by Scott McEwen
Among Hud’s fancy friends, one girl stood out, vastly more dazzling than all the rest. A gleaming egg-sized diamond among pearls. Easily the most stunning person Wyatt had seen in person in his life. Dark eyes, blond hair, she had to be exotic. She sat dead center, next to an olive-skinned guy with a scraggly beard. A field of magnetism appeared to surround her, drawing those in close proximity to her. And yet, there was something dangerous about her too, something sinister.
“That’s her,” Dolly said into the comms system. “She’s the one. The blonde from the roof.”
Wyatt nodded, though Dolly couldn’t see him, as she was seated in the front of the church. Wyatt knew Dolly was right. The blonde had to be the one. He raised his hand to his mouth as if to yawn. “Good eye, Dolly. Let’s keep watching her. Follow close. See where she goes.”
“That’s the plan,” Dolly said, but then, breaking protocol and clearly discarding all of their mission prep, she stood up in her pew and picked her way over to the blonde.
“Dolly,” Samy whispered over the comms. “Where you going?”
Wyatt watched as Dolly reached up and discreetly removed her earpiece and slipped her hand into her purse.
“What’s she doing?” Ebbie asked.
“I don’t know,” said Wyatt, though his mind went to her hand in her purse and the PPK inside. “Changing seats.”
“We aren’t supposed to make contact,” Ebbie said.
“I ain’t sure she’s just making contact,” Samy said. “She’s off comms and coming up on the girl.”
Hallsy’s voice broke in, “Someone stop her. Wyatt, if she draws, I order you to stop her!“
They all watched as Dolly approached the blonde and leaned forward, reaching her hand in her purse. Wyatt knew she couldn’t hear him, but he whispered the words anyway: What if you’re wrong?
Dolly smiled sadly and said something to the blonde, who scooted over, making room.
Wyatt could read Dolly’s lips. “Thank you,” she said.
“Looks like she’s just sitting down next to her,” Samy said. “Everyone can breathe easy.”
From her purse Dolly drew out a cell phone, typed something, and flipped it shut.
Wyatt’s phone buzzed. “Staying close,” the message said. “Can’t use comms. She’ll see. Watch my back.”
* * *
The service was beautiful and sad. As far as most of the people in the cathedral knew, a boy had taken his own life. He was handsome and smart, surrounded by friends and all the material advantages life could offer. And yet he was troubled, not quite whole. His criminal record and stints in juvenile detention were not mentioned directly, only alluded to in a theme repeated throughout the service—the Prodigal Son. Only those from Valor, and his killers, knew differently.
As the service ended, the priest invited Hud’s mother to say a few words. From the front row rose an aged 1990s Video Vixen, a woman with a plastic face and body, an inappropriately short lacy black dress, and a lion’s mane hairdo. She teetered on six-inch stilettos that clacked up to the lectern.
“Hi.” She breathed into the microphone long and slow. “For those who don’t know me, I am Hudson’s mother.”
Makeup smeared and eyes glassy wet pools, she looked like she’d been both crying and slamming Valium. “My husband and I”—she waved to an elderly man in a wheelchair—“invite all of you here to join us back at our apartment for a reception.”
Sniffling, wiping away tears, she staggered away from the lectern. The gray-haired priest retook his place at the lectern and began the final prayer.
“Wyatt,” Samy said as the congregation rose to leave, “you’re the point now. What’s the move? Are we going to the reception?”
Wyatt had not taken his eyes off Dolly and the blonde for the duration of the service. He’d barely blinked. They were talking. Dolly’s face teary. They started walking out together.
“Yes,” Wyatt answered. “Dolly’s onto something and not letting go. Let’s see where she takes us.”
* * *
The reception after the service was boring and weird. Weird in that a boy had jumped from the roof of the building and now everyone was inside, eating hors d’oeuvres and making small talk.
Wyatt, Samy, and Ebbie arrived right after Dolly and the blonde. They’d been inside five minutes when Dolly quickly put her earpiece in and was back up on the comms. “Okay, guys. Listen up, I’m going to talk fast ’cause she’s coming right back. Sorry I went silent there, but the earpiece would have given me away. This is the girl. She’s invited me to a party at a house she’s renting with her guardian. She didn’t tell me his name, but he runs a company, a tech company called Glowworm Gaming. Have Avi find out everything he can. They rented a house in the suburbs for the funeral. It’s close, in Greenwich.”
“Dolly,“Hallsy interjected over the comms. “We can’t change plan that drastically…”
“Sir,” she cut him off, “with all due respect, I’m going, supported or not. This girl is from the group that killed Hud and almost killed my sister. The group that is trolling Valor. I feel it, I know it, it’s real. You have to trust me.”
“I’m listening,” Hallsy said.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve told her some friends are here, and we had plans. So Wyatt, Ebbie, and Samy will come with me. I’m going to act like I just saw them and we are going to leave together. I’ll ride with her to Greenwich. You guys are going to—”
Dolly, catching sight of something, pulled the earpiece from her ear. The blonde approached, a short olive-skinned guy with a greasy, scraggly beard accompanying her.
“Sounds like we’re going,” Ebbie said into the comms.
“Sounds like we’re are going to need transpo,” Wyatt added, “and something fast. Hallsy, can you arrange that? A car, outside the building in five minutes?”
Avi answered, “Hold on, guys, we’re discussing options on our end.”
Wyatt’s earpiece clicked.
“Wyatt, you’re the only one on right now,” Hallsy said. “I want to know. Do you think Dolly’s mind is right on this? Do you think we give her the rope? You’re on the ground. Tell me what you think.”
“I think we do,” Wyatt said. “I’m point now, but she’s leading on this. We follow. And we make sure she’s protected. That’s on us.”
“I asked about Dolly,” Hallsy said. “Is she right?”
“It’s not just Dolly,” Wyatt said. “We’re a team in this. You told us when we started at Valor that our reputations start now. Well, this is it. Reputations are made now. We’re making ours as a team.”
There was a pause. “Roger that.” Another click and his voice returned in all the earpieces. “Car will be outside in four minutes. Valet will have keys.”
“What are we driving?” Wyatt asked. “So we know what to look for?”
“Fast. Look for fast,” was all Hallsy said.
* * *
Dolly put on her best surprised face and came over to Ebbie, Samy, and Wyatt. “Oh hey, I didn’t see you…” She introduced the blonde as Raquel. Raquel’s friend—the guy with the scraggly beard—worked for her guardian at the gaming company. He was college-aged, maybe a little older. His name was Fouad.
At the ground level, the party stepped onto the street and Wyatt saw a silver 1968 GTO at the curb, aftermarket pipes rumbling. The valet—Avi sporting a red jacket and a fresh layer of sweat—handed Wyatt the keys. “Mr. Brewer.”
Hallsy does not disappoint, Wyatt thought as he sat in the front seat, noting switches for a Nitro booster and Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City” playing low on the radio. Yeah, this would do just fine.
“Nice car,” said Raquel. “You should have no problem following, as long as you keep your speed up.”
A problem keeping up? The GTO was a rocket engine on wheels, Wyatt thought, but then he saw her ride. Like a stealth bomber or a mechanical black panther, the Ferrari F12berlinetta rounded the corner, barreled down Fifth Avenue, and gr
owled at the curb.
Fouad crammed into the Berlinetta’s minuscule back seat, the girls slipped into the front. Sun was aglow in the sky. Wyatt called out the open window, “Hey, where are we headed?”
“The Cottage,” she called back.
“You want to give me an address? You know, in case, we get stuck at a red…”
“Yes, the address is don’t get stuck!” Laughing, she peeled out, tossing her blond hair back.
Wyatt hurried to shift the car in gear but a truck raced up and stopped, nearly shearing off his sideview mirror. “Move!” Wyatt laid on the horn.
“Don’t worry,” a friendly voice came in over the comms. “I’m launched. And have you covered from above.” Rory was watching from a drone overhead.
The truck blocking him in started to ease forward. Wyatt pressed the clutch and shifted into first.
“Wait,” Ebbie said, stopping him before he could let the clutch out. “You’ll need these.” Ebbie handed him a pair of sunglasses. Vuarnets. Wyatt slipped the shades on, popped the clutch, and slammed down the gas pedal. The GTO fishtailed onto Fifth.
* * *
Wyatt stayed close behind the Berlinetta from 62nd to 72nd, then she laid down smoke and rubber and high-tailed it east, shooting over to the FDR before driving north again, a comet’s tail of city grit trailing behind and Wyatt’s GTO trying to keep up. The girl ran her car hard and fast as she barreled north. The Berlinetta had way more tech, torque, and precision handling to outrun the GTO.
“I’m losing them,” Wyatt said. “Rory, what do you see?”
“Traffic on the FDR is light all the way up to Randall’s Island, to 278 and 95. That girl knows how to drive. She’s hauling ass,” Rory said.
“Can I lay down some Nitro?”
“Be careful. But looks like you have a clear shot.”
“Here we go.” Wyatt tipped the red toggle switch. The gas pumped into the engine and the car seemed to hiccup, then it shot forward, turning rocket ship, blazing past cars going eighty miles an hour like they were stopping to buy snow cones. And still, the GTO didn’t gain much on the Berlinetta. The Ferrari was that fast.
“Got another idea,” Ebbie said into the comms. “Rory, you got a magic wand to make traffic appear?”
CHAPTER 35
August 2017
Brooklyn-Queens Expressway
Antoinette “Tony” Johnson drove exactly fifty-five miles an hour on the BQE. She drove it twice a day, five days a week, forty-eight weeks a year. And a good thing, too. She was prepared when the “stuff hit the fan.” Which happened. A lot. Like the day she thought she saw a bird flying beside her Buick Acadia.
“What the—” She watched outside the window as the thing got closer and closer. It was mechanical. It was one of those things, those drone things, and it hovered above her car, flying in front of the windshield.
How dare they, those kids. There’s some kid or some terrorist flying this thing. She started honking and yelling, “Get outta here!” to the flying object. But it flew even closer. Right up in her grill. She slowed all the way down to thirty-five miles an hour, screaming, “What are you doing? Get! Get!” She didn’t see the eighteen-wheeler in her rearview, she only heard its brakes hiss and scream. She hissed and screamed too.
The truck started to slide, wheels wailing against the blacktop. It jackknifed, and the trailer swung sideways, slamming into the rear of Tony’s car. The car shot forward and smashed into the drone, shattering its propellers. The drone crashed, and Tony’s car drove over it, the lady screaming and praying to God until the car came to a rest. Behind her, the pileup began.
In the surveillance van, stuck way back in New York City traffic, Rory watched her monitor go black.
“Hey guys, we have a problem. My drone is down. We’re going to launch another but right now, we have no visibility on Dolly’s vehicle. I repeat, we cannot see Dolly’s vehicle. You are following her without air support.”
* * *
Wyatt couldn’t see her either. He began to panic. Dolly was alone with the enemy. But he could see cars slowing as he caught up to the traffic jam Rory had caused. Coming up almost a half mile behind the pileup, four hundred yards from red taillights, Wyatt saw the Ferrari Berlinetta weave across the traffic.
“She’s heading to the shoulder,” said Samy from the back.
“Got her,” Wyatt downshifted, then swerved so that both cars were in the shoulder. The GTO kicking up gravel, rocks, and cigarette butts. The nitrous was no longer pumping into the engine. Both cars cut alongside the traffic jam.
“I bet she’s getting off at the next exit,” Wyatt said, putting the hammer down and surging ahead, past blaring horns and a sea of middle fingers. He swerved off the expressway, running up on Berlinetta’s taillights glowing at the next stoplight.
“Dolly, talk to me,” Wyatt said, knowing she couldn’t hear him, but hoping she would know his thoughts. She glanced back through the Berlinetta’s tiny rear window, a thin smile. Wyatt could read her. A little on edge but not scared. In it. Wyatt locked eyes with her for a millisecond.
Raquel grinned in her rearview, very red lips the same color as the light. He knew what was coming. She blazed into traffic, zigzagging through swerving cars. A Honda Civic slammed into an MTA bus in her wake. Wyatt swung left, dodging the pileup in the intersection.
Wyatt was not losing her now. Hell, no. He followed the Ferrari through the streets of Larchmont, looking to gain an advantage, to cut Raquel’s lead.
Soon the Berlinetta ditched the busy suburban roads for the winding beachside streets of Connecticut, curvy scenic two-lanes that hugged the Long Island Sound, lined with mansions, parks, and beaches. The afternoon light now coming in, slanting, golden and rose colored off the windshields racing one after another. The colors kaleidoscopic, reflecting off the homes, leather, sunglasses, Long Island Sound, rippling waves. Wyatt couldn’t help but enjoy the thrill. It was a good time to be not quite sixteen and driving over a hundred miles an hour. And there was something else, a feeling deep in Wyatt’s chest, chasing after the girl that meant more to him than any girl ever had. The feeling was both terrifying and electric. He was not going to lose her.
He was just getting in a groove, screaming around wide corners of the walled properties, Wyatt losing the Ferrari for a couple of seconds, then catching up again. This time, he saw the brake lights of the Ferrari twenty yards ahead. Raquel’s car jerked sharply to the left, tires chirping, dust rising. Wyatt slammed the brakes and cut in the same direction. But the GTO’s cornering ability was nothing like the Berlinetta’s. The GTO’s wheels smoked and the car fishtailed and went into a slide, laying down streaks of rubber, overshooting the turn by a hundred feet and winding up on someone’s lawn. Wyatt spat grass and mud from his rear tires and turned up the driveway, pulling into a massive walled compound.
“We’re here,” Wyatt said into his comms and read an address off the gate.
Rory’s response was a mess of digital distortion.
“Repeat,” Wyatt said, the GTO humming up the half-mile drive to the giant, looming mansion. To the left, a formal entrance. To the right, a service entrance wound around toward the back of the Cottage, where there were a couple of service vans and a black limousine party bus.
“Cottage, huh?” Samy said, looking up at a house that would give the Biltmore Estate a run for its money. The Ferrari was parking out front.
“Hey, guys,” Wyatt said to Samy and Ebbie. “I’m having trouble getting Rory. Can you hear her?”
“All scrambled for me,” said Samy, jamming his finger into his ear.
“Yeah, can’t hear a thing,” Ebbie added. “Lemme see if I can figure this out.” He checked his cell phone and the device connected to the earpiece. “We’re not getting any signal.” Ebbie had a note of fear in his voice. “I mean, the bands are gone. Someone is blocking all cellular reception here.”
Wyatt instantly knew what this meant. They were cut off. The surveillance van wouldn
’t find them, not unless somehow Rory heard Wyatt read the address aloud, but that wasn’t likely.
“We should call the mission,” Ebbie said. “Now.”
“Too late,” said Wyatt, nodding ahead, feeling sick. Dolly was passing through a large brick archway with Raquel and Fouad.
“So that’s it. We get her and get out. On our own,” Ebbie said.
Wyatt nodded and sped up to the top of the drive. He pulled the parking brake and they got out. Wyatt nodded to Ebbie, “Give me your tie.”
“My tie?”
“Yeah. Quick.” Wyatt pulled his own tie from his neck, and putting it together with Ebbie’s, he made a large X on the hood of the GTO.
“Rory will have another drone in the area,” Wyatt explained, hustling toward the house. “Hopefully, she’ll see this and come looking.”
CHAPTER 36
August 2017,
Dusk The Cottage, Greenwich, Connecticut
The doors to the Cottage were left open. They stepped in, feeling like they had entered a museum of darkness, nearly devoid of furniture. Velvet curtains blocked the light from most windows. Wyatt heard light chatter and laughter somewhere in the house. And heavy electronic music.
“This way.” Fouad came up to the top of a staircase and motioned them to follow. “We’re in the Game Room.” Strangely, none of the light fixtures in the house had bulbs. The only light filling the rooms was natural, dimming fast, and coming in wherever curtains had not been drawn shut over the windows.