by Kelly Meding
“Something tells me no one has ever really seen you, Renee.”
My insides clenched up tight. I tucked my hand back into my lap, but couldn’t muster up any anger over his comment. Hell, he was probably right, and hadn’t I done that to myself? Built up the exterior persona of the confident, curvy dancer with the sharp tongue and high-pitched laugh? I’d had those walls up for years. Without their protection, I’d be defenseless.
“I wasn’t much older than some of you,” Thatcher said when I didn’t respond. “Many of us were barely in our twenties when we were imprisoned. We weren’t fighting for a cause anymore, we were fighting for our lives. Specter could have killed any one of us with a thought, and we knew it. It’s how he controlled us, got us to fight for him.”
“Kill or be killed?”
“Yes. I doubt he was even in New York that last day.”
Following a general who was too chickenshit to make a personal appearance in his own campaign? I was doubly glad to have a leader who charged forward at the head of the line, who would take a metaphorical bullet for any one of us (and had taken a literal bullet for Dahlia).
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Go ahead.”
“If you hated Specter so much, then why did you keep an innocent locked up in his place? Why pretend for so many years that Specter was in Manhattan with the rest of you?”
“For the same reason: fear.” He scrubbed his hands across his face, then through his hair. “None of us had a clue what happened to our powers, if it was temporary or if they’d come back. We were still afraid of Specter, and we knew that if the authorities believed he was free, he’d be hunted down and tossed in with the rest of us. We were terrified of what he’d do to us if our powers came back. As the years passed, the ruse became part of our daily lives. Even when we gave up hope of ever getting our powers back, we feared reprisal from the warden if he discovered we’d lied about Specter. So we kept the secret.”
I studied Derek Thatcher for a moment, trying to see the younger man he’d once been—the man so afraid of another Meta that he’d done horrific things. He was there, beneath the crow’s-feet and threads of silver in his hair. Beneath the hardness that living in prison for so long had created around him. I knew about hardness and walls and fear, so much more than I could ever tell him.
“Needless to say, the warden was furious when he discovered what we’d done,” Thatcher added. “It’s part of the reason why we stayed away from the Warren for years, until Simon and Ethan made contact. It’s why I’m positive that I’ll never receive my pardon.”
“Helping with this case may sway Warden Hudson’s opinion.”
“Doubtful.” He gave me a sad smile. “Honestly, this case may be my last chance to see the outside world, and I’m okay with that. All I want now is to save my son.”
Something tender squeezed at my heart. I tried to ignore it. I didn’t want to have sympathy for Thatcher, or to experience genuine regret that he’d already given up hope of ever gaining his freedom. Feeling those things were just too dangerous. “I hope we can,” I said. “Save your son, I mean.”
“Thank you. And I hope we find Ethan safe and sound.”
“Me, too.”
“He tried to save us the day of the helicopter crash, and he nearly died for his trouble.”
“Ethan would stand in front of a speeding train to protect someone from danger, even if he didn’t know them. It’s what the Rangers taught us.”
“That it’s somehow noble and heroic to die protecting a stranger?”
Why did it sound stupid when Thatcher said it like that? “Yes. It is.”
“Wouldn’t you rather die knowing you’d saved someone you love, instead of a nameless person who probably won’t remember you when you’re gone?”
“Janie Muldoon.”
Thatcher blinked hard several times. “Who’s she?”
“The Ranger who died saving my life when I was eight years old. I was a stranger to her, a kid she’d never met. She died that day, burned to death.” Tears stung my eyes as old memories clawed at the veil I’d put over them almost twenty years ago. Memories dredged up three months ago when I was burned so badly I wanted to die rather than live with the agony of healing.
I’d almost gone crazy during my recovery, startling awake night after night from horrible dreams of Janie’s death, and of my own physical and mental torture before the Rangers found me. I hadn’t told anyone about those nightmares—not Teresa or Gage, and not any of my doctors. So why in the charred blue hell was I opening up to Thatcher?
He didn’t say he was sorry, and I was glad for that—I hate empty sympathy. I’d rather have directness and honesty.
“You weren’t born into the Rangers?” he asked instead.
“No, they found me when I was eight, a few months after my powers had only begun to manifest. I wasn’t born blue.” I bit down hard on my tongue to cut off the flow of words. No way was I going into any more detail with him. Details about the Montana compound I was raised on, or the deeply disturbed people who lived there and believed that Metas were all possessed by demons.
Demons that could be cleansed.
Fucking abusive lunatics, the lot of them.
His hand touched my shoulder, and I didn’t flinch away. Instead, I met his gaze and was surprised to see a quiet intensity there that seemed directed not at me, but at the people who hurt me. Or was it my imagination?
“I’m glad the Rangers were there when you needed them.”
“They always were. Seeing the old Ranger HQ destroyed was . . . it’s like moving one step closer to forgetting.” Those damned tears were back, and I blinked the sheen of water away. “Nowadays everyone thinks of the War first, and no one remembers all of the good the Rangers did. All of the lives they saved.”
“You remember, Renee. As long as one person remembers, their legacy won’t die.”
He squeezed my shoulder, and then the hand started to slip away. I reached up and pressed it back down, grateful for the touch and unable to thank him for it. We sat in silence for a while, until the sun had set completely and it was time to go back inside.
* * *
I was awake with the sun (not that I’d slept much anyway), and after checking for an update (nothing), I went outside to run for a while. I didn’t run fast or often, but this morning it felt like the thing to do, and I ran until my legs and lungs burned. After a quick shower, I returned to my room to get dressed. I was just running a comb through my short hair to sleek out some of the tangles when my cell phone rang.
The name on the display sent my heart into double-time: Ethan.
“Hello?” I said.
“Is anyone else in the room with you?” a male voice asked. Landon. “Ethan’s life depends on your honesty.”
“I’m alone.”
“Put your phone on speaker, then put it into your pocket. Go find Derek Thatcher. I want to speak to him.”
“I want to know Ethan’s alive.”
“He’s alive, Flex. How long he stays that way depends on your following my directions.” The snide tone of his voice suggested he didn’t think I could follow his directions with a map and a flashlight, but I bit back a flippant response. I didn’t know this kid or his temper, and I wouldn’t risk him taking out my lack of restraint on his hostage.
“Fine,” I said.
I did as he asked, careful not to disconnect the call, then strode down the hall to the room Thatcher had been assigned last night. No one else was in sight, so I didn’t knock. I yanked open the door and went inside.
Thatcher spun around with a pair of pants in his hands, dressed in only a pair of briefs that showed off every single muscle and line of his body. I didn’t stop long enough to either admire his physique or be embarrassed at catching him in his underwear, and he seemed too flustered to form a coherent sentence.
“You have a phone call,” I said, holding out the cell.
His eyes narrowed as he slipped into his pants. “From?”
“Good morning, Chimera,” Landon said over speaker. “Or should I call you Dad?”
All of the color leached from Thatcher’s face. He stared at the phone in my hand like it might explode and kill us both. “Landon?” he said, the single word more a plea than a question.
“In the flesh. Although I guess technically not, since we’re doing this over the phone.”
“They told me you were dead.”
“I know.”
I wanted to reach through the phone and throttle Landon for the casual way he was talking about this—about the agony Thatcher had suffered believing his wife and son had died, being locked away and powerless to save them.
Thatcher’s expression shifted from pained shock to suspicion. “What do you want?”
“That should be obvious, even to you,” Landon replied. “I’m willing to trade Ethan Swift for you.”
“Absolutely not.”
I nearly dropped the phone, so startled by Thatcher’s flat refusal.
“Excuse me?” Landon asked.
“No trade,” Thatcher said.
“Are you insane?” I asked.
“Think, Renee. I am under your supervision. If I trade myself away, no matter the reason, Hudson will throw you in jail. Probably Teresa and Ethan, too, for that matter.”
“So your solution is to let Landon kill Ethan?”
“My solution is to not send the three of you straight to jail. I won’t. But I am willing to meet with him and talk.”
“Talk?” Landon said. “What makes you think I want to talk?”
“Because if you wanted to kill me, you’d have done so by now. With your abilities, you’ve had plenty of opportunities.”
“Then why didn’t I kidnap you?”
“You’re trying to prove how smart and badass you are by kidnapping a powerful ex-Ranger. It’s time to quit the showboating, son, and get down to business.”
I could almost see Landon’s face falling on the other end of the line. He’d been put in his place by his old man, and it was awesome. The brief silence from his side added to Thatcher’s verbal victory.
“Fine,” Landon said. “I want to meet face-to-face.”
“I’m under Flex’s supervision. She comes with me.”
“Just her. No one else even knows where you’re going or who you’re meeting.”
“Agreed. When and where?”
“Get on the Jersey turnpike and head south. The old J. Fenimore Cooper service area, between exits four and five. It’s been abandoned for years. Wait there.”
“Okay. For how long?”
“Until I’m sure you aren’t being followed. I’ll call back from a different phone, just in case you’re tracing this one. Don’t answer any calls unless it comes from a four-one-two area code.” Landon hung up.
“It might be a trap,” I said as I put my phone away.
“We’ll have to take that chance,” Thatcher replied. “He has your friend, and he seems willing to compromise.”
“He’s an angry teenager with daddy issues. He’ll do whatever it takes to get you into whichever position he wants you.”
Thatcher shrugged. “Look on the bright side. If he kills me, you’re free of your babysitting obligations.”
“Funny.” The idea of him being killed did not cheer me up. In fact, the joke irritated me.
“I’m not afraid of dying, Renee. I haven’t been for a long time.” The calm, factual way he said it underlined the words themselves, and a chill wormed its way down my spine.
“Well, I’d prefer it if no one died today. Not even you.”
His lips twitched. “How do we get off the island without arousing suspicion?”
“Easy enough. We leave.”
“Just like that?”
“Sure. Once we’re in the air, I’ll com back and tell whoever’s monitoring the channel that we’re following up on a lead.”
“And they’ll let you go?”
“The beauty of this plan is that we’ll already be gone.”
“I see.”
“Get dressed. I’ll meet you by the main doors in five minutes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get us a backup plan.”
I wrote a brief email to Teresa, nutshelling the conversation with Landon, as well as our destination, then set the email to send in exactly two hours—enough time to arrive and talk to Landon without spooking him. Landon hadn’t said no weapons, so I also grabbed a loose jacket to hide my holstered Coltson.
Everyone was too busy looking for Ethan to object when I took one of the puddle-jumpers—blessing for me. Thatcher and I were in a Sport, on 95 and ten minutes south, before the first call from Teresa woke up my cell phone.
I ignored the call, as well as several others from different people. Thatcher watched me silently while I drove. We didn’t chat. I hated that I was doing this alone, without my friends backing me up. I wasn’t a leader, and I sure as hell didn’t make the game plan. I followed other folks’ plays as best I could and hoped it all worked.
Ethan was counting on me, and as our exit loomed, I sent a silent prayer that I didn’t royally fuck this up.
Eight
The Bet
While 95 was still one of the major thoroughfares in New Jersey, it was far less traveled than it used to be. The devastation of the War in and around New York City bled over into New Jersey, ruining most of the once-popular shoreline and making travel north into NYC all but nonexistent. All of the rest areas along the interstate had closed down, leaving behind empty buildings and weedy parking lots—tiny little ghost towns still advertising gasoline and cheap fast food.
Our rest area was a mediumish tan building with faded trim the color of dying moss. Most of the glass surfaces had shattered, and someone had painted a spectacular mural of graffiti along one wall. The twisted shapes and symbols made no real sense to me, but the loops and bends felt familiar. Almost comforting—odd reflections of shapes my own body had once been able to re-create.
The grass between the road and the parking lot was hip-high and created a kind of wall between us and the rest of the world. I drove over the cracked pavement and stopped right in the middle of everything. I didn’t want surprises, didn’t want a blind spot for anyone to sneak up on us.
I looked across the seat at Thatcher, who was watching me intently. He didn’t reach for the door or make a move to get out. He was taking his cues from me, even though he was the one Landon wanted.
We are really screwed when I’m the one in charge.
“How long do you think they’ll make us wait?” I asked.
“Long enough to be certain we’re alone, I’d guess,” Thatcher replied. “He’s smart, but he also seems impulsive. He won’t wait longer than he has to.”
I didn’t know Thatcher well, but I noted the tight lines around his mouth, the tic in his jaw, and the way his fingers dug into the legs of his pants. He was anxious about this meeting, about seeing his son alive after more than fifteen years. A son who was now a thief and a criminal and wanted in several states—and I’d never asked Thatcher how he felt about those things.
The fact that I wanted to know how he felt didn’t surprise me like it should have. It needed to surprise me, damn it.
Sitting in the Sport felt too claustrophobic, so I turned off the engine and climbed out. The warm, humid air reeked of motor oil and exhaust, with a lingering odor of waste. Everything in New Jersey seemed to smell the same lately. It made me miss Los Angeles.
I leaned against the driver’s-side door, anxious to get this over with. The anticipation of a confrontation always had me in knots (no pun intended), and I had to force myself to stay still and not pace. If Thatcher was taking his cues from me, I needed to keep the crazy in check.
Thatcher joined me, standing near a clump of grass that had sprouted from a crack in the unpatched parking lot. He scuffed at the grass with his sneaker, but his attent
ion shifted from place to place, taking it all in. He was always attentive to his surroundings, always watching his flanks, observing.
The occasional car rumbled past on the interstate, and each new sound drew our attention. Nothing slowed down, though, until a new noise cut through—louder, more defined. A motorcycle of some kind, and it slowed down. The driver was slim, wore jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a black helmet, and he pulled to a stop a few feet from the Sport. Thatcher took a step to his left, putting himself between me and the motorcycle. My fingers twitched, wanting to feel the grip of my Coltson, needing that sense of security when facing an unknown enemy. I kept still.
The driver turned off his bike and swung one leg over to stand up straight. He faced us for a moment, then took off the helmet with a melodramatic flourish. Landon Cunningham placed the helmet on the seat of the motorcycle without ever turning his back on us. Thatcher’s entire body tensed, coiling up tight. I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined he was working hard to keep a neutral expression.
Landon gave me a dismissive glance before turning the whole of his attention onto Thatcher. He took a few steps forward, stopping with a good two-arm’s reach between them. Up close, I saw the resemblance between father and son as clear as glass—the dark hair and gray eyes, the long nose, the square jaw. Landon had his father’s height, but he hadn’t quite filled out yet so didn’t have Thatcher’s solid build.
“They told me you were dead,” Thatcher said.
Landon narrowed his eyes, his mouth thinning. “At least you’re both good at following directions,” he said, ignoring Thatcher’s comment. “Find the place okay?”
“Where’s Ethan?” I asked.
“In a safe place. Since you weren’t interested in a trade, I didn’t see the need to bring him along.”
I tamped down a flare of worry. “I want to speak with him.”
“No.”
“Look, we’re cooperating here, but I will only continue to do so if I have proof that Ethan is alive and unharmed.”
Landon scowled, then pulled out a cell phone. He circled Thatcher and moved closer to me while he dialed. “Put him on,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. Probably Bethany. He put the phone on speaker.