No Refuge

by Richard Bard

  “Of course. But first I need to take a picture of your face.”

  “My picture? What for?”

  “You’ll see.” I sent commands to activate the camera built into the frame of the computer monitor, and our live images appeared on the screen. “Scooch closer so it’s just you.” She moved into position, I captured the image, and went to work. A blur of windows flashed across the screen.

  “Wow,” Simon said.

  I drilled through one firewall after another, careful to avoid tripping any alarms. I started with one of the most secure government sites in the country, the National Security Agency. I wasn’t there to do anything bad; I just needed to gain access to its facial recognition software. I figured the agency’s was probably the best anywhere. Creating a hidden access portal to the software wasn’t easy, but with my direct brain connection, I’d be out of the network before anyone even realized I was in.

  No wonder the government wants to grab me.

  A few commands later and the software’s interface dashboard appeared on both the desktop monitor and Simon’s tablet.

  “Yes,” Simon said, reaching toward the tablet.

  I blocked his hand with mine. “It’s probably best if you don’t mess with it just yet.”

  He pulled back but the gleam in his eyes remained. “Sorry. Of course. Keep going. This is sooo cool.”

  A window with Ellie’s picture popped up, the software capturing the planes, angles, and dimensions of her features.

  Strawberry said, “Oh, since you’re twins—”

  “The software will be able to locate Jazz from my photo,” Ellie finished her sentence.

  “Yeah,” Simon said, “but you still need to access to street cameras and that sort of thing, right?”

  “That’s the easy part.” I drilled into the Bogota traffic cam network and hundreds of live video feeds checkerboarded the screen. “There won’t be as many cameras as in a big US city, but there should still be plenty.” I burrowed into store cams, ATMs, hotel cams—you name it, starting with the area where the abduction occurred and expanding outward from there. Before long, the number of feeds was in the thousands.

  “Now all we can do is wait,” I said, sitting back. I made a few entries on the tablet before handing it to Simon. “Don’t let this out of your sight. When it chimes, let me know.”

  Simon grinned. “I’m on it.”

  I turned to Ellie. “Even if we can’t go ourselves, at least we’ll know where she is.”

  “And we can call the authorities,” Strawberry said.

  Ellie shook her head. “Who can we call?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But—”

  Deondre rounded the corner carrying a large shoe box. He was alone. “You won’t have to call anyone,” he said. He pushed past Simon and deposited the box on the desk.

  We were all motionless for a moment. Then Ellie slowly pulled the top from the box and peeked inside. She gasped, tossing the top aside.

  Simon leaned forward. “You’re kidding me.”

  The box was filled with passports.

  “They’re from Belle’s office,” Deondre said.

  “Oh, God,” Ellie said.

  “Jeeze,” Simon said. “Those are…”

  He didn’t need to say the rest. We all realized the passports had belonged to orphans who’d died there. The dark moment didn’t last long, though. I sensed the group moving past it like they’d had to move past so many other things. The reality of death surrounded their every waking moment in Billy’s Home.

  “You’re not going to tell Belle?” Strawberry finally asked.

  Deondre shook his head.

  Ellie turned toward him. “Why not?”

  I already knew the answer, because I noticed Deondre had already palmed a passport for himself.

  “Because I’m going, too,” he said.

  Ellie stared at him.

  “Huh?” Strawberry said.

  Simon crossed his arms. “No way.”

  They all looked to me, and for the first time I felt the weight of the responsibility I’d taken on. My mind flashed over all the things that could go wrong on this so-called adventure, and I had to fight back a creeping sense of foreboding. What am I doing?

  But then I looked back at them, one by one, and realized how much each had changed since the day before. I’d brought hope back into their lives and it had invigorated them. It reminded me of the time my dad told me he’d thought he was going to die. He hadn’t known yet that the freak accident in the MRI had sent his cancer into permanent remission. He’d still believed he had only a few months left, and he’d wished that before he died, he could accomplish just one thing, anything, to make a positive difference in the world. If I could do that, he’d said, then my life would’ve been worth something.

  Then he’d met my mother, and Ahmed and Sarafina. And he’d done whatever was necessary to save them. If he hadn’t…

  I would never have been born.

  I’d opened the door, and nothing was going to stop my new friends from racing through it. The truth was, I felt the same way.

  Deondre returned my stare. His I-dare-you-to-cross-me expression was still there, but it didn’t mask the flicker of hope coming from him. He didn’t want to go with us; he needed to. Something had changed in him and I suspected I knew what it was.

  Ellie must have sensed it, too, because her expression had softened. “Why do you want to go, Deondre? Really?”

  His face clouded. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a playing card, and slapped it on the table.

  Two of spades.

  Strawberry covered her mouth with her hand, and we all exchanged surprised looks.

  “You know about The Card Club?” Simon asked.

  Deondre pressed his lips together.

  After a moment, Ellie pulled out her own card and held it up. The rest of us followed suit, and for the first time, the boy behind Deondre’s scowl was there for all to see.

  “Welcome aboard,” Ellie said. She grabbed a handful of passports and looked through them. “Let’s see who I’m going to be.” The rest of us joined in.

  Twenty minutes later—after first hacking into the social security database to delete the death records associated with the passports we’d selected—we all had new identities and confirmed flight reservations. I’d also made arrangements through the darknet for the fake visas, certified parental authority letters, and other documents we’d need to get out of the country. I was amazed at how simple it was. I’d even arranged for someone to pick us up at the front gate of Billy’s Home after lights out, and to escort us through airport security as unaccompanied minors.

  From drugs to thugs and everything in between.

  Belle’s voice sounded from down the hall, so we retreated out the back door.

  As we hurried out, Simon nudged Deondre. “So, you’ve been spying on us, huh?”

  “Whatever. And by the way, you’re still a punk.” Deondre hit the shorter boy in the shoulder. This time, Simon grinned.

  Chapter 12

  Western British Columbia, Canada

  One day earlier

  JAKE WAS DEAD, and he intended to stay that way.

  I’ll never see my family again.

  He sat on the edge of an old wooden dock, his hiking boots dangling over the water of the cove. The first rays of the dawning sun warmed the back of his neck, but he still needed the flannel shirt and fleece hunting vest to ward off the chill. Forested hills reflected off the lake’s shimmering surface, and tiny waves lapped gently against the pontoons of the single-engine bush plane moored beside him. A flock of geese flew overhead, their calls seeming to encourage one another as they maintained their V formation. It reminded him of his Air Force days. The air was fresh, the water clean, and there wasn’t another soul within miles.

  Perfect.

  He rubbed the scarred skin on his palm and fingers, a result of the death grip he’d had on the miniature pyramid during
the midair crash over China.

  Was it really only six days ago?

  The explosion had destroyed the helicopter he’d targeted on his kamikaze run to kill the triad leader and his treacherous daughter, and to finally eliminate the threat to Jake’s family and friends. As he recalled the event, the action played like a slow-motion reel in his mind.

  His senses were supercharged by the alien object in his hand, and the world slowed as he dived the C-130 aircraft toward the helicopter. He yearned for the peace of death, but a part of him wouldn’t allow it. Indecision stayed his hand for a precious instant, until finally a determined cry burst from his lungs. He set the autopilot, ignited the fuel-drenched decoy corpse at his feet, and fled toward the open cargo ramp. The mini’s energy spurred his movements, but his internal timer told him he’d waited too long. He was two steps from the exit when the aircrafts collided, and the explosion hurled him outward through the expanding fireball, shrapnel shredding his skin—and the chute pack. His scorched and tattered body plummeted in tandem with thousands of bits of flaming debris. He screamed when the right side of his face was hit by a strip of molten plastic that clung like a parasite.

  The pain blinded his senses as he tumbled toward the treetops, but his gasps of agony were cut short when a surge of power from the mini enveloped him in a shield that sliced through the trees and slowed his fall. Not by much, though. He slammed onto his back, the breath knocked from his lungs as his neck whiplashed with a loud crack that numbed his spine. His mind had only begun to realize the implications when a swell of energy seized his body, infusing him from head to toe with an electric current that shook his limbs and rattled his bones. He felt the hairs of his skin stand on end, and for a moment the air around him glowed with a brilliant light that sparked with static. It ended as quickly as it began, and when he took his first tentative breath afterward, he felt no pain. He turned his head, and his neck seemed fine. He moved his limbs without incident, and when he touched his burned face the skin felt cool. But debris cascaded around him, and the forest canopy was aflame. So he pushed to his feet and ran for all he was worth, weaving through the trees to evade the rain of death, nodding in satisfaction as he leaped over the scorched remains of the soldier who now wore his clothes and identification.

  He’d raced to the team’s abandoned truck to retrieve his grab bag. The bag’s contents had provided him with the clothes, cash, and fake identification he’d needed to make his way to this new home—an isolated log cabin in the wilderness of southern British Columbia. It had belonged to his grandfather, and Jake had fond childhood memories of annual family visits spent fishing, hunting, and puddle jumping from one lake to another in Grandpa’s floatplane. Jake had been five years old when he caught the flying bug on his first flight in that plane, and he hadn’t lost it since.

  He glanced at the cabin behind him, his eyes going distant as he imagined his grandpa sitting on the planked porch smoking his pipe, a sparkle in his eye as he watched young Jakey skipping rocks on the lake. The property included a cabin, dock, and water garage for the plane. It had passed to Jake when Grandpa died twenty years ago, and Jake hadn’t been able to bring himself to return since the funeral. Until now. His grandfather’s WWII copilot and best friend lived on a nearby Native reserve, and the man’s family had looked over the place—and Grandpa’s 1959 de Havilland Beaver bush plane—on Jake’s behalf. The two-bedroom cabin was cozy, and Jake had encouraged the tribe to use it whenever they liked. The people rented it out when they could, and Jake insisted the proceeds be used to help their small community. When he’d called to let them know he was coming, they’d been happy to help him get set up—and to keep quiet about the fact he was alive and well.

  A sliver of smoke drifted from the chimney, backdropped by the deep shadows of the towering trees that climbed the slopes beyond. Scattered beams of sunlight pierced their limbs to highlight patches of fog that clung to the ground. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining how Francesca would’ve loved it.

  He shook his head. Stop it.

  Sure, it was a beautiful spot, but it was also dangerous as hell. Except for the tribe on Hope island eight miles away, and the occasional lunatic camper who didn’t know any better, the only neighbors in this ’hood were cougars, wolves…and bears.

  Grandpa had died from a bear attack.

  Yes, this inhospitable place was perfect for Jake. Far from prying eyes. A place where no one would ever find him.

  Not that anyone would’ve recognized him now anyway.

  The mini had untold powers, but a plastic surgeon it was not. It had somehow insta-healed his broken bones and burned face, eliminating the pain as it infused him with new layers of skin. But the distorted image that looked back at him in the mirror wasn’t Jake Bronson. His cheeks were fuller, one side of his forehead was more pronounced, and the patches of new skin on his cheeks and chin shone with a smoother texture than the rest. And it itched like crazy. He scratched at it, confirming his stubble was nonexistent on that side of his face. He ran a finger along the brow above his drooping right eyelid. At least his lashes and eyebrows were growing back. Even so, it wasn’t a pretty face, to say the least.

  It didn’t matter, though. The world thought he was dead, and his new face would help him stay that way. He selected a disk-shaped rock from a small pile he’d gathered earlier, then stood and flung it across the water, counting each impact as it skipped along the smooth surface. His eyes narrowed as the frequency of each skip quickened exponentially. He’d never been able to get a sure count when he was a kid, but with his new brain there was no doubt.

  That’s twenty-five skips, Grandpa!

  He smiled as he recalled Grandpa’s go-to reply: “The Guinness world record is fifty-one, boy. Throw harder.”

  He cocked his arm to throw a second stone but hesitated, lowering his hand. He considered the mini stuffed in his pocket, and his pulse quickened at the mere thought of tapping into its strength. When he’d first found it eight years ago, he’d used it regularly, embracing the rush that had enhanced his physical abilities. He’d become addicted to it, using it more and more each day. But like a drug, it had side effects.

  He tucked his hand under his vest and rubbed the chest scar beneath his flannel shirt. The human body wasn’t designed to handle the stresses the mini had placed on it. When he’d used the alien object’s energy to push his body beyond its limits to prevent the terrorist, Luciano Battista, from unleashing a deadly virus into America’s water system and detonating a nuclear bomb on its soil, Jake’s heart had given out. He’d died on a jungle battlefield in Venezuela, and if it hadn’t been for the swift actions of the medics who’d restarted his heart and kept him alive long enough to receive an emergency heart transplant, he’d be six feet under. As it was, he’d remained in a coma for six years, kept alive in a secret government laboratory.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, Jake pulled the mini from the pocket of his cargo pants. He tossed it gently upward, his thoughts focused on its shimmering black surface.

  It stopped mid-flight, hovering above his palm. Its energy felt good, but his heart was hollow.

  My family is safe, but only as long as I’m never with them again.

  As long as I remain off grid.

  He thought back to the alien grid that had encircled the planet and nearly destroyed mankind six years ago. Are we ever really off grid? he asked himself.

  He returned his attention to the hovering mini.

  What the hell? I’m already dead.

  Drawing a deep breath, he allowed the power to flow into him. His vision sharpened, and the sounds and smells of the forest were laid bare: Evergreen spiced the air, laced with the smell of sap streams and lichen and the musk of dead leaves. He heard the skitter of a pair of squirrels spiraling up a tree, the rustles and creaks of the forest canopy playing in the morning breeze, a woodpecker hammering through bark, all of it accompanied by an orchestra of cicadas and other insects. The world was alive.

 
; And so was Jake.

  He pocketed the mini and side-armed the rock across the water with more force than a major league pitcher. The spinning stone buzzed like a fleeing hummingbird, its first graze with the water followed by another, and another, and many more, until it finally receded more than halfway across the expansive lake.

  “Ha!” Jake shouted. “Take that, Guinness.” He grabbed three more rocks and hurled them one after another at the distant tree line. All three were in the air before the first one rocketed into the target tree with enough force to shred bark. The second and third struck within inches of the first, and Jake pumped his fist Tiger Woods style.

  “Yeah!” He leaped from the dock and charged up the hill. He skidded to a stop thirty yards from the forest edge, his focus on a different tree. After pulling his grandpa’s Bowie knife from its belt sheath, he hurled it at the target. It spun end over end in a blur before embedding itself in the tree with a solid thunk.

  “Daniel Boone’s got nothin’ on me.” Jake jogged over and retrieved the knife. He was about to throw at a new target deeper in the woods when he heard the echo of a high-pitched cry. It had come from a long ways off. He turned an ear toward the sound, unsure of what he’d heard. It sounded again, much louder.

  A woman’s scream.

  He sheathed the knife and raced up the slope, his senses seeking the path of least resistance through the choked foliage. He twice dropped to all fours to scramble through the brier like a wild boar. A dark shadow bounded from his path, sleek and swift, but Jake ignored its feline musk, shooting past the remnants of the shredded rabbit that had been the cougar’s breakfast. The cat’s angry scream drove him onward.

  He crested the ridgeline too fast, and his momentum carried him over the top to plunge him head first down a steep embankment of slick foliage. He flung his arms around the base of a sapling, his legs pivoting down the incline as he arrested his fall, his heart pounding from the adrenaline rush. He heaved a breath just as a child’s scream reverberated from the trees below. It was silenced abruptly.