Phantom Wheel

by Tracy Deebs

  “Exactly,” Silver Spoon agrees from the kitchen, where he’s working on a plan to get us into Jacento’s server room. “Rich people are always scum.”

  The sarcasm is so thick I can cut it with a knife.

  “Maybe,” Mad Max agrees earnestly, because of course he does. “But my dad knows Olsen and—”

  “Wait. Your dad knows him?” I demand. “How?”

  “They went to grad school together, and they used to hang out a lot when I was a kid. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, but I remember him being a cool guy.”

  “They’re friends?” Silver Spoon asks, incredulous. “And you didn’t see fit to tell us about this sooner?”

  “Why would I tell you?” Mad Max asks as he grabs a bag of chips from the pantry and starts chowing down. “I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s the global CEO, not the American one. He’s not even in the country right now.”

  “Your dad and he are close enough friends that you know where he’s spending the holidays?” It takes a lot to get me worked up, but right now it feels like the top of my head is going to blow off.

  “Uh, no.” He points at the TV as the show comes back on. “It says right there that the interview was done this morning at his home in Helsinki.”

  “Oh.” The blood pounding in my head starts to go down a little. “Right. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Snow White says. “He still should have told us.”

  “Why?” Mad Max asks. “He’s not involved.”

  “Of course he’s involved!” Silver Spoon slams a hand down on the kitchen counter. “That’s how these things work. And if you think otherwise, you’ve either got a blind spot a mile wide or you’re stupid. And I know you’re not stupid.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “I do know. My dad’s CEO of Majestic, and I guarantee you, nothing major happens in that company without him knowing about it. Nothing.”

  “That’s different. It’s a family business. He hasn’t even mentioned the kiosks—” Mad Max breaks off as Olsen does just that.

  We stand in silence for the next two minutes as Olsen sells the kiosk superchargers like they’re the greatest thing since the invention of democracy and the personal computer all rolled into one, ending with the admonishment that “everyone, and I mean everyone, should try one at least once.”

  “That guy!” Buffy suddenly yells, diving for the remote so she can freeze the screen seconds after it cuts to a shot of Olsen at one of the company’s shareholder meetings. “He was in L.A.!”

  “Who, Shane?” I ask, searching the screen for the fake Agent Donovan.

  “No. That one.” She walks up to the TV and points at an older man with silver hair and a rugged face. “I saw him in the hallway when I was doing my hack.”

  “That guy?” Silver Spoon points to the same guy Buffy just picked out. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. I wouldn’t forget a face like that. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” the Lone Ranger says as he gets close enough to snap a pic of the guy’s face with his phone. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Still think Olsen’s not involved?” Snow White asks.

  “The CEO is always involved,” Silver Spoon repeats his earlier point before Mad Max has a chance to respond. “There might be two or three people between him and taking the fall, but he’s always involved. Take it from someone who knows all about how corporations like this function behind the scenes.”

  Mad Max looks like he wants to argue, but in the end, he just shrugs with a sad frown. “I don’t want you to be right.”

  “None of us want to be right on this,” the Lone Ranger says as he claps him on the back. “But you know we are.”

  Buffy unfreezes the TV, and as Olsen goes on about the safety features built in to every new Mirage 8—features that will sweep through the 6 and 7 models in a series of rolling updates—my chest gets tight.

  I know we’re protected, know that the Lone Ranger’s fix, and Mad Max’s update to it, will keep our devices hidden from Jacento, but I still feel the need to reach for my phone. To run a scan on it and then manually check the dozens of hiding places a sneaky virus like Phantom Wheel might try to take root. I don’t find anything. Still, I do it again.

  This is too important, and I’ve got too much to lose if I get caught. Just the idea of someone hacking us and finding out what I’ve done to keep myself out of the system makes me sick. I can’t go back to some foster home, can’t deal with the spin of the wheel that comes with wondering what kind of family I’ll end up with.

  I’m doing fine on my own—better than fine—and there’s no way I’m going back. I’d rather die first.

  I’ve put some things in motion, have some checks and balances to keep that from happening. But if this thing with Jacento blows wide open, if they come after us, there’s no guaranteeing my safeguards will hold up in the light of day. And then I’ll be completely screwed.

  I put down my phone and reach for my laptop. I run the same check on my computer and my tablet while the others continue to debate the best way to get out of the Jacento compound if things go wrong.

  Their voices ebb and flow around me, making a kind of nice background noise, at least until Silver Spoon drops a hand on my shoulder. I jump even as he asks, “Hey, Harper, you zoned out or something?”

  “No, I’m just checking some stuff. What’s up?”

  He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me, but all he says is, “We’re ordering in Mexican. What do you want?”

  I give him my order, then make a concerted effort to join the conversation as we wait for the food to arrive.

  “We need costumes,” Mad Max says as he twists off the top of yet another bottle of orange soda. “They can help to disguise us.”

  “Costumes will look totally out of place,” Snow White argues. “It’s not that kind of party.”

  “It’s a circus,” he shoots back. “That’s pretty much the definition of a costume party.”

  “For the entertainers,” she counters. “Not for the guests. We’ll look ridiculous and draw way too much attention to ourselves.”

  “Wait until you see how much attention we draw once they’ve got our real faces,” Mad Max says, flopping down on the sofa and kicking his feet up on the very expensive-looking coffee table. “We’re going into the building, and while we’re going to try not to get caught—”

  “I vote for doing more than trying,” Buffy interjects.

  “Obviously.” He rolls his eyes. “But if things go bad and they figure out something is up, the last thing we can afford is for our real faces to be caught on camera. I mean, look at me. I’m man enough to admit I wouldn’t last two minutes in juvie.”

  “Plus a couple of you are eighteen,” I say, adding weight to his argument. “You won’t go to juvie. Not to mention some of you will pop instantly,” I say, nodding to Silver Spoon and Snow White. “Your faces may not be instantly recognizable, but come on. How many pictures are out there of Victor Hernandez’s jet-setting son living it up? Or the secretary of state’s daughter doing charity work?”

  I turn to the Lone Ranger. “Or you at your father’s games? Facial recognition software will hit on the three of you the second they enter your picture, and you know it.”

  “Which means disguises,” Mad Max crows triumphantly.

  “Sunglasses,” Silver Spoon offers. “I can totally do sunglasses.”

  “And a hoodie,” the Lone Ranger says.

  “I’m not sure that’s enough,” Buffy says, chiming in for the first time.

  “It’s going to have to be,” Snow White tells her firmly. “Because dressing us up as circus freaks will only make things worse.”

  I’m trying to think of another argument to sway them when the doorbell rings with dinner (Silver Spoon called down and cleared the delivery person as soon as he ordered). Snow White answers the door, and I scramble to get silverware and drinks. And as we settle aroun
d the table, I decide to let the subject of more sophisticated disguises go.

  After all, better to spend my time making sure we don’t get seen than worrying about what we look like if we do.…

  11

  Owen

  (1nf1n173 5h4d3)

  “Here goes nothing.” I rest my head against my seat and pray we’re not making a huge mistake. If we get caught, not only am I screwed, but my whole family is.

  “Owen! Don’t say that!” Seth hisses. “I mean, at least say, ‘Here goes something.’ Or, ‘Here goes a lot.’”

  “‘Here goes a lot’?” Harper whispers. “That’s not even a thing!”

  “Who cares if it’s a thing? We’re trying to break into a party with more security than the Pentagon. Negative vibes are the last thing we need right now.”

  “God forbid we mess with the freaking vibes,” I tell him. “Who knows what will happen then?”

  “I’m just saying. You get back what you put out into the universe,” Seth replies. “So if you put out bad vibes, what do you think is going to come back to you?”

  I stare at him for several long seconds, trying to decide if he’s serious with this or not. The problem is, I’ve come to learn that with Seth, he’s almost always serious—no matter how absurd what he says is.

  And this whole sending-good-vibes-into-the-universe thing will save us all? It’s pretty absurd. God knows, my mom puts the best vibes out there of anyone I know, and look at what her life has become.

  We’re about to trust Ezra “Pretty Boy” Hernandez with what could be our safety, our liberty, and what might just be our asses, and Seth is worried about good vibes? In my opinion, he should be more worried about whether or not he’s got a good lawyer on speed dial.

  A quick glance at Harper tells me she feels the way I do, but somehow she manages to bite back whatever she’s thinking. Which gives me the strength to do the same. The last thing we need is to get Seth in a tizzy before anything goes down.

  Our headsets aren’t on yet, and we’re keeping our voices low, but Ezra must sense our unease because he turns around from the driver’s seat of his giant SUV and says, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  “Not worried,” Issa tells him, but I can see the way her hands are clenched in her lap. Can feel the tension rolling off her in waves.

  Then again, I could just be projecting, because, well… this whole putting-my-trust-in-someone-else thing is so not how I like to live my life. Especially not when that person is Ezra Hernandez. I know he hasn’t done anything suspicious since we got to San Francisco, but I can’t help being suspicious anyway. Maybe it’s his attitude, maybe it’s his money and his big-name connections, but I can’t help wondering if he’s cut from the same cloth as Olsen and all those other CEO types who care more about money and power than they do about people. More, I can’t help wondering if he’s doing all this as a joke and that maybe, just maybe, he’s on big business’s side instead of ours.

  “Totally worried,” Alika tells him from the seat next to his. “So don’t screw it up.”

  “I won’t,” he says with a grin. “I mean, come on. None of you would last two minutes in jail. I mean, except for Harper. She’d last at least seven minutes.”

  She flips him off without ever looking up from her phone.

  So many things to like about that girl.

  We’re in line at one of the three main guard shacks outside Jacento headquarters, waiting to get onto the property for the party. Ezra came through with the invite, just like he said he would, but it’s a you-plus-one thing, not a you-plus-five.

  He swears it’s not a problem, and normally I’d agree with him, but the security here is wild. In a very If you get out of line, we’ll murder you and your children and your children’s children kind of way.

  It’s finally our turn, and I can feel everyone in the SUV take a collective deep breath. Ezra reaches over and turns up the radio really loud so that it’s blasting Drake as we roll up to the guard shack. Alika leans over to turn it down, but he gives her a warning look seconds before he slides down his window.

  And in those seconds, the Ezra Hernandez we’ve known the past couple of days disappears. And is replaced by a much douchier, much more obnoxious kid-playing-dress-up version of himself.

  “Yo, man, how you doing?” he asks the guard, reaching out for a handshake. “Having a good day?”

  For a second the guy just stares at him, clipboard in hand, like he’s trying to assess the threat level. He must decide it’s pretty freaking high because he shifts a little, puts his free hand on the gun strapped to his waist.

  Firearms three seconds in is not how this thing is supposed to go.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “We’re here for the par-tay. Free booze and smartphones, am I right? What’s not to love?”

  Even Seth is tense beside me now.

  “Do you have an invitation? Because it’s a closed party—”

  “Course I got an invite. Who do you think I am?” Ezra points his finger at him like it’s a gun, then brings his thumb down in the universal firing gesture at the same time he makes some I’m hot and I know it clicking sound with his mouth. “Ezra Hernandez, Majestic Hotels. Look it up, my man.”

  The guard looks anything but amused, and I brace myself to be dragged out of the SUV. We all do. What the hell is wrong with Ezra?

  But in the end, the guard just mad dogs him for one second, two, before glancing down at the list on his clipboard. “I see you’ve RSVP’d, but it says two people.” He glances in the window, makes eye contact with me for one brief second. “How many people are in that SUV?”

  “Two?” Ezra squawks. “I never go anywhere with just one person—surely not to a fine-ass party like this. I need my crew to back me up.”

  His crew? Jesus, he sounds like every bad movie representation of the rich kid trying to be gangster I’ve ever seen, and I’m embarrassed for him if this is his big move. His big con. Because, frankly, this is humiliating.

  “Your crew”—the guard says the word like it’s a sexually transmitted disease—“is not on the list.”

  “That’s impossible. We’re always on the list, cuz we bring the par-tay with us.” He nods at the guy, easygoing grin still in place. But there’s a hint of petulance—and a hint of Don’t screw with me—beneath the party-boy exterior when he says, “Why don’t you look again.”

  It’s obvious that the guard is holding on to his patience by a thread. “I already checked, sir. Your name is here with a plus one. Which means you and the young lady”—he nods toward Alika—“can either ditch the rest of your crew or you can turn around and find something else to do.”

  “Check again.” There’s real steel in the command this time.

  “I already checked.” He holds up the clipboard. “Now—”

  “Not on that stupid piece of paper.” Ezra reaches out and sends the clipboard flying. It bounces off the car, then hits the ground with a clatter. “On the computer, where the real list is.”

  The guard’s pretty much bent on murder by this point—and I don’t even blame him. I kind of want to kick Ezra’s ass myself, even if we are on the same side.

  Except, before the guard can say more than “All right, that’s it,” his supervisor inside the shack steps toward the car, all puffed-up chest and I’m the boss here attitude.

  Which is never good.

  “Excuse me. Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah, there’s a big freaking problem!” Ezra tells him. “I talked to Randy myself last week, and he assured me that my friends could attend this little soiree with me. Now this guy”—he curls his lip like he just smelled something bad—“tells me we’re not welcome. We drove all the way out here from the city, through brutal traffic, and we want to go to the damn party.”

  The supervisor’s eyes go flat at his tone, but all he does is bend down and pick up the clipboard. “You’re on the list?”

  “Yeah, I’m on the damn list. I’
m right there.” He slaps at the clipboard again, but this time it’s more for emphasis than to actually send the thing crashing to the ground.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  Ezra sighs heavily, like it’s the biggest imposition in the world. “Ezra Hernandez. That’s H-E-R-N-A-N-D-E-Z, from Majestic Hotels. Now, are you going to call Randy and get this all straightened out, or am I?” He yanks his phone out of his front jeans pocket and brandishes it like a weapon.

  The new guard doesn’t respond for several seconds, just leans in the window and looks from one of us to the next. I’m so embarrassed that I can barely meet his eyes.

  But Ezra just huffs impatiently and says, “Looks like it’s going to be me, then.” He pulls up his address book, presses Call.

  As the sound of a phone ringing replaces the obnoxiously loud music in the car, the guard steps back. “You’re good to go,” he says, waving so the third guard will lift the barrier. “Follow the orange-and-white signs to the parking lot. And enjoy the party.”

  “Yeah, I’ll try,” Ezra snarls. “Thank the other guy for nothing, will you?” Then he hits the gas, and we’re barreling into the compound.

  “What. The. Hell. Was. That?” Issa hisses when we’re several hundred yards away from the guard station. “You almost blew the whole thing before it even started.”

  Ezra just turns his head and smirks at her. Smirks at all of us, really, and the light of triumph is definitely in his eyes. “Never underestimate the total and complete douchebaggery of a second-gen Silicon Valley rich kid,” he tells us. “On the plus side, no one wants to deal with you if they think you are one, so you get everything you want in life and then some.”

  “Does it also give you a soul?” Alika asks as he pulls the Escalade into the parking lot earmarked for party guests. “Because that was gross.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Souls are like privacy in the twenty-first century,” Ezra tells her as he finds a parking spot near the lot’s exit, just as we planned. “Highly overrated and pretty much dead anyway.”