“What? Wait… Are you saying you had no idea they were going to ambush us last night? That you weren’t the one behind it?”
Radcliffe leans forward, his eyes hard. “My career is over. They don’t include me in any plans, and they certainly don’t need my permission for any ambushes.”
“What about the AIG lab?” I ask. “Did you order them to erase my memories?”
“I was called in for one last assignment, yes. And I am the one who drugged you to get you there. But other than that, I haven’t been to the AIG lab since you gave me those,” he says, looking disgustedly at his prosthetic legs lying on the floor.
“Why did you drug me?”
“Because I was ordered to.”
My mind is spinning. If Radcliffe isn’t the one behind this, then who is?
“My father is still alive,” I accuse. “And you knew, didn’t you? This whole time you let me—you let us—believe he was dead. Why?”
Radcliffe sighs again. “Because that’s what he wanted.”
All the air in my body is sucked out of me. I lower the gun. “What did you say?”
“I gave him the poison that slows the heartbeat until it’s undetectable, hired emergency services to take him away, helped plan his funeral minus the body, got him relocated to the Capital, and erased his memories.”
“Why?” I choke out. “Why would you do that?”
His voice is harsh when he says, “Because I was told to do it. Because it was my job.”
And then it hits me. Radcliffe is a pawn. He’s nothing more than a pawn.
Then I hear something that makes my heart stop and my blood run colder than ice.
“Daddy?” a small voice calls from the hallway. “Daddy?”
I watch as Radcliffe closes his eyes. “What is it, pumpkin?”
Tiny footsteps approach, and I dart behind the door as a small girl, no more than seven, appears in the doorway. “Daddy, I’m scared. The light went out in my room.”
Radcliffe opens his eyes and smiles at his daughter. “It’s okay, sweetie. I think the power’s out. It should come back on soon.”
The little girl goes up to Radcliffe’s bed and leans in for a hug. My chest squeezes as Radcliffe’s arms wrap around his daughter. When she pulls back, she says, “Daddy, will you tuck me in?”
“Not tonight, sweetie. See?” He points to the floor. “I already took my legs off.”
The girl pouts. “I don’t like your new legs.”
Radcliffe chuckles. “Me neither. Now hurry back to bed.”
“G’night,” she says, already retreating into the hallway.
“Goodnight, pumpkin.”
I listen as the footsteps recede down the hall, and then I come out of my hiding place. “You have a daughter?” I hiss.
Radcliffe nods.
“Where’s her mother?” I’m suddenly desperate for information. If I kill this man, that little girl will be fatherless.
Radcliffe pinches the bridge of his nose. “She died in a car accident two years ago.”
“But your daughter—I mean—when you go away for work—”
Radcliffe seems to understand what I’m trying to convey. “She has a nanny.”
The room spins like I’m upside down on an old-fashioned roller coaster. One hand still holds the gun, but I rest my free hand on the nightstand to brace myself. Nothing is what it seemed, and now I’m not sure what to believe.
“Who’s behind this?” I whisper. “If it’s not you, then who?” As I’m straightening up, I accidentally knock a picture frame to the floor. I’m bending over to retrieve it when there’s the sound of glass breaking and a soft thunk, like the breath is knocked out of someone. There’s glass from the window on the floor, and when I look at Radcliffe, all I see is red. Red blood seeping from the hole in his chest, and red drool coming out of his open mouth.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” I say. I try to cover the wound with my one free hand, but it’s gushing, blood seeping through my fingers, staining them red. It’s too late.
“Daddy?” a small voice says. Then it rises hysterically. “Daddy!”
I try to comfort the girl, to shield her from the sight of her father, but she shrieks and runs to the far corner of the room. Her accusing eyes flit from me to her father. From the blood on my arms to the gun in my hand to her father’s open mouth.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t do this. I promise, I’m innocent.”
It doesn’t matter that ten minutes ago I had plans to do this exact thing. It doesn’t matter that I’m the one who broke into Radcliffe’s house and put a gun to his head. Because in the end, I’m not the one who pulled the trigger. I wasn’t going to do it. The moment I saw the little girl, everything shifted. But it doesn’t matter, because now Radcliffe is dead, and his blood is on my hands.
My eyes fill with tears for this little girl who will live the rest of her life without her father. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her. “I’m so, so sorry.” Then I turn and run. Down the hall, down the stairs, and through the house. As I reach the back porch, the automated voice of TREXUS kicks in.
“Unauthorized visitor. Please remain calm. Enforcers are on their way.” I can already hear the whine of the Enforcers’ vehicles drawing closer.
I burst through the door and take off running. Once I reach the hidden bike, I shove the gun into the pack and hop on the bike. I pedal as hard as I can. I’ve never longed for my Harley as much as I do at that moment. This bike is slow and awkward, not exactly what you want when you’re trying to make a quick escape.
My arms are coated in Radcliffe’s blood, and the sound of the sniper shot coming through the window replays in my mind. Someone was watching him. Someone knew I was there, questioning him. And someone wanted to make sure Radcliffe kept his mouth shut.
An air horn blares in the distance, and the hum of Enforcer’s vehicles is like the sound of an active, buzzing hive. I pedal faster, my chest heaving, my breath coming in short, stuttered spurts. I stick to back streets and people’s yards.
As I hurry away from Radcliffe’s neighborhood, the sky is as black as the wings of a crow. In the distance, light flickers from the giant netscreens, leering at me from the sky. As I get closer to the city, I let my eyes wander only briefly up to them. I recoil in horror when right after a picture of a scantily clad woman—an ad for undergarments—my picture from GIGA flashes up on the screen with the following headline beneath:
Sienna Preston: 17-year-old female
Height: 5 feet 2 inches
Weight: 115 lbs.
Wanted for the murder of Colonel George Radcliffe. A reward of one million pacs for any information leading to her capture.
Swallowing hard, I duck my head and hurry faster. Air taxis rush past, hovering only a few inches from the ground. I keep moving because the moment I stop, I risk someone recognizing my face. Thankfully, my hair is much longer in the picture, and I look so much younger, more innocent even. That photo was taken before my life was shot to hell. Before everything turned upside down. Back when my only worry was getting good grades on exams. And agonizing over whether I might one day fill out my gym clothes like the rest of the GM girls. How things have changed…
A few minutes later, I venture another glance above at a different screen lighting up the sky. This one also displays my picture and the same headline beneath. It plays over and over like a song on repeat—my picture, followed by the headline. My picture, followed by the headline.
They’re framing me. Trying to make it look like I’m the one responsible for Radcliffe’s murder.
The air is tinged with the smell of briny seawater, lifting up off the bay. I breathe deeply and fill my lungs with the smell. To me, the ocean is freedom. It has no boundaries, no borders, and it makes me feel like I’m the teeniest, tiniest person in a too-big world. Like I’m someone who can hide and never be spotted.
Keeping my head down, and hoping no one notices the blood coating my arms and clothes, I make a
series of turns, pedaling away from the city and straight toward the beach, constantly looking over my shoulder to see if I’m being followed. I have to maneuver around joggers out for a run and businessmen walking home from a late night at the office. Once I hit the sand, I tumble off the bike and stumble to the water. This part of the beach is empty, although the tinkling sounds of laughter and the blaring of an air taxi’s horn drift on the wind. All I can think about is getting Radcliffe’s blood off me. Maybe if I can remove it from my skin, I can remove it from my mind.
But as I rip my shirt off and scrub my arms in the ocean, so vigorously that my skin stings, I keep picturing Radcliffe’s daughter asking him to tuck her in bed. Tears wet my eyes and drip down my chin as I think of that little girl who will never see her father again, who will never shake the image of his blood seeping from his chest, who will be haunted by his death for the rest of her life. She’ll never have peace as long as her father’s killer is roaming free. And she thinks his killer is me. And that is probably the saddest part of all. I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking a girl’s father away from her.
And yet, I am.
If I hadn’t sought him out, if I hadn’t questioned him, he might still be alive.
So, no, I might not have pulled that trigger, but I did kill him.
28
SIENNA
Not surprisingly, the boat is not where I left it this morning. The beach patrol must have taken it back to the marina Zane rented it from. Not to worry, though, because the marina is only a short walk from here.
I pull a tank top from my bag and slip it on, tossing the bloodied shirt in a trash incinerator. Heading back to the boardwalk, I walk the short distance to the marina. When I reach the boat-stocked area, I try to pretend like I belong here, walking with short, purposeful strides. I hurry down the narrow docks, surrounded on both sides by all kinds of boats—large yachts, striking sailboats, fast speedboats. I pass boat after boat, looking for the one I left behind on the beach. Then I see her, the white-and-maroon sleek speedboat with the words Lady Mist etched in swooping gold letters on the back.
Before I climb aboard, I glance around. It’s late, so thankfully, the marina is completely empty. Once on board, I fumble around, trying to find my way in the dark. Unfortunately, the keys aren’t in the ignition where I left them, but a quick search of the cabin reveals them in the glovebox. The small brass key dangles from a miniature buoy keychain. I grab the key and insert it into the ignition, hoping the boat will start immediately.
When I turn the key, the engine purrs like a tabby cat. I quickly untie the ropes holding us to the dock, and back the boat out of the marina space.
The moon is hidden behind clouds, making it darker than a starless sky. I obviously don’t have much experience commandeering a boat at night, so my pulse behaves erratically as I maneuver past the no-wake zone and into the bay. Even though I can’t see the waves, I can sense them. They heave against the boat, pulsing their own oceanic rhythm. I push the throttle forward and the bow of the boat rises up so far, I fear we may flip end over end. Then she rights herself and keeps going, bouncing over the waves. Since I can’t see very well, I drive the boat slowly, searching the water for signs of the AIG.
Then I see it, its U-shaped body lit up like a giant horseshoe suspended in the air. When I’m at least one hundred yards away, because I don’t dare go any closer due to the underwater spikes, I anchor the boat and dial Chaz. His face is worried when he answers.
“Sienna, where have you been? You were supposed to call me an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry—” I start to say before he interrupts.
“It’s all over the news,” Chaz rushes on. “How you killed Radcliffe—”
“I’m being set up. A sniper took him out right in front of me.”
“They found your fingerprints everywhere—”
“I’m sure they did. I didn’t have time to wipe things down.”
Chaz frowns. “You didn’t think to use gloves?”
“I didn’t exactly have a plethora of items at my disposal,” I retort. “I am, after all, hiding out on a boat.”
Chaz goes quiet. “On the news they’re saying there was girl there. His daughter. Did you… did you see her?”
Daddy, will you tuck me in?
A lump climbs up my throat, and I nod. “She saw it, Chaz. She saw everything.”
Chaz closes his eyes, and he looks like he’s about to be sick. “Oh God, Sienna.”
“I swear, Chaz, if I’d known he had a daughter, I never would have gone to his house.” A sob escapes from the back of my throat, and then I’m crying—hot, fat, ugly tears that spill down my face, run into my mouth, and blur my vision. Whenever I think of that little girl, I picture myself, finding my father dead on our kitchen floor, and I know how that will haunt her, will keep her awake at night, will eat at her during the day, and I’d give anything to take that away.
But I can’t. And it’s that hopelessness that brings me to my knees and causes an ache so deep that it hollows out a place for the pain, pain that burrows down past the point of feeling to the place where only the worst kind of pain can exist. A place that traps the pain, gives it life and a place to grow, but never a way out.
Chaz is speaking to me, but the Lynk is upside down on the floor of the boat. I pick it up and hear his voice. “You need to come home, Sienna. Hop on the next bullet train and get your ass back to Legas.”
“I can’t, Chaz. I won’t leave Zane. And my father—” My words sputter off. “I just can’t.”
“Sienna, they think you killed a government official. There will be no leniency—”
The sound of a drone fills the night sky, its red light like a laser beam cutting through the darkness, its infrared heat element tuned to find warm-blooded animals.
“I’m sorry, Chaz. I gotta go.” Before he can say another word, I click the Lynk off and toss it on the boat seat. Climbing on top of the bow of the boat, I take a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for what the cold water will feel like as it hits my skin. I tell myself that there are no creatures in the ocean—it’s just the water and me. Then I dive in.
The water is a shock to my system, and I come up gasping and sputtering, swallowing a mouthful of seawater as I do. I gag a little, and once I can breathe normally again, I duck under the water, kicking like a frog, my hands outstretched so I don’t accidentally impale myself on the underwater spikes. My hands hit rusted metal, sliding along the sides until I’m past it. I swim like this, moving mechanically. Not like a girl with a broken heart, not like a girl with a crushed soul, and certainly not like a girl who is now a fugitive.
When I can’t hold my breath any longer, my head breaks the surface, gulping deep breaths.
The drone is closer now, almost directly overhead. Filling my lungs with precious air, I plunge under the water, and continue my frog kick, my hands searching for the metal spikes the width of my waist. Every time I surface, I search out the U-shaped building and pray I’m able to reach the AIG before the drone senses the heat I’m emitting.
The cold seeps into my bones, numbing my fingers and toes. I’m shivering when I surface again. As I tread water, gulping air, my leg grazes a spike I missed with my hands. Pain sears through my leg, and I cry out. The last thing I need is fresh blood oozing from me while I’m swimming in the ocean. My heart hammers as I submerge myself again and search for the hidden spikes in the black water.
When I reemerge the next time, I’m only feet away from the platform. With trembling hands, I haul myself up, my body slipping and sliding over the smooth surface like a seal out of water. I almost end up back in the ocean, but I claw at the lip of the platform and pull myself to a sitting position.
The drone hovers directly above, sensing my heat. I look right at it, daring it to do something. What would it do? Drop a bomb on its own facility? Shoot me dead right here?
On my hands and knees, I quickly move to the door labeled Authorized Personne
l Only. As I stand, I briefly inspect my leg. It’s not too bad, more of a deep scrape than a gash. There’s a trickle of blood down my leg, but I don’t have time to worry about that.
I give three hard knocks and stand to the side of the door, hoping someone will come. After a few seconds, I repeat. This time, I bang as hard as I can for as long as my fist can stand it. The whole time, my eyes never leave the drone. It still hasn’t moved, almost as if it’s daring me to try to get into its facility.
A moment later, a man wearing a janitor’s uniform opens the door slightly. I push my way through, half-expecting the drone to put a bullet through me as I shoulder my way in.
“Hey!” the man hollers. “You can’t be in here!”
My knee hits him square in the jaw and he stumbles backward, falling to the ground. As his hands fly to his face, I grab his transmitter and tuck it in the waistband of my shorts. I yank his key card from around his neck and slip it onto my own. He seems harmless so I leave him there and sprint down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Despite being soaking wet and shivering from the cold, I’ve never felt more alive.
When I reach the lower level, the part of the facility built underwater, I choose the first door I see on the right. I’m glad I thought to grab the key card, because it’s locked. I scan the card, and when the lock clicks, I ease through the door, hoping it’s a place I can hide out until the drone leaves.
It’s a lab, very similar to my father’s, minus the rotating image projector. Thankfully, the transmitter in my hand doubles as a flashlight. I click it on and study the various test tubes and labeled beakers behind the glass refrigerated doors. I read labels with words like: Strength, Courage, Intelligence, Athleticism, Discipline.
I pass upright comscreens with the flashing AIG logo and government motto: Progress is our future.
Along one wall, dark curtains hang from floor to ceiling. I assume they block windows, perhaps ones that look out at the vast underwater ocean. I pull the curtain back on one side and peer out, but it’s not the ocean I see or even lights from the city. There’s a window, but it doesn’t look to the outside. It overlooks another room. I press the light up to the glass and inhale sharply.
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