in a red ball gown stands, still holding the fork she evidently used to pop the balloon. “It’s all over me!”

  Shouts rise in a panicked cacophony. I can’t hear them all clearly, and I don’t have any of the answers they’re asking for.

  “Ma’am, you need to go to the hospital,” I say into the microphone. “Everyone near you needs to go to the hospital. Right now. And everyone else, slowly, calmly leave the building. The police are already on their way. No need to rush. There are plenty of exits. So walk calmly and slowly. And do not pop any more balloons.”

  To punctuate my point, I set the microphone down and head for the steps at the end of the raised platform. Slowly. Calmly. But the Wainwrights step into my path.

  “Maddie, what the hell is going on?” Elizabeth demands.

  “I don’t know anything else except that we need to get out of here. Now.” I step down from the side of the platform and head for the nearest door, skirting balloons as best I can. “Oh.” I turn back to them. “And your son’s going to need your lawyers again. Like, the whole team of them.”

  “The doors are locked!” someone shouts from the left side of the room. “Th
ey’ve been chained from the outside!”

  “Okay, everyone calm down!” Indiana calls out over the crowd. “The doors at the back of the room are open. So are the doors into the kitchen. We’re all going to get out of here.”

  Yet all around me, people are running. Panicking.

  And as my gaze connects with Luke, where he and Indiana are trying to direct people toward the main exits, I hear another balloon pop.

  A shriek rises from the crowd.

  The stampede toward the doors becomes a crush of well-dressed bodies, fleeing a sea of party balloons.

  You all deserve whatever you get.

  GENESIS

  “Holden, you son of a bitch, get back here!”

  He glances over his shoulder at me, then takes off down the back hallway. As if he could ever outrun me.

  I kick my shoes off, and even holding my own skirt, I catch up to him in under a dozen steps. I grab the back of his tux jacket, spin him around, and shove him into the wall. When he tries to free himself, I ram my knee into his groin.

  “Anthrax? How the hell could you do this?” I demand.

  Holden coughs and dry retches. If I weren’t holding him up, he’d curl around his wounded privates. “I didn’t do anything but play my part in a charity event. I had no idea there was anything bad in those balloons. You and your cousin and your friends blew them up. It’s your fingerprints they’ll find on the tanks. On the balloons. On the clips. The balloons were shipped to you. From Colombia, where your family has notorious and dangerous connections. Who exactly do you think is going to go down for this?”

  “You’re willing to kill all those people just to get back at me?” This isn’t just anger. This is insanity. How could I not have seen it?

  “It’s a return blow for the poison the US government has been spraying over Colombia’s farm fields for decades,” he chokes out. “But it’s just to scare them. To teach them a lesson. Anthrax is survivable.”