Chokepoint

by Jill Williamson

  I walked stiffly toward the corner, fighting the urge to limp. I wasn’t about to give Kimbal the satisfaction of seeing me injured.

  Why did the man have to follow me every second? Over two months had passed since Moscow and not a thing had happened to hint at trouble. It was getting ridiculous.

  I ran a quick inventory of the surrounding area but only spotted one agent on foot. The Sasquatch and his scrawny dog lingered across the street. There were usually four—two in the car and two on foot.

  Where was Gardener?

  The sedan nosed its way to the intersection and the red light. I turned in a full circle looking for Gardener. Had they cut back to three agents?

  A man in a black trench coat was standing at the signal on the corner. I stopped beside him and reached for the button to cross Juniper, but he beat me to it. Could this guy have replaced Gardener? I studied him. He was slim and tall and pale—like a vampire. A half dozen earrings edged one of his ears.

  This was no agent. Piercings were against protocol. Plus this guy, at almost six feet tall, couldn’t weigh more than one fifty. He was a blade of grass, not promising for a field agent. It could be a disguise, but I doubted much muscle hid under that coat.

  The man gazed forward, ignoring my rude stare. I should look away, but I just couldn’t. Something about this guy nagged at my brain, though I didn’t think I’d ever seen him before.

  “Want to lose them, Jonas?” the man asked in a smooth voice, continuing to stare forward.

  I stepped back, surprised. “You’re an agent?”

  The blade of grass nodded toward Kimbal’s car. “It’ll give them something to do. My partner is just there.” He nodded toward a black Range Rover in the turn lane on First. The left blinker flashed yellow light across the dark pavement. “We’ll go for Starbucks. That’s what you kids are into these days, right? Fancy coffee?”

  My spine tingled. This guy wanted me to get into his car? I wondered if there was some sort of standard passcode to identify agents in Pilot Point. Why hadn’t Kimbal given me one? “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “So we’ll get a milkshake or a soda—whatever you want.”

  Across the street the red hand changed to a white figure. The man glanced at me as he stepped off the curb. His eyes were dark. “Let’s go.”

  The man crossed, but I stayed put, watching Kimbal’s car drive away. The blade of grass reached the other side and kept going. The little white man switched to a flashing red hand. I walked across, taking my time. The light changed just as I stepped up on the sidewalk. The Range Rover turned the corner—its headlights blinding me for a moment—and pulled up along the curb a few yards ahead where the blade of grass was waiting.

  The guy opened the passenger door and looked my way. “Coming?”

  Not on your life, buddy. But Kimbal’s car was already down the block, stopped at the next intersection. I glanced at Sasquatch and found him looking at me, the little dog tucked under his arm like a football. His lips moved. He was either talking to himself, praying, or talking to someone on a radio. I hoped it was Kimbal.

  Sasquatch shook his head at me. No. Don’t get in the car.

  Good plan.

  I took his advice and sprinted up First. Tires squealed on the street behind me. The Range Rover? I didn’t look back. My ankle sent protesting stabs of pain up my leg with every stride. I tightened my hold on my backpack and booked it to the next intersection.

  Across the street, the hair salon, Peluqueria Rodriguez, owned by Isabel’s mom, caught my eye. A streetlight splashed an amber ray onto the open sign in the door. I could duck in there and get someone to hide me. If not Isabel, then her mom. I’d only seen her once before, when she dropped Isabel at the airport before we left for Moscow. If Isabel wasn’t there, hopefully her mom would remember me.

  I pushed through the door. A bell attached to the top jingled. It was bright inside and smelled like girls. There were all kinds of hair-cutting stations and shelves packed with shampoo bottles, but no people.

  “We close in ten minutes,” a guy said.

  I turned around. Almost no people. Two were sitting across from each other at a tiny table in the corner—a woman getting her nails done and a guy painting them.

  Yeah, that’s what I said. A guy. The dude looked about my age. He was wearing a black hoodie and a backwards red and black cap with the OBEY star above the snapback. He dipped the little paintbrush into some red polish and swiped it down one of the woman’s fingernails. Then he glanced at me, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh…” I glanced out the windows, but the outside darkness had turned them into mirrors. All I could see was the reflection of myself standing in the salon. “Isabel?”

  “Not here. And if you’re looking to ask her out, she has a boyfriend.”

  This guy was Isabel’s boyfriend? “Thanks, but no. How about her mom?”

  “Also not here. I’m closing up today.”

  Great. I reached for the door, but it swung in. A Hispanic Incredible Hulk stepped inside. The man’s face, neck, hands—everything—was covered in tattoos. I stared, mesmerized by the guy’s inked skin. I mean, that was a lot of skin candy. He stared back as if daring me to make a comment. The gold chain around his neck could tow a car.

  “Cerramos en cinco minutos,” the manicure kid said.

  Tattoo Hulk grabbed my arm. “We were just leaving.” His voice was low and muffled, like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen for surround sound.

  I tried to pull away, but the guy must have weighed three hundred pounds. He dragged me toward the door. I jabbed my elbow into his solar plexus, stomped on his foot… He didn’t even flinch. Must have been made of metal.

  “Call Isabel’s mom,” I told the kid. “Tell her Spencer Garmond is in trouble. No, call the cops.”

  The manicure kid stood up. “Excuse me, Mrs. Flores. I need to deal with this.” He walked over to a shelf filled with bottles and grabbed one. He crossed to stand in front of the door. He couldn’t have been more than five foot nine, David about to face Goliath before my very eyes. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” the kid said to Tattoo Hulk. “Let him go, or I’m going to have to hurt you.”

  Tattoo Hulk swung at the kid, who ducked, then popped the cap on the bottle in his hand and sprayed the monster’s eyes.

  Tattoo Hulk released me and doubled over, pawing at his face. The kid opened the door, set his foot against the monster’s backside, and pushed. Tattoo Hulk stumbled onto the sidewalk. The kid slammed the door and turned the lock. Then he flipped the sign in the window from open to closed.

  Whoa.

  “Take a seat,” the kid said to me. “If he doesn’t leave, I’ll call the cops.”

  I sat on a chair in front of a table covered in hair magazines.

  The kid picked up the cap from the floor, put it back on the bottle, and returned the bottle to the shelf. Then he sat back down at the table and picked up Mrs. Flores’s hand. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Flores. I’m almost done.”

  “¡Qué grosero!” Mrs. Flores said. “For that man to come in here and try to attack your sister’s friend…”

  “Sister?” I said. This was Isabel’s little brother?

  “Oh, sí,” Mrs. Flores told me. “Lukas es muy valiente.”

  Lukas dipped the nail brush back into the little bottle. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really? Because that guy was massive, and you didn’t even flinch.”

  “He’s got nothing on my Uncle Marcos. Or Mrs. Lopez’s ex. Every time Mrs. Lopez comes in to get her roots done, her ex shows up.”

  Mrs. Flores gasped. “I thought Abella had . . . ¿como se dice?. . . un restraint ruling against that hombre.”

  Lukas snorted. “She does. But he knows she gets her hair done here, so he’s always watching this place.”

  Someone rapped on the door. Lukas got up and went to take a look. “Your SRO is here,” he said, flipping the lock.


  I stood up. “He’s not my SRO.” Besides, after starting the school year with my three-day suspension from last year’s fight, I hadn’t even gotten a detention so far this year.

  Kimbal came in. “Spencer, what are you doing?”

  “Just hanging out with Lukas and Mrs. Flores. Thought maybe I’d get a haircut.”

  “Get your stuff, chuckles. The car’s out front.” Kimbal left, slamming the door behind him. The bell jangled.

  I stepped toward the door. “Hey, thanks for the… you know… hairspray.”

  “No problem,” Lukas said. “And you remember what I said about my sister.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about me.” Anymore.

  As I left the salon, I heard Lukas say, “Now if I could just get Isabel to dump her loser boyfriend.”

  The sedan was idling at the curb. I scanned the sidewalk but saw no sign of the Incredible Tattooed Hulk. I climbed into the back. Kimbal sat in the passenger’s seat. He stared at me as I got in, and the look on his face could melt rubber.

  Kimbal stared straight ahead. “You okay?”

  I shut the door. “Yeah.” But not really. Two random freaks had just tried to abduct me. I didn’t like that word, abduct. It sounded like something that happened to helpless kids and girls. Plus my ankle hurt. I rotated it in a circle. Not so bad, I guess. A little ice, a compression wrap, and I’d be in good shape for basketball tryouts.

  “My guy followed you,” Kimbal said. “He was out front. But when the Land Rover drove up and the big guy came out of the salon alone, my guy decided not to engage. What happened in there? What’d he say?”

  I told Kimbal about the blade of grass offering Jonas a ride, how I’d tried to hide out in Isabel’s mom’s shop, and how her brother had maced Tattoo Hulk with hairspray. “You think this has to do with Anya or my dad?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Sure he didn’t. Those guys had looked like Anya’s breed. But I didn’t know anything about my dad. “What was he like? My dad?”

  Kimbal didn’t turn around, and I figured he wasn’t going to answer. But he finally said, “Everybody liked your dad. He made people laugh.”

  Really. “I guess he just didn’t want to be a father, then.”

  “No,” Kimbal said. “I don’t know what your grandma told you, but it probably wasn’t true. She had to make something up for her cover story, you know.”

  “She said he left us. But she never said why. She hates my dad, though. And you said he betrayed my mom and got her killed, so I guess Grandma has a right.”

  “Look. Your dad messed up. But he never left your mom. He never left you.”

  Never left? “But before you said—”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  No. Not okay. Whether or not my dad was a scumbag mattered to me. I stared out the window. “I deserve to know what happened. Why those guys tried to nab me.” Nab was a much better word than abduct or kidnap.

  Kimbal sighed. “It’s not my call and you know it. Prière is in St. Louis right now. I can’t promise anything, but I think he’ll talk to you soon.”

  I slouched in the seat. Soon was the best answer I’d gotten out of Kimbal yet. International Headquarters for the Mission League was located in St. Louis, Missouri. If Prière was there, maybe they’d finally give him permission to tell me something about my dad.

  Something true.

  • • •

  My investigation into my parent’s past hadn’t gone far. Since I didn’t know their real names, all I had to go on was the tip Nick had given me in Moscow: a building that had blown up in Los Angeles twelve or thirteen years ago. “Blew up” got me nowhere on Google. But “explosion” got some hits. Still, online newspapers only seemed to give breaking news, so for all of my leads, I couldn’t find any follow-up stories.

  That night I made a list of events which might fit, even if an intelligence organization had given the press a bogus story. That left me with four: “Woman killed after underground explosion in Westlake,” “Two dead and three injured in South L.A. explosion,” “Fatal explosion near downtown L.A. kills three,” and “Gas cylinder explosion leaves one dead, injures five.”

  None of the stories gave the names of the dead or injured. LAPD Online said I could only order a crime report if I was an authorized person, like the victim or the victim’s lawyer.

  How about the dead victim’s son?

  They probably wouldn’t give one to a minor anyway. Plus I didn’t have any case numbers. I needed a plan B.

  Kip. Having a best friend whose dad was a police officer in Pilot Point might come in handy. Maybe I could talk him into helping me.

  It was worth a shot.

  REPORT NUMBER: 3

  REPORT TITLE: I Ask a Cop for Help

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: Kip Johnson’s House at 733 Elm Street, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Tuesday, October 14, 5:24 p.m.

  Kip lived on Snob Hill in a sprawling, one-story beige house with a Spanish tile roof. Kip and I sat in the living room in the dark, taking turns playing Torch, a first-person action game that he had just bought. He’d logged in online too, which was stupid since he didn’t know how to play yet. Every two steps someone killed him.

  “These guys are pretty bad,” Kip said.

  “You’re bad.” I walked into the kitchen and opened the pantry cupboard.

  “Seriously. They’re not even playing,” Kip said. “It’s like they’re playing with blindfolds.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re getting killed every two steps.”

  “Not even Sammy played this bad.”

  “Whatever.” Sammy, our other best friend, lived in Sacramento with his mom ever since his dad had been indicted as a drug dealer. The plan was for him to move back home after the trial, assuming his dad would be acquitted.

  I carried a bag of chips to the couch. Kip had just entered the mythical cavern. “Get the sword. Dude. Turn around. Kip, turn around.”

  Kip ignored me.

  “No, I need to show you something.” I said. “It’s really important. Go outside.”

  “I have a gun. I don’t need a sword.”

  “Yes, you do. It’s special. Go get it.”

  Kip’s iPhone buzzed. The screen glowed from where it sat beside him on the couch. He glanced at it, then back at the TV. “I don’t care about the sword.”

  I pointed at the cavern exit. “It’s over there. Go get it. Go—you died again!”

  Kip dropped the controller and picked up his phone. On screen, his man just stood there, crouched. “How did I die? I don’t even understand.” Kip started texting.

  “That was a spellcaster,” I said. “He threw a death spell and… What are you doing?”

  “Meagan’s texting me.”

  I reached for the controller. “If you’re not going to play, let me.”

  Kip dropped his phone and snatched up the controller. “I’m playing.” His guy continued through the cavern.

  Dumb fool needed to get the sword. I opened the chips and ate a few. Kip’s phone buzzed again, but he shot at some troll.

  “Yeah! Got him. Right there, baby! Were you watching? Did you see that?”

  “Yeah, I saw. You killed a troll. Congratulations. That’s not the first time someone has killed a troll in this game.”

  “Yeah, but…” He glanced at his phone. “It’s one more troll than you killed.”

  “I’ve killed, like, a hundred trolls,” I said.

  “What? When did you kill a hundred trolls? I just got this game. I just opened the package today.” Kip texted something, then went back to the game.

  I ate another chip. “Texting and playing? No wonder you keep dying.”

  “When did you kill a hundred trolls, Spencer?”

  “A demo at Game Masters.”

  Kip’s phone buzzed again. He glanced at it but kept playing. “You played a Game Master
s demo for two hours?”

  “I lost track of time.” I snatched Kip’s phone. “What is she texting you that’s so important?”

  I read the screen. kewl. gues what?

  “That’s it? You keep dying for this conversation?”

  “Text her back. Ask her: ‘What?’ ”

  “Fine. If it gets you through this level so I can play.” I texted the one-word question.

  “By the way,” Kip said, “Meagan asked Trella if she’d go with you to homecoming.”

  “Trella Myers?” The girl was a cheerleader. Thought she was all that. She was kind of cute in a rich-girl, I’m-better-than-you sort of way.

  But dancing… yeah. Not my favorite pastime. “I don’t know…”

  “It doesn’t matter. Trella said you had ape arms and are too tall for her homecoming picture.” Kip laughed.

  Ouch. “Ape arms?” Who’d said I wanted to go to homecoming anyway?

  Kip shrugged and shot at a troll.

  I lifted Kip’s cell phone and hit the contacts icon. “I’m going to text your stupid girlfriend and say: ‘Thanks for nothing.’ ”

  “Don’t! It’s not Meagan’s fault that Trella’s a troll.” He fired at one on the screen. “Why won’t they die?”

  The front door opened. Kip’s dad came in, dressed in his Pilot Point P.D. uniform. “Hey, guys.”

  “Die, ugly trolls!” Kip yelled.

  “Hey, Mr. Johnson.” I carried Kip’s phone into the kitchen and sat on a stool at the counter. I couldn’t help but stare at Mr. Johnson’s belt. It was crammed with awesomeness: radio, gun, baton, cuffs, taser. “What kind of a gun is that?”

  “Glock 40, semi-automatic.”

  Sweet. “Can I hold it?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “Can I ask you something, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Doug. Calling me Mr. Johnson makes me sound like an old man, and I’ve got a date tonight with a Victoria Secret model.”

  “Right, sorry.” And, eww. But there was no way I could call a cop by his first name, at least not while he was wearing the blues. Kip’s phone buzzed in my hand. I read the screen: got nu shoes.