by Stacey Nash
The procession stops by a classroom door and part of the group move inside: the president, his little girl and the chick in the hat. Something seems familiar about her slight frame, but I can’t quite pin it. Maybe she’s in the media often as part of the presidential team. That’d make sense. Nik and Xane both stand by the door with the rest of the retinue crowding the hall. With stiff shoulders, a straight back, and a wary expression, Xane’s strung so tight it’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable. Could be from being around Nik as they never did get along, or it could be from whatever’s going down. I slip behind a row of lockers and just about run into Harris who moves in beside me.
“Stand out there and lean against the locker like you’re a student,” I tell him. “See what they do.”
He frowns as if he’s thinking, why me?
“See those two security guards by the door?”
He glances over his shoulder so casually I’m impressed he’s good at this.
When he turns back around I say, “I recognize them and they’d recognize me too.”
“Got it.”
The minutes stretch on and nothing happens. Finally Harris whispers, “They’re moving out.”
I move from behind the lockers just as the bell rings. In seconds, the corridor floods with boisterous students. “We’ll need to stay close to them,” I tell Harris, but he’s already surging forward to blend with the crowd.
The group moves down the hall, just ahead of the wave of kids we’re three steps behind. Through the gaps I catch a glimpse Nik peeling off from the main group. His height and the way he rolls his gait recognizable anywhere. He casts a quick glance around, his hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. Nik guides the little girl through an open door and my vision narrows. All my senses sharpen. This is it. Whatever they’re here to do, it’s happening now. The chick in the hat veers off too, pushing through the same door, and I break into a run.
The presidential party file out of the building none the wiser to the missing kid. Making good use of my shoulder again, I slam it into the door and enter a scene tight with tension.
Nik’s hand is clamped around Phoebe’s tiny arm, making her wince, and the woman has the girl’s other hand. They both pull at the child and the woman’s hat falls off, red curls springing free.
Shock jars me to a halt.
She’s not part of the presidential team at all. Cynnie’s tries to kick Nik, but she’s a mile off target with the kid between them.
Nik yanks Phoebe back, snarling, “This won’t happen. You’re not standing in my way.”
The girl whimpers and Cynnie holds firm. “I’m not letting you harm an innocent child, Nikias.”
“You’ll follow orders,” he growls.
Cynnie scoots behind the girl and lands a solid kick in the center of Nik’s back. He flies forward. She grabs the terrified kid, pushing Phoebe behind her. Tears stream down the girl’s cheeks and she shakes.
Fists raised, Nik swoops around and his punch slams into Cynnie’s face.
Suddenly realizing I’m frozen, I jump over desks to reach them fast, yelling, “Harris. The girl. Take care of the girl.”
Nik’s fist flies into Cynnie’s gut with a solid thunk. She doubles over. He uses the moment he bought to push her to the ground. I can’t get there fast enough. Too much damn furniture blocks my way. Pushing, kicking, thrusting it aside, I finally reach them. And Nik’s looming over Cynnie, his legs on either side of her while his fist pounds into her cheek, her chin, her head.
“Cynnie!” Xane yells, but I can’t see him. My vision’s tunneled in on my cretin of a brother.
I grab his collar and yank him back, then plant a solid boot to his gut. Get off, you bastard. He rolls to the side and I don’t have time to draw my blade, instead my fist flies toward his face, but he jumps up and away. His palms slam into my chest. I fly back against a desk, my hip connecting hard. Furniture crashes to the ground.
He comes at me. Steady on my feet, I square up, but Nik’s never fought fair. He makes a jab for my neck, no doubt trying to get in a killer punch. I stab an elbow into his face.
He falls back, groaning, and I pull Cynnie into my focus. Harris is now by her side, helping her rise. Hell knows where Xane is.
“Kid’s safe,” Harris yells.
I run to them. Cynnie wobbles on her feet. “I’m out,” she says through a split lip. “I’m done, Josh. Take me wherever it is you and Anamae are. I want out.”
I throw my arm around my old friend and she clutches onto me as if I’m a life raft. Harris plants a hand on my shoulder and we port out.
Chapter Thirteen
Jax
We land in the warehouse with dust floating in a dim beam of light. Harris rushes away and Cynnie slumps against me, all the tension seeping out of her stiff stance.
Skipper jumps up from his usual crate, surprise marring his expression. “Looks like it wasn’t a false alarm. Sit her down, boy, before she passes out.”
He shoves a crate against the wall and takes Cynnie’s weight off me, guiding her to sit, propping her against the wall. Blood oozes from her lip, trickles out her nose, and her right eye’s swelling closed. What a mess.
Thanks to my stupid, shitty, mother hating ass of a brother.
I shouldn’t have let him off so easy. He bashed the crap out of one of his own team; someone he’s known his whole life and a girl too. I knew he was scum, but Cynnie . . . ? Gritting my teeth, heat fires within me and I rip off my jacket and toss it over a milk crate. My knuckles ache, so I crack them, ignoring the red welts where they connected with his shit-worthy face.
Nik never had it in for Cynnie. It seemed like he basked in her attention last winter. So hell knows what that was all about, but now isn’t the time to ask. First she needs help.
Harris appears, crouching beside her and presses a flannel—lumpy as if filled with ice—to her eye. Cynnie raises her hand and holds it in place, her mouth pursing.
“What happened?” Frank asks, striding across the warehouse floor.
I look up at the people who have trickled into the main area. Enough of them that I’m now standing inside a small circle of gawkers. They can all piss off; this isn’t some show.
“Not exactly sure.” Harris presses another ice pack to Cynnie’s face, this time her cheek. Her hand slips over that one too, leaving him free to stand. Then she rests her head back on the wall, her elbow exposed through a hole in her black uniform. The supple leather that’s usually as sturdy as nails, but not today thanks to Nik’s brutal attack. Now shredded, a shirt hangs over the uniform, no doubt used to make it look more security-like.
Harris reports, “They were there, and they tried something with the president’s daughter. We managed to stop it though, and return the girl to her father safely. Poor kid was pretty shaken up.”
Frank’s attention shifts to me. I nod that I agree, then thrust my hands into my pockets, clenching and unclenching them where he can’t see. Anger at Nik throbs behind my eyes. Asswipe.
“So you think the Collective were after the president’s daughter?” Frank shakes his head, his fingers cupping his chin. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense. What would they want with a child?”
“A threat.” Cynnie’s muffled voice makes her words hard to understand.
Spinner flips his knife between his fingers, pointing the sharp end at her. “And who’s this then?”
She meets my gaze through her good eye. Anything for a telcom; I’d do anything to have a frickin’ telcom right now. Damn things should be hardwired in as a permanent fixture. Good thought, better file that away for Marcus’s next project.
Harris breaks the silence I’d been ignoring. “She’s one of them.”
Spinner’s knife drops to the floor with a clatter. Frank takes a step closer while everyone else takes a step back, whispers hissing from every direction as the old man gets right up in her face. Cynnie doesn’t flinch nor does she change her relaxed posture. Good girl, don’t show them a damn thing.
>
After a long moment he steps back and turns to me. “Is the situation under control?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you bring this one back?”
“She was fighting one of her own to save the kid. She said she wanted out of the Collective.”
“And you believe her?”
“Yes.”
His gaze holds mine, like he’s weighing my words. “Okay.”
He steps out of the circle, leaving the floor completely. I let out a breath and with it the tightening in my chest releases. That was weird, in a good way. Frank’s so different to Beau; no judgment, no treating Harris and I like kids who’ve misbehaved. He seems to trust us and, damn, it feels good.
Everyone disperses slowly, their whispers and stares leaving tension in the air so thick I could swim through it. Ignoring them, I don’t try to talk to her yet, but sit on a crate twirling my blade through my fingers Spinner-style. A chunk of wood would be a better distraction, but I’m not about to leave Cynnie alone to find something to carve the shit out of. I remember what it’s like to be suddenly thrust out of your world and into something entirely different. Collective life is so sheltered, the realization that people on the outside aren’t senseless animals in need of control will come as a shock. Even at eleven it did with me, so I’m not leaving her side.
Thankfully, the alarm doesn’t sound for the rest of our shift. I’ve no idea how I’d deal if it did. Probably drag her along with me even though she’s barely moved the entire time, just shuffled her weight every once in a while. Thank Christ, that’s enough to know she’s all right.
These crates aren’t kind on the rear.
When our relief arrives, I help Cynnie up with a hand under her elbow. The ice compress drips down her face and her black shirt sports a huge wet patch. She shivers, so I scoop up my jacket and lay it over her shoulders.
“You right to walk?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just my head. He got a good one in my stomach, but I can’t feel it over the throbbing in my face.”
“Harris give you any meds?”
“Meds?”
“You know . . .” I trail off because of course she doesn’t know. Ibuprofen is archaic compared to what’s available inside the Collective. “Medication to kill pain. It would have been tablets.”
“No.”
“We’ll get you some.”
“Thanks, Josh.”
My breath catches. “Jax,” I say, “I’m known as Jax.”
Joshua Manvyke is dead. My father made sure of that when he shipped me off. Now I am Jax Belfry, resistance fighter and I will never be Joshua Manvyke again. Other than the new crew crowded around the port-all, we’re alone. Not even anyone within earshot. Thank Theras. Frick, don’t think that. Christ, thank Christ. Just having part of my old life around makes all the Collectiveness seep out of me and that can’t happen.
I lean close to Cynnie. “I use Mom’s name.”
We round the corner and reach the kitchen. It’s a relief that no one else is there. “Here, give me that.” I hold my hand out and she passes me an ice pack, which I empty into the sink and rinse out.
“I don’t think I need it anymore.”
I turn around and take the other one, giving her the clean cloth. “You’ve got blood on your face.”
“Thanks.” Cynnie dabs at it and I hear her sharp intake of breath. It must hurt like hell.
I gesture toward her face. “Do you want me to . . . ahh . . . ?” This isn’t me. I can’t be gentle and reassuring without it sounding forced. Unless it’s with Mae. That girl brings out all sorts of things in me. I’m not the caring type; that’s Lilly, or Will, or even Mae. Besides, Cynnie and I have never really been friends except for the few times Mae brought us together last winter. This feels too intimate. Too much like helping Mae. Frick, Nik can’t get anywhere near her. If he did this to Cynnie, he’d be ten times worse with my girl.
“Would you?” she asks.
Ah, shit, I’m such a douche. She’s hurt. She’s needs help and I’m all she’s got. Taking the damp flannel, I wait until she’s seated on the bench, then press it to her forehead, starting there because it looks the least damaged, therefore least painful.
“What happened?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never believed—” Her gaze slides over my shoulder.
Harris stands in the doorway, looking wirier than ever with a too-small jacket pulled tight around him, hiding his stupid dinosaur T-shirt. So much for getting an answer from Cynnie right now. Something must have changed in the past few months that made her want out. Why is the Collective suddenly so bad, she can’t stay? I understand how she feels, yet she’s never been anything but Collective, and a model student. So what’s suddenly splintered her world? Something’s there I need to know about. It could be bad for the rest of us.
“How are you feeling?” Harris jars me out of my thoughts.
“Sore,” Cynnie says.
Cleaning her up, I dab at the blood. It’s not thick, but it’s dry and hard to get off without pressing down. And her tightly-clenched jaw tells me it hurts. “Got any pain meds here?” I ask Harris.
He grunts. “Sorry, I should have thought of that.”
Instead of leaving like I’d hoped he comes all the way into the room, flips open a cupboard high above the fridge and removes a basket, setting it on the table and flicking through the contents. “So . . .” He glances up. “Are you gonna tell us your name, Collective girl?”
She pauses for a beat too long. Probably deciding whether she wants a new identity, like me. I wipe the blood away to finally expose her bruised skin. The unmarked patches look pale against her red hair, and shit there’s a small split at her hairline.
“Cynnie,” she says, finally. “Thank you for saving my butt today.”
“No worries.” Harris lays a packet of ibuprofen beside her and goes to the sink where he flicks on the faucet and fills glass. As he hands the water to her he says, “I’m Harris.”
Keeping my attention on the task at hand, I tell her, “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
I don’t say it’s because it was Nik bashing her. I would’ve done it if it were anyone, even Xane. No one deserves to be beaten and no one should feel trapped by the Collective. She’s a good friend of Mae’s and she put herself on the line to help us last winter. Not only helping us get out, but she helped us find ourselves and each other again. The thought of Mae brings an ache to my chest. Will had better be watching her ass and keeping her safe.
“I wasn’t sure how Frank was going to react. For a minute I thought he was going to say . . .” Harris glances at Cynnie. Get rid of her.
“Yeah, couldn’t blame him if he did.” I peek at Cynnie to check she hasn’t picked up our coded conversation, but she’s just staring at her twirling fingers.
“It was a ballsy move, hotshot.”
I don’t answer him, just keep cleaning up Cynnie’s cheek. With the blood almost gone, it’s exposed a large chunk of swollen flesh. Other than the split on her forehead and another on her upper lip, there are no real external wounds, just a shitload of bruises.
The sensation of being watched sits like a prickly blanket across my back. Reflex whips me around and it’s the skittish kid, Johnny, his gun hanging in his gnarly hand at his side.
“She don’t belong here, and neither do you.” He spits on the ground. “Collective scum.”
The cloth falls from my hand and I spring to my feet. Kid knows who I am? “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me.” He squares of his stance. “Neither of youse are welcome here.”
Harris moves in beside me. “Put the gun away, Johnny. They’re both here under Frank’s protection.”
“Frank don’t know what’s right.” He strokes the barrel with his index finger.
Not coming back with a smart remark is damn hard, but this kid would pull the trigger without much provocation. I’ve got to think in a levelheaded way.
“Johnny,” I say, “I’m not here to hurt anyone. Beau sent me to help and I’ve done a good job so far.”
“He has,” Harris agrees.
“I’m resistance, just like you, like Frank, like Harris. I don’t know what you think, but that’s the truth.”
Johnny wraps his dirt-stained finger around the trigger, and the gun brushes against his jeans in his white-knuckled grip. My heart beats way too fast ’cause this skittish kid could do anything and I can’t move quick enough against a gun.
“You are not resistance. You lived with them for months. You might be able to fool Frank, but I’m no idiot. You’re one of them now and—” he jabs the barrel toward Cynnie, “—so is she.”
His finger twitches and I dive, tackling him. A deafening bang rings in my ears a second before we slam into the ground.
Someone screams.
Johnny squirms and wriggles to get free. I drive my fingers into his wrist, but he doesn’t drop the damn gun. It fires again and a bullet pings as it hits the roof or wall. My fingers jam in deeper to find the nerve.
With an animalistic grunt he bucks underneath me and I crash off him. It’s done though, the gun is gone. We both jump up and he slams a punch into the side of my head. Bright dots burst through my vision.
Johnny drops to the floor, scurrying, and I jam my foot down on the weapon, blinking to clear my vision.
“That’s enough.” Frank’s voice booms through the kitchen.
I don’t move. My chest rises and falls in rapid breaths.
“Give me that.”
It’s obvious Frank means the gun. Johnny looks up from where he’s crouched at my feet, his fingers clamped around my leg that moments ago he’d been trying to shove aside, off his gun. Paranoia skits his wild eyes across my face then the room.