Twenty-three
Gage Bronson and Blythe Sol
Rejects Underground Hideout
Washington D.C.
August 19, 4010
9:00 am
“Where are they? They’re thirty minutes late.”
I glance down at my watch, even though I know that Blythe is right. Jenica and the Professor are late. We are seated in a small, four-seater hovercraft with Barony and Monkey Arms—whose name I discovered is Ronnie—waiting for the other two members of our party to arrive. Baron was true to his word, navigating the small craft through the convoluted system of train tunnels before bringing us out on the very edge of the city, where we escaped to the wooded area on the edge of D.C. without being detected.
We arrived with five minutes to spare, but have been waiting far too long.
“Something’s wrong,” I say, staring out of the window and scanning the horizon for any sign of them. We are hovering just near the tops of the trees, concealed by branches, but still able to see quite far.
“Something is very wrong,” Blythe agrees. “Jenica is never late for anything.”
“It’s your call, mate,” Baron says.
“No,” Blythe snaps, her eyes still locked on the distance for any sign of movement beyond the bustle of the city. There is none.
“We’re not leaving without them,” I add, putting an end to Baron’s almost-suggestion. I’m sure he’d leave his own mother behind if it meant saving his own ass.
“Well, we can’t sit here much longer without worrying about attracting attention,” Ronnie argues. “So something’s gotta give.”
“Look, there!” Blythe cries, pointing in the distance at something we can’t see. By the look on her face, it can’t be good.
“What do you see?” I ask, trying to be patient as I remember that Blythe often forgets she can see miles farther than the rest of us. She’s so used to the Bionic eye that it’s now a part of her.
“Jenica and the Professor on a hover bike,” she says, her hands shaking in her lap. “And about a dozen MP crafts in pursuit. They’re coming in fast, too.”
Just as she says this, I can see them, a black shape rising above the trees and hurtling toward us fast. Seconds later, twelve other black shapes rise up behind them like a swarm of wasps in pursuit.
“Goddamn it,” I whisper under my breath as my mind races from thought to thought. What the hell are we supposed to do now?
From the corner of my eye, I see Baron smirk before exchanging glances with Ronnie. From behind me, another formation of dark shapes rises from the woods. At first, I think that we are surrounded and dead for sure now. Then, those shapes move past us, toward Jenica and the pursuing enemy. The top hatch of our craft is open and Baron and Ronnie are on the roof, flagging down one of the other small crafts passing by. One of them stops to pick them up and, just like that, they are gone.
Jenica and the Professor drop down from between the two groups as they hurtle toward each other, their intentions clear. For now, everyone has forgotten about America’s most-wanted terrorists.
Chaos ensues.
The Bionics Page 47