CHAPTER
SEVEN
Peter impatiently blew hair out of his eyes. He’d gone too long between haircuts and now it was annoying him, blocking his vision. He should’ve worn a hat, anyway. What if Mason noticed a strange brown hair on his carpet? Stupid, Peter thought. At least he’d remembered to bring gloves this time.
He glanced at his watch: He’d already been inside the apartment for ten minutes. So much for get in, get out. He might as well pop open a soda and kick back on the couch for a while.
Angrily, he tried again to get the bug positioned, chastising himself the whole time. He should have practiced with one of these at home. The spy store salesman had sworn that these listening devices took less than a minute to install and activate, but maybe that time frame only applied to actual spies. For nearly five minutes Peter had been struggling to attach one to the underside of Mason’s desk, behind the lip so it wouldn’t be visible unless you were on your hands and knees looking up. But every time he thought it was secured, the bug dropped onto the rug.
Of course, the free-floating frustration he was feeling might not just be due to the bug. He’d awoken before dawn with Amanda curled up in bed beside him. Instantly, everything that had happened the night before snapped into his mind. He’d meant what he said, telling her that he loved her. At least, in the moment he had. But as he watched her sleep, conflicting emotions fluttered through him. Their breakup had hurt him badly. It was hard to feel like he could trust her anymore.
And then there was Noa.
Which was crazy, and ridiculous. But even though nothing had happened between them, and there was a good chance he’d never see her in person again, she occupied most of his thoughts. And his dreams, if he was honest. What he felt for Amanda was . . . different. There was a time when getting a text from her had made him light up, and he could have spent hours just holding her. Even after a year, whenever they were together he’d seek out physical contact with some part of her—his hand on the small of her back, or his fingers wrapped around hers.
He still cared deeply for her. But lying beside her that morning, he realized that he just didn’t feel that way anymore. He didn’t want to bury his face in her hair while wrapping his arms around her waist. Part of him was tempted to sneak out of the house before she woke up, but if he did that, she’d go ballistic.
So he waited, staring up at the ceiling, itching to get his laptop so he could start working. When she finally woke up around seven, he tried to act normal. Gave her a kiss and a hug, helped her sneak out the back so his parents wouldn’t see her. And when the door finally closed behind her, he heaved a sigh of relief, then immediately felt guilty about it.
He could tell that Amanda knew something was wrong, but she didn’t say anything. Which just made him feel even worse. So he got dressed in a rush and came here, counting on the fact that Mason would be a creature of habit, and the apartment would be empty.
Stupid risk. But he’d gotten lucky—no one was home.
That luck didn’t seem to be holding, however. Peter swore as the bug fell again, then sat back on his heels. He could practically hear the minutes ticking past, like a bomb countdown. He forced Amanda and Noa out of his mind, gritted his teeth, jabbed another piece of Velcro onto the damn thing, and tried again.
Finally, it stuck. Making a mental note to never go anywhere again without a tube of industrial strength Krazy Glue, Peter returned to the living room. The second and third bugs installed more easily: He tucked one under the kitchen counter, and after a tortuous few seconds of debate, installed the final one in the bedroom. Maybe Mason liked to lounge around on his bed chatting to P&D CEO Charles Pike like a high school girl with a crush. Hopefully, that was the only sort of activity he engaged in there. Peter had no desire to sift through hours of boudoir activity, but he was more afraid of missing something that might help save Amanda.
Peter scanned the room. He hesitated, then went back to the library one last time to make sure the damn bug hadn’t fallen on the carpet again.
All clear. Nervously, he double-checked that there was no sign he’d been in the apartment, then headed for the front door.
Halfway down the hall, he heard the distinct click of a dead bolt turning.
Amanda tucked her chin deeper into her turtleneck and hunched her shoulders. The temperature had plummeted overnight, and the faint sunshine barely made a dent in the biting air. She was late for her shift at the Runaway Coalition. Not that it really mattered, but lately she’d gotten the sense that Mrs. Latimar was watching her more closely, and she didn’t want to do anything to rouse suspicion.
It had taken nearly an hour to get back from Peter’s house; more than enough time to mentally review everything that happened. In the dark, Peter had been so sweet. She’d drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling like they were finally together again, and everything would be fine from here on out.
But then she’d woken up to a stranger. Peter had been so weird and awkward, avoiding her eyes, going out of his way not to touch her. She could’ve sworn he even grimaced when he kissed her good-bye.
At the memory, Amanda fought back tears. She wasn’t an idiot. Maybe he’d only used the l word last night because he felt sorry for her.
That got her angry. Forget him, she told herself. Between school and volunteering, she didn’t really have time for a boyfriend anyway. Before Peter, she’d hardly dated; weekends, she’d hung out with friends. It had been nice, drama-free. Well, she’d just get back into that mindset. It was almost funny, that Peter was so hung up on a girl who wasn’t even around anymore. At the thought, Amanda experienced a sharp flare of rage. She tamped it down, clenching her jaw to contain it, and quickened her stride. Just a few more blocks to the Coalition.
Amanda was so preoccupied by those thoughts that she was barely aware of her surroundings; someone suddenly stepped in front of her. She automatically mumbled, “Excuse me,” shifting right to pass him.
But he moved with her, blocking her path. Annoyed, she jerked up her head. It was Mason.
Peter froze, his heart shuddering to a halt in his chest. As the doorknob turned, he got hold of himself and edged back down the hall as quickly and silently as possible. In the living room he stopped, his hands sweaty and shaking. Mason would kill him if he found him here. And he could probably dispose of a body in a hundred different ways without anyone finding out. Peter would simply vanish. His parents would assume he’d run away again. Amanda and Noa might search for him, but eventually even they would be forced to give up.
He had to get out, now.
His eyes frantically scanned the room for a hiding place. The curtains? No: too obvious, and they didn’t reach all the way to the floor. Maybe he could make it back to the bedroom? And do what, hide under the bed? Was there even a closet in there? Crap, he couldn’t remember.
Think! he berated himself.
There was a door off the kitchen; he’d noted it on his first pass through the apartment. As footsteps approached down the long hallway, Peter darted toward it. He was out of time and out of options. If it turned out to be a cabinet, he was screwed. Drawing a deep breath, he turned the knob and opened the door as silently as possible.
When Peter saw that it led not to the broom closet he’d been hoping for, but to something even better, he nearly passed out from relief. He ducked into a small corridor with a trash chute and service elevator, easing the door shut behind him. Before pressing the call button for the elevator, he hesitated—what if it was loud? Mason might hear, and come investigate.
Better to wait a few minutes, Peter decided. Hopefully Mason wasn’t staying long. This time of day, he probably had someplace to be, right?
The sound of keys hitting the counter, and a lower noise. Was Mason humming? Peter thought, flabbergasted in spite of everything. He would’ve been less shocked if the door suddenly sprouted a mouth and started talking to him.
Suddenly, a heavy tread approached. Peter stepped back, panicked. It was too
late to call the elevator—there was no way it would arrive before the door opened. He frantically surveyed the room, but no windows or exits magically appeared. For a brief second he considered the trash chute, but it was roughly a foot wide; there was no way he’d fit.
The footsteps stopped right on the other side of the door. Peter swallowed hard. This was it. He was about to be caught. A hundred terrible scenarios whirled through his mind. Should he scream? Maybe someone downstairs would hear him. He could call 911 . . . and say what, exactly? That he was trapped outside the apartment he’d just broken into?
At least he could send Amanda a text. He fumbled his iPhone out of his pocket and stared at the screen, unsure what to type. I’m at Mason’s and someone’s about to kill me(!) Good-bye, it was nice knowing you. :(
Short and sweet, he decided. Give her Mason’s address, and tell her to get in touch with Noa. While he was at it, he’d include a link to the packet sniffer. Peter berated himself for not sharing that data with her already—what had he been thinking? Noa had no idea that he’d inserted a back door into Pike & Dolan. Even if the Project Persephone files were on an entirely different server, there might be useful information there.
But no, he’d selfishly kept quiet about it.
The knob turned. He’d run out of time.
Peter ducked behind the door as it popped open, sucking in to make himself as narrow as possible. A hand tossed a small bag into the hall. Peter held his breath. It landed with a crackle a few feet away—white plastic knotted at the top, with the outline of cardboard containers inside. Great, he thought. His death could be blamed on Chinese takeout.
If Mason took one more step into the hall, he’d be seen. . . .
The door slammed closed. Peter waited a few beats, then exhaled.
Inside the apartment, a phone trilled. It was picked up after two rings. A woman started chattering in rapid-fire Spanish. He heard a sink turn on, then the sound of cabinets opening and closing.
Peter slid down the wall, dropping into a crouch. Not Mason—his maid. He had to repress a giggling fit at the realization. So he wasn’t about to die, which was a relief. But he still had to get out of here, ideally without being seen.
He pressed his ear to the door, hearing the persistent whine of a vacuum on the other side. He’d have to chance it. Stepping quietly to the elevator, Peter pushed the call button.
The doors slid open silently. Peter stepped inside and jabbed the button for the bottom floor, then repeatedly pressed the one that closed the doors. As they slowly slid shut, he kept waiting for a hand to force them back open, then reach for him. . . .
The doors finally shut, and he collapsed against the rear wall. It was a service elevator, much drabber than the one used by residents: a chipped linoleum floor, gray walls scarred by streaks of paint. But as far as Peter was concerned, it was the most beautiful elevator he’d ever taken in his life.
He emerged in the basement. Took a second to get his bearings, then mounted a stairwell that ejected him into the alley behind Mason’s building. He checked the street: It looked clear. Trying for nonchalance, he strode out of the alley with his hands jammed in his pockets. It took all his resolve to keep from breaking into a run.
After sliding behind the wheel of his Prius, Peter sat for a minute. His hands shook, echoing how his whole body felt. He was not cut out for this spy stuff. That had been a crazy risk he’d just taken, where the best-case scenario involved an arrest for breaking and entering. From now on, he’d stick to keeping track of things from the safety of his keyboard.
Feeling resolute, Peter turned the key in the ignition and pointed the car toward home.
Amanda could barely breathe. Mason was dressed in an impeccable gray suit with a wool overcoat, a Burberry scarf knotted around his neck. Despite the cold, his cheeks were pale as ever. “Amanda Berns,” he said evenly. “What a coincidence. I was just heading to the Runaway Coalition.”
Amanda opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her whole body had frozen with terror. She stared at him dumbly for nearly a minute; the whole time, his gaze never faltered.
She finally snapped out of it. Smiling weakly, she said, “I’m heading there, too,” and moved to pass him.
He fell in step alongside her. “Well, then we should walk together.”
Everything inside her raged against the suggestion, but she couldn’t come up with a valid reason to refuse. Amanda wanted to shriek at him for abducting her, marking her skin with a creepy warning, and stealing the lives of so many vulnerable teens. But she had no proof. And if she came out and started shouting at him in the middle of the sidewalk, she’d just end up looking like a crazy person.
Plus, Mason would know she was onto him. And everything she’d been doing at the shelter, stealing those names and passing them to Mouse, would have been in vain.
She swallowed hard, trying to get her throat working again. Kept her head ducked low, praying that he wouldn’t talk to her.
But he did. “So,” he said. “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance.”
Amanda looked up sharply, suddenly panicked that somehow they’d been discovered. Had he done something to Mouse? She pictured her wan form laid out on a metal table; the thought made her ill. “Really?” She struggled to keep her voice even as she asked, “Who?”
“Peter Gregory.”
A flash of relief, immediately followed by more panic. Did Mason know that he’d been helping Noa? “He’s my ex,” she said, fighting to sound dismissive.
“Ah, young love.” Mason’s mouth creased into a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. “Lots of ups and downs, right?”
She didn’t answer. They were a block from the Coalition. The light was about to turn red; she broke into a trot to cross the street anyway. Mason matched her pace, although he managed it at a walk.
“I understand Peter is planning on attending Harvard next year,” he said casually.
Amanda looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, his parents and I are old friends.” That smarmy smile again, really more of a leer.
Her heart drummed in her chest; it felt like she was running even though they’d resumed an even walking pace. The entrance to the Coalition was a hundred yards away—she was so close. All she had to do was play it cool until then. Drawing a deep breath, Amanda said, “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, we have certain business interests in common.” His tone sounded overly casual. She couldn’t repress the sense that there was a much deeper conversation underlying everything he said. “Peter seems like an intelligent young man.”
They were almost at the door. She was terrified that at any minute a van would pull alongside and she’d be shoved into it, or that Mason would jab a needle into her neck and she’d wake up in a terrible place. Her lungs felt strained, like there wasn’t enough air to breathe. “Yes,” she said, although it came out as a hiss.
“Too smart, some would say.” Without warning Mason grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop. Amanda went rigid; it was like those dreams where something horrible is attacking, and you simply freeze and stare at it with awe.
“Wh-what do you mean?” she managed.
“I mean,” Mason said, leaning in, “he is once again sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m hoping you can clarify things for him.”
Amanda hesitated. Should she scream for help? Perversely, part of her didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing how terrified she was. Peter’s blank gaze that morning as he basically chucked her out the door flashed through her mind. Her jaw tightened, and she yanked her arm free. Coolly, she replied, “Like I said. We broke up.”
Mason’s eyebrows lifted; clearly that wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. After a beat, he said, “Well, then. I guess I’ll have to speak with him myself.”
Amanda put her hands on her hips and demanded, “About what, exactly?”
It wasn’t what she’d intended to say. She’d planned on announ
cing that she was late, and ducking past him. But the words had slipped out of her mouth, and it was too late to take them back.
“Interesting,” Mason said, eyeing her. “You surprise me, Amanda Berns.”
The way he said it made her shudder. It was like hands roving over her body, creepy and invasive. She stuttered, “I-I really need to get inside. My shift started ten minutes ago.”
“By all means.” Mason stepped aside and bowed with a flourish. It was a ridiculous gesture, yet somehow he made it look natural. Amanda walked past him, keeping her pace steady even though she desperately wanted to break into a run. She paused with her hand on the door and looked back.
The street was clear. Mason was gone.
PART TWO
INFILTRATION
CHAPTER
EIGHT
“Ready?” Zeke asked quietly.
“As I’ll ever be,” Noa muttered. Her hands ran over the tools and weapons hidden under a voluminous black jacket, checking for the hundredth time that they were all there. She had the Taser, and pepper spray for good measure. Zip ties and a box cutter. A pocket flashlight. A precious flashbang grenade, recovered during one of their earlier raids. She was dressed in black with a checkered scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, positioned so that when the time came, she could pull it up to hide her lower face.
Although chances were, everyone in that building knew exactly who she was.
“All right.” Zeke peered through the night-vision binoculars again. It was late, nearly midnight. The same three guards were outside. Two played cards on a set of camping chairs by the main door, huddled beneath the security light. The other had made a few listless tours of the perimeter.
“They’re tired and bored,” Zeke said with satisfaction. “Piece of cake.”
“Don’t jinx us,” Noa warned.
He turned and winked at her. “You and your superstitions. Chill.”
Noa shifted. She was always tense before a raid, but tonight her fears were amplified, and she was at a loss to explain why. It’s just paranoia, she thought. Coming on the heels of what had happened in Oakland, that was understandable.
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