Word and Breath (Wordless Chronicles)

by Susannah Noel

  Without waiting for Kelvin to respond, Connor jogged down half a block to where his car was parked. The door rattled slightly as he slammed it, but the engine rolled into life as he turned the ignition. Like everything else he owned, the car was unpretentious, of good quality, and had seen better days. He pulled out into traffic and pressed the accelerator, trying to estimate how long it would take him to get to the north side at this time of day.

  Barely sliding through a traffic signal, he grabbed his phone and called Jenson.

  He prayed they wouldn’t be too late.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, a police van plowed violently into the back of Connor’s car.

  The impact was loud and jarring, and the airbag in front of him deployed with another burst of sound.

  Connor was momentarily swallowed by the airbag—winded and disoriented by the brutal motion and the momentum of the crash.

  If he hadn’t been expecting it, then it would have been worse.

  Even so, the sudden impact and the grating noise of his car being mangled nauseated him. The skin of one side of his face burned, probably scraped up by the air bag. He’d taken his glasses off before the accident, so at least they were intact. As the airbag deflated, Connor sat behind the wheel and breathed deeply, assessing his condition and composing himself.

  His job here wasn’t over yet.

  Putting his glasses back on, he tried the driver’s side door. It opened with a little more force than normal so Connor was able to get out.

  The damage was mostly to the rear end of the car. It had been crushed by the much larger van, and the sight of it inspired an intense pang of regret.

  He’d liked this car, and it wasn’t going to be easy to replace.

  Some things were more important than that, though, so he concentrated on what he still had to do. The two police officers on patrol were disembarking from the van. One of them approached Connor while the other went to the back to inspect the rest of the damage.

  Jenson’s car had come out best. It was his sudden swerving that had caused the accident, and he’d done it very adeptly—managing to side-swipe the police van, enough to do damage but not enough to injure any of the van’s occupants.

  As they’d planned on the phone a few minutes ago, an accident like this would inevitably lead to the afternoon’s arrests vacating the van.

  Connor saw with relief that the second officer was following protocol and had opened the back of the van. He was now leading a grimy old man onto the street. With this confirmation, Connor started on the next stage of the plan.

  “What do you think you were doing?” he roared at the police officer approaching him. “Haven’t you ever heard of using your brakes?”

  His friends and colleagues would have gaped had they heard his harsh, resonant bellow. He was well-known for never raising his voice.

  When the officer tried to respond, Connor interrupted, “Look at my car! It’s totaled! Do you have any idea what this car means to me?”

  He kept it up, gesticulating a lot and causing such a scene that onlookers gathered around to witness the show. The other officer had herded the arrests out of the van, making sure they were still cuffed and gagged, but his attention kept straying to Connor.

  By now, Jenson had gotten out of his car and was holding a handkerchief to his forehead. Connor didn’t dare to look at him directly, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that he was carrying a canvas bag—incongruous next to his old-fashioned tweed jacket.

  The first police officer, not appreciating Connor’s attitude, had started to raise his voice too. The second officer, having ascertained that the arrests weren’t going anywhere, stepped over to intimidate Connor with his bulk.

  It was painfully hard not to watch what Jenson was doing, but Connor managed to turn away as he yelled, gesturing wildly toward his mangled car.

  “Is everyone all right?” The mild, cultured voice belonged to Jenson, breaking into the increasing hostility.

  When Connor turned back around, he saw that the canvas bag Jenson carried was now different. He’d managed to make the switch with Brook—protecting the Front’s correspondence.

  Had Brook been taken in a military arrest, they’d have been out of luck. The military handled the arrests of all suspected traitors, and the guards were far more vigilant and experienced.

  But police patrols picked up people every day—loiterers, drunks, petty thieves, and those at the wrong place at the wrong time. Invariably, they were fined and released. After they were searched, of course.

  Brook would be fine, now that Jenson had possession of the incriminating correspondence.

  Connor pretended to be bullied into silence, and he let the officers write up the accident and send both him and Jenson to the hospital.

  They didn’t fully relax, however, until they were taped up, checked out, and sent on their way.

  Kelvin came to pick them up, since both of them had lost their cars.

  Connor had a brutal headache and he still felt vaguely nauseous, but he was satisfied with what they’d accomplished.

  “I hope you appreciate my sacrifice,” Jenson said dryly, looking oddly unkempt with the white bandage over one temple. “I’ll now have a violation on my perfect driving record.”

  “Tragic. I had to sacrifice my car.”

  Jenson chuckled softly and stared out the window as the lights of the city blurred by them. It was already dark. They’d lost the whole evening. “It was time to give up that hunk of junk, anyway.”

  Jenson was Connor’s cousin—several years older and intensely private. Connor had brought him into the Front a few years ago, once he’d decided the man could be trusted.

  It had been a gamble, since Jenson would always be a slightly unknown quantity, but he’d proven himself loyal. And indispensable. And not a bad man to have on one’s side.

  Connor sighed and leaned his head back against the car seat. The pang he felt in his chest was genuine—however trivial it should be. “Maybe my car can be fixed.”

  Then he opened his eyes. “Thanks, by the way. You were perfect. No trouble with the exchange?”

  “No. Everyone was focused on your histrionics. I had no idea you were so good at being a prima donna.”

  Connor ignored this jibe and reached over to pull the canvas bag into his lap to find the pages they’d risked so much for.

  The Front had used written texts for years to share information and to exchange plans and directives. Since few people could read, the correspondence was relatively safe, even if a text now and then was intercepted. The only real danger was on the days the monthly correspondence was delivered. They split it up as much as they could, but so many written texts in one place were sure to be suspected, even if they couldn’t be read.

  Most of the Readers were loyal to the Union. And Connor’s codes—hidden in written language—were good but they weren’t unbreakable.

  Connor closed the bag and put his hand on it, finally relaxing in the knowledge they were safe.

  “I think we have someone new to recruit,” Jenson said, breaking the silence of the car.

  Connor slanted his eyes toward his cousin and noted something almost wary on the other man’s face. “Who is it? Another one of the Readers?”

  “Yes.”

  When Jenson didn’t continue, Connor arched his eyebrows. “Who is it?”

  Still no answer. Connor suddenly realized why.

  He gritted out, “No.”

  “We need to revisit the issue.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” The force in the one word was startling, as was the almost angry look in Jenson’s eyes. “You don’t get to close down the issue without even discussing it. We can use her. And we can trust her. Why wouldn’t—”

  “We don’t need her,” Connor interrupted, knowing he sounded petty and young but unable to make his objection take on any more weight. “We have plenty of Readers already. And there’s no reason to drag her into—”
/>
  “We drag people in! That’s what an underground movement does. We recruit people to our cause until we have enough supporters to change things. We drag people into this, even knowing we put them at risk. You know that. And you can’t let your feelings for Riana—”

  The sound of her name made Connor want to strike Jenson. He didn’t, of course. He just clenched his fist and looked away, out the window at the runners in the park. “Any feelings I might have had are long gone.”

  “Right.” The word was dry and not quite under Jenson’s breath.

  Connor wasn’t a liar, and he rarely spoke anything but truth to his compatriots. Especially Jenson, who was related by blood as well as by loyalty.

  But he couldn’t admit to this. Not after the three years he’d spent trying to convince himself his feelings for Riana Cole were gone.

  He’d been fond of her once—when they were Readers together in the office. Very fond of her. At first, she’d been like a pesky little sister, but it hadn’t taken long for that to change. He’d even entertained dreams of the fondness turning into something else.

  He’d given those dreams up, though, even before he’d gone underground.

  Some things were hopeless.

  A loss but a necessary one.

  “I know you think I’m acting irrationally, but I have thought this through.” Connor was pleased his voice sounded natural and composed. “We have Readers. Riana can’t bring us anything we don’t already have. Plus, she doesn’t want to get involved in this.” When he saw Jenson was about to interrupt, he spoke over him. “She doesn’t. I know her. She has enough to deal with in taking care of her sister. She doesn’t need any more…” His voice drifted off, cracking on the last word, “Stress.”

  “She has stress, whether you want her to or not. And she’s already put herself at risk with the Union.”

  “What? What have you done?”

  “I haven’t done anything.” Jenson sounded more annoyed than anything else, and his blue eyes were hard as granite. “She made the choice herself.”

  Connor had to prevent himself from shaking the story out of his cousin by force. He willed back the impatience, however, and listened as Jenson explained.

  “She found the anomaly with ‘wordless’ in a few stray pieces of our correspondence. I asked her to leave it alone. When Smyde asked about it this afternoon, she said it was nothing.”

  Connor’s knuckles on the handle of the door were white. “Was she convincing?”

  “Very. She’s good. And smart. And the best Reader I’ve seen since—” He snorted in wry amusement. “Since you. We can use her.”

  “So you made the decision on your own to bring her into this. Why didn’t you—”

  “Give it up,” Jenson snapped. “You’re acting on emotion, not with reason or purpose. I had to do something. She would have taken her findings to Smyde otherwise. She brought herself into this, and I’m telling you she’s up to the challenge.”

  “I know.” It had never been an issue of not trusting Riana’s strength, wit, or discretion. “I just don’t want her involved.”

  “She deserves to know the truth. It’s not just politics and covert maneuverings. We’re talking about the difference between truth and lies. I don’t like seeing her every day, talking to her, and being forced to keep her in the dark about something so important.”

  Something in Jenson’s tone made the skin at the back of Connor’s neck break into goosebumps. “I didn’t realize you were that close to her.” Despite his stoic resolve, he couldn’t help but feel a stab of jealousy. Connor hadn’t seen Riana in years. He hadn’t let himself.

  “We’ve always been friends. I respect her and like her. And I think there’s more to her than you’re giving her credit for.”

  If he’d been trying, Jenson couldn’t have said words that would irritate Connor more. “I know exactly what she’s worth.”

  “Well, you’re not acting like it. She’s an adult. An intelligent, capable woman. You’re treating her like a child. If you really knew what she’s worth, you wouldn’t insist on coddling—”

  Connor raised a hand to silence Jenson. He’d heard enough, and Jenson’s pitiless tone broke through the last of his defenses. “Fine. Fine. At least do me a favor, though. Wait a week before you talk to her.”

  “What would a week do?”

  “It would give you time to watch her and make sure you’re satisfied that doing this is the right thing.”

  “I already know—”

  “I know you think you know, but I’m not convinced myself. Wait a week.”

  Jenson shook his head. “All right. A week. Unless something else happens to make it necessary to tell her earlier.”

  “And make sure you just bring her in on the outskirts. She’s not to know who I am.”

  “Understood.” Then he looked away from Connor at last, muttering, “You’re a fool.”

  Connor bristled and opened his mouth to respond, but Jenson put out a palliative hand. “Don’t bite my head off. Tell me how much you want her to know.”

  Connor didn’t want her to know anything.

  But some things he couldn’t control.

  ***

  As she reached her block and passed the coffee shop across the street from her building that evening, Riana couldn’t resist glancing in the large window.

  Mikel was there—drinking coffee and scanning images in a newspaper.

  She paused, suddenly torn. She’d had no intentions of talking to him again. There was no reason for it. Pursuing a futile interest in a stranger was absolutely idiotic.

  The stress of the week had left her at loose ends, though, and she wanted to do something unexpected, unpredictable.

  She didn’t like that Jenson thought he could read her so easily.

  Maybe she wasn’t as predictable as he thought.

  As everyone thought.

  Dressed in a stylish black shirt and jacket, Mikel was incredibly attractive. He wasn’t watching her. He hadn’t even noticed she watched him through the window.

  Why shouldn’t she just say “hi” and thank him again for last night?

  She would bring Jannie a cup of coffee. Her sister loved the coffee from this shop.

  So she walked in and got into line at the counter. It was a silly subterfuge—since she’d obviously come in to see Mikel.

  But she didn’t want him to think she was too eager or desperate.

  She didn’t look back at him until she’d bought the coffee and turned toward the door.

  He had noticed her by now and was smiling in her direction.

  She returned the smile and waved, walking over to his table.

  “I was hoping to see you,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him.

  Riana figured she might as well sit down. It would be pretty silly to refuse after coming in to talk to him. “So do you come here every day after work?”

  “Not every day. But a lot of them.” Mikel’s smile was absolutely irresistible.

  She hadn’t known it was possible for a man to be so handsome. Underneath the powerful attraction, she was nervous about it.

  It didn’t seem natural for a man to be so utterly compelling. It didn’t seem entirely safe.

  “So what are your plans for the evening?”

  Riana blinked at him for a minute. It had been ages since anyone had asked her that, since her answer was always the same. “Nothing much. Just going home to my sister.”

  “Why don’t you have dinner with me?” He gave her a slanting look—half ironic, half charming.

  If it wasn’t for the irony and his obvious intelligence, Riana would have felt sick from so much charm. As it was, her anxiety deepened. She shook her head and stood up. “I can’t. My sister is expecting me.”

  Mikel stood up too and fell in stride with her as she left the coffee shop to cross the street. “Then she can come too.”

  “No, she can’t. She has mobility issues.”

  Mikel’s for
ehead wrinkled in surprise. “Surely we could work around—”

  “No. Seriously.” Riana held the coffee so she wouldn’t slop it as she reached the door to her building. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think so.”