The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Sarge? There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve shot … I mean, you were in the wars, as a sniper. What was it like for you — to shoot people?”

  “I didn’t shoot people. I shot tangos.”

  “Okay then, what did you feel when you shot tangos?”

  He stared at me for a long moment then shrugged and replied, “Recoil.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  The apartment building was in a run-down part of the city, and the elevator groaned and creaked ominously as it lurched up to the ninth floor. I pulled my hood off my head, fluffed my hair around my face, and fitted my mask into position, staring at the girl in the speckled mirror opposite the button panel. I was on my own on this mission; my closest backup was down on street level.

  “We can’t have a horde of armed men marching into the lobby. I can guarantee the entrance is being watched. Their spotter would call up to the tango before you’d made the first floor, and he’d bolt to some other rat-hole before you got near.”

  I wasn’t even wearing a comms earpiece — I’d be getting so close that wearing one might get me found out. When the elevator doors dragged themselves open, I hoisted the three sealed bags of groceries up and held them close against my chest, where the dart gun nestled in an inner pocket of my hoodie.

  The door number of apartment 903 was missing its last digit, but someone had scratched a number three in ballpoint pen into the soft, cheap wood of the door. I rang the buzzer, listening hard above the thump of my heart for the sound of feet on the other side. A shadow behind the peephole told me that someone was peering out at me.

  “Who is that?” called a voice.

  “Grocery delivery from Bennies Best Buys,” I called back.

  The door opened an inch on the chain, revealing a portion of a thin face through the narrow slit. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Both his mouth and eyes were tight with unmistakable suspicion. Had the word gone out among the network of terr cells that one of their own had recently been taken down and taken in for questioning? Had anyone clocked the girl with the gun? My body screamed at me to bolt back to the elevator.

  “Where is the usual boy, Peter?”

  This was a freaking test, must be. In the briefing on the way over, Sarge had told me that the usual delivery boy’s name was Ahmed. That he had been working this route for the last two years.

  “Uh, the usual guy’s sick. But I think his name is Ahmed,” I said.

  The tight eyes relaxed a little. That bugged me, so I added in a voice thick with shock, “They think he might have the rat fever, he might be dying!”

  The man swore under his breath. Yeah, take that, you bastard. How’s it feel when it’s someone you know? Still he stared at me.

  “C’mon, dude,” I complained, shifting the packages, “these bags aren’t getting any lighter.”

  He closed the door to unhook the chain, then opened it and motioned me in. Every instinct in my body told me not to turn my back on him, but I had to lose the packages and extract my gun, and I couldn’t do that facing him. I stepped into the apartment and moved past him, my eyes registering possible target sites. The padded khaki vest, zipped most of the way up his chest, might be hiding a protective vest. Better to target exposed flesh — a bare upper arm circled with a tattoo in an unfamiliar script, the pulsing hollow at the base of his throat, directly beneath his sharp Adam’s apple.

  “You can put it over there, on the counter in the kitchen.”

  The apartment was small and dark, the curtains drawn even at midday. Through an open doorway, I could see into another room. A mattress was pushed into a corner, three-gallon water bottles were lined up against the wall, and the rest of the floor was covered with masses of computer equipment — tower boxes, coiled cables and glowing screens.

  “Hurry, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I put as much bored teen attitude as I could into the words.

  The kitchen consisted of a few cupboards and a melamine counter beside a single sink. A teacup and saucer were stuck in a draining rack, and on the counter was a birdcage in which a yellow canary hopped back and forth, back and forth between two perches. Every time it landed on the left-hand perch, it gave a high chirrup. A photo was propped up against the cage. As I got closer, I could see it was a picture of a round-faced woman with long, dark hair, cradling a small baby. The baby’s mouth was open in a yawn, and its one hand was reaching tiny wrinkled fingers into the air, as if trying to grasp at something.

  Hop-chirp-hop-hop-chirp. I placed the bags on the counter, staring at those minute star fingers. Hop-chirp. Reached my right hand into my hoodie, curled my fingers around the grip of the gun.

  “What’s the delay?” the man said impatiently.

  Hop-hop-chirp.

  “What are you doing there? Turn around.”

  I did. In a single fluid motion, I spun around and fired the pistol. The dart hit him in the neck. Before he crumpled to the carpet, he had time to move his hands. One raised itself to the wound in his neck, and the suddenly slack fingers of the other lost their grip on the pistol he had been holding. Shit. He’d had a weapon. Take before you’re taken.

  I darted over to him, kicked the pistol a few feet away, just in case, and nudged him with a toe. His eyes stayed closed, and he didn’t move, except for the rise and fall of his chest.

  Hop-hop-chirp. I worried what would happen to the bird, imagined Sarge’s face if I asked him and resolved not to. But at the door on my way out, I turned and ran back to the kitchenette. The photograph fluttered to the floor as I snatched up the birdcage. I would leave it in the lobby of the apartment building. Hopefully someone would rescue and take care of it.

  Back on the street with my hoodie pulled up over my hair, I gave the signal that I’d completed the mission — stooping down to tie a shoelace — and then walked to the end of the city block to meet the extraction team.

  “You get him?” Sarge asked.

  I nodded, taking the bottle of iced water he offered and drinking thirstily. “I put him down.” The water felt cold in my already unsettled stomach.

  Sarge dialed a number on his phone and without greeting the person on the other side said, “Our boy is taking a nap.” No doubt the team on standby to take the terr into custody would be at the apartment within minutes.

  “Any problems?” Sarge asked me.

  “He had a firearm.” And a flipping canary. And a wife and baby somewhere. “And he had it pointed at me. D’you think they know about us? About me?”

  “Nah.” Sarge waved a dismissive hand in the air, as if brushing aside the very idea. “These tangos are paranoid. Have to be, I guess. Glad you kept your head, Blue.”

  He sat back in his seat and grinned at me.

  “Cool as a fish on ice, you. Knew we’d caught ourselves something special the first time you shot me.”

  I said nothing. It would have been unkind to spoil his illusion. But a favorite saying of my father’s was running through my mind: “The second mouse gets the cheese.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if, in this new specialist unit, I was the first mouse.

  Chapter 22

  Moon Tan

  “See you at the cafeteria?” said Leya, passing me on her way out of the armory.

  “Yeah, just need to check this in first,” I said, showing her my weapon.

  “See you later,” she called.

  But after I’d handed the dart-gun back, I didn’t go to the cafeteria. I had no appetite after this afternoon’s mission, and I needed to get outside and breathe fresh evening air. Three things were clear to me. A) Even though I knew human-target missions were necessary, I still didn’t enjoy them. And even though I’d completed several now, they weren’t getting any easier. B) I wasn’t thrilled with the idea that the bad guys regarded me more as an enemy combatant than a medication dispenser, and they were armed with actual guns and live ammo. C) Even though I was out in the city and s
uburbs on missions, I still didn’t feel any more free than I had back at home.

  I spent my time between the compound and missions, and I was under observation and instruction at both. My assignments were chosen for me, the type of weapon and ammo I had to use was decided for me, I was escorted to and from the shoot sites and usually ordered about via an earpiece during the mission. Nowhere, except perhaps in my small bedroom and even tinier bathroom, was I ever alone. Nowhere was I free.

  I sat on one of the wooden benches at the back of the compound, staring at the gathering shadows in the trees beyond the line of fencing. Our family had often gone camping in state parks in the years before the plague. Mom had shown us how to roast marshmallows beside the fire until the outside was a crispy golden-brown skin ready to slip off the gooey heart of sweetness. I’d ignored her cautions and burned my fingers and my tongue. Robin had burned his marshmallows, watching fascinated as the balls of fire became wrinkled, black blobs. Dad had taken Robin and me on what he called “forced marches” through the forest, stopping beside each new tree to teach us its name. By the end of our week in the woods, I’d learned them all. Now I would probably only be able to recognize loblolly pines and oaks — I hadn’t been for a walk in the woods since Dad died. Maybe freedom was not possible in a world where the pandemic determined almost every aspect of our lives.

  I liked to come out here at this time of day. There was a brief time every evening before the compound lights fired up, when the heat of the day eased and the sun’s harsh light faded. The air was soft as an embrace, and the sounds of the compound faded to a distant hum. If I sat very still and strained my ears, I could hear the breeze in the trees, maybe even make out a birdsong or two. Now, the sky paled to a dull gray behind the pink-streaked masses of cloud. That gray was the color of Quinn’s eyes when he was angry. I stuffed my hands into my hoodie pockets.

  Gravel crunched on the path that circled the daisy-shaped compound. I looked up, straight into the gray-sky eyes of Quinn himself.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “What are you doing here?” It was like I’d summoned him by thinking of him.

  He stopped and stared back at me. “I sometimes come out here to take a break. You?”

  “I … the same.”

  The air between us expanded and contracted with unsaid things. In the deepening almost-darkness, I couldn’t see his face clearly. Maybe it would be easier to talk to him this way.

  “Quinn, I —” I began, just as he started saying, “So I guess —”

  We both broke off and the silence vibrated between us again. “You first,” I finally said, my voice almost a whisper.

  “Your shirt,” he said, gesturing to the grocery-store logo on the orange T-shirt. “You’ve been out undercover, shooting again.”

  His voice held the old disapproval, and just like that, the quiet spell between us was broken. As if to emphasize it, the security lights came on, sweeping the soft night and deep shadows away with penetrating brightness. Somewhere, behind those blinding lights, the moon was rising.

  I nodded and looked away from his eyes at his faded blue T-shirt, his loose jeans, and those damned checkerboard sneakers. As black and white as his attitudes about right and wrong.

  “And would I be right in guessing, since rats can’t read, that you’ve been shooting people?”

  “Taking them down, yes.”

  He swore and kicked at the gravel. “You and your euphemisms. Can’t you even be honest about what you do?”

  “Look, I know you don’t approve,” I said, standing up and stepping close to him.

  “There’s the understatement of the century.”

  “And I understand that,” I continued. “Hell, I’m not entirely at peace with it either. I didn’t want to target people, I still don’t really. But for the record, when I met you, when I first started here, I didn’t know that’s what they were training us for. I thought it was just rats and other diseased animals.”

  “You expect me to believe that?” His head was tilted sideways, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted.

  “It’s the truth,” I said, reaching a hand out to his arm. When he flinched and stepped back, my heart clenched into something small and hard and painful. “Sorry,” I said, holding my hands up as if in surrender, and walking two steps back from him. It was like I was infected with something sick and diseased, like I was a plague-carrier.

  “I didn’t know,” I repeated. “But I do now, and I’m not planning to stop.”

  “You —”

  “Quinn, they showed me footage of my father. He died from the plague, not a heart attack. He was murdered by terrorists in one of the early attacks. They took him hostage, they injected him with the virus, and he died. He died horribly. It took days and days. It was … bad.” My voice broke on the last word.

  “I’m sorry. I know you loved him,” said Quinn, his voice softer now, and more gentle. “But that’s not —”

  “I did love him. And I’m sure all the victims have people who love them. And no one deserves to suffer and die like that. The plague’s got to be stopped, the suffering’s got to be ended.”

  “And you truly believe that this is the right, the only way?” his voice was growing hard again.

  “How else can the M&Ms be brought in safely for treatment? And the terrs need to be arrested — interviewed and brought to trial. And taking them in this way does minimize the likelihood of firefights and casualties.”

  “What?” said Quinn. He looked stunned. “Are you leading me on, trying to get me to talk? Or is this actually what you believe?”

  “What are you on about? Why are you so angry? Please, tell me. What the hell is so bad about tranquilizing people so that they can be brought in for treatment or debriefing?”

  “You’re either the most naïve person I’ve ever met, or you’re a damned good liar, perhaps even a plant, trying to get me to shoot my mouth.”

  “Quinn, I swear I don’t understand what you’re on about.”

  “You’re serious!” He raked fingers through his hair and glanced over his shoulder. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “What the Academy is doing. What actually happens to the people you take down.” His voice was so low I struggled to hear.

  “Oh, now there’s some big conspiracy? So tell me, what actually happens to them?”

  “I can’t talk about it here.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “We’re being watched.”

  I looked around. “No one else is even out here.”

  Quinn flicked his gaze to the guard huts and jerked his chin in the direction of a camera mounted on the pole bearing the main electricity supply cord into the compound.

  “That camera’s been focused on us since we started talking.”

  I had to laugh. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?”

  “We have cameras mounted on every wall, there are microchips in our ID bracelets which can track our every move. All our communications, how much we exercise, what we weigh and eat — everything is monitored. And you’re asking me if I’m paranoid?” he snapped.

  “The cameras are for security and the rest is for our own benefit, to maximize our training regime.”

  “You believe everything you’re told! Well, except when it comes from me. Wake up, Jinxy, see the bigger picture.”

  “Maybe I could — if you explained.” I was so frustrated with all the hints and insinuations. “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

  The sound of crunching gravel said someone was on the way, probably a routine patrol.

  “Not here,” said Quinn softly. “As far as I know, they haven’t bugged our bedrooms. Can you be in your room after dinner tomorrow night? Alone.”

  “I can make a plan to be there.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, you hear? Not anyone.” And he was gone, and I was alone by the bench again once Bruce came strolling by.

  “Trying to c
atch a moon tan, Blue?”

  “Something like that.” Something just as elusive.

  The next night, I hurried through dinner, not tasting any of the food.

  “Where are you off to in such a rush?” asked Leya. “There’s still apple pie and ice cream for dessert.”

  “I’ve got some letters to write. My mom’s been freaking out because I’ve sent no news in ages. She’s threatening to revoke her permission and haul my ass home.” This was actually true.

  “No problem, I’ll catch you later,” said Leya.

  “I’ll be in the rec room until late, if you want to hang out,” said Bruce.

  Yeah, don’t hold your breath, there, Brucey-baby.

  When I heard the soft knock at the door of my quarters, I made myself count to ten before opening the door, not wanting to appear too eager.

  “It’ll be on the cameras that I came here tonight and probably on the ID bracelet tracking system, too. So if anyone asks, you’ll have to have a story ready,” Quinn said as he stepped into my room. Immediately, I was aware of his height, his faintly spicy smell, his presence which filled the space and reached out to me.

  “Okay.”

  Quinn had been in my room many times before, and each time he’d flung himself onto my bed like he owned it. Tonight he stood, looking awkward. His glance dipped to the shoulder straps of my tank-top, where his earring peeped out from underneath.

  “You still wear this?” His fingers brushed against the ring, against my skin.

  I shrugged. Would he want it back? “I didn’t want it to get lonely, all by itself in the box.”

  The suggestion of a smile flitted across his lips and was gone.

  “Please, sit.”

  I climbed onto my bed and gestured for him to do the same. My heart shrank a little when he pulled the chair out from under the desk at the window, spun it around, and sat backwards on it.

  He stared at me for a long moment with the sort of assessing look I was used to getting from Sarge and Fiona.

  “You were going to explain stuff to me? About the bigger picture?” I prompted.