Scan

by Walter Jury

It’s a quiet moment, but not a loaded quiet. A real quiet. Peaceful.

  A peace that’s shattered by the knock on the door. “Tate?” my mother whispers.

  “We’re awake,” I say.

  My mom pokes her head in. “We’re going to leave soon. Can you guys get up?”

  As the door clicks shut again, I tap my dad’s phone, and the display tells me it’s not yet five in the morning. At least two hours until the files will be fully decrypted. Which means something’s wrong. I reach over and turn on the bedside lamp, a heavy old thing with a glass lampshade. Christina covers her eyes with her hand and moans. She peeks at me from between her fingers. “Maybe you should turn that off again. I’m sure I look terrible.”

  “I was thinking how much I like waking up like this.”

  Her cheeks get pink, and she gives me a tentative smile. “Me too.”

  I head over to the closet and tug a pair of khakis from a hanger, once again thankful Charles has a son and that he’s almost my size. The pants are an inch or two short, but they fit okay in the waist, and the loafers are a tad snug, but I’m grateful I have something to put on my feet.

  I turn around to see Christina looking down at her dress.

  “Can we stop somewhere and get me some regular clothes today? I’m feeling a bit . . . Amish.”

  Assuming the plan is still to pick up George from the airport, we should have time to get something on the way. “I think we can manage that.”

  She gets up and smooths the dress, which is now hopelessly wrinkled. Her hair falls crazily over her shoulders, and except for the occasional flash of the white bandage underneath, you’d never know she’d been shot two days ago. When she raises her head, she looks me in the eye. Warm. Real. Like things really might be okay someday. Seeing her there, smiling at me like she is, I can almost believe it.

  She lets me hold her hand as we walk down the hall to the sitting room. Mom and Charles are there, and it’s obvious by the circles under her eyes and the bags under his that they stayed awake talking long after I went to bed.

  “Right after you went to bed, we got word from one of Clarles’s contacts that Race has left New York,” my mom says, staring down at the keyboard. She’s changed into some of Charles’s clothes, black pants and a white dress shirt that hang from her slender frame. “We notified George, who flew out of Chicago immediately. He’s just landed and is on his way here.”

  I step forward quickly. “You think Race is coming for us?”

  Charles waves his hand dismissively. “He could be going to Chicago for all we know.”

  “Yeah, and for all we know, you might have tipped him off when he called here,” I snap.

  “Tate, I need your help,” Mom says, and I turn away from Charles before he has a chance to make excuses. “Can you remove any trace of these decrypted files?”

  “Don’t erase them, Mitra,” calls Charles, rolling over to us and placing his hand on my arm. “I want to be able to—”

  I throw him off, none too gently. “Dude. If Race comes in here, he’ll not only have access to these files—my guess is he’ll be able to use what’s on your computer to tunnel back into my dad’s server.” He might not get far, but as far as I’m concerned, even a little is too much.

  Charles scowls but moves away, and I notice that my mom doesn’t scold me for talking to him like that. I peer at her, wondering if she still trusts her old friend as much as she did. I glace over my shoulder to see Christina watching from the hallway, looking back and forth from me to Charles. It’s probably obvious how much I dislike him, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. I reboot the firewall and clear the audit logs while my mother puts the scanner in Christina’s backpack.

  “Are we going back to New York?” Christina asks in a hushed voice as she comes farther into the room.

  Mom turns to her. “You are. Once George has departed with the scanner, we’ll contact both The Fifty and the Core to begin negotiations. You’ll be safe.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “But Tate and I will need to go to Chicago.”

  I finish my work on Charles’s computer and head for Christina, taking her hand and squeezing it. She needs to be back with her family, but it’s going to hurt like hell to let her go. She steps into me and presses her face against my neck like she feels the same way.

  I’m just opening my mouth to ask Mom how exactly we're getting Christina safely back to New York when I hear a shriek from outside, followed by high-pitched laughter.

  I look at Charles, who rolls his eyes and waves it away. “Remember you’re on a university campus. We get streakers on the lawn at all hours of the day and night, running up to kiss the statue on the steps of the Rotunda. Very few are actually sober when they do it.”

  Another scream, higher pitched. Frantic and frightened this time. Followed by silence.

  Charles frowns.

  My mother and I are at the front window a second later, and in the predawn darkness, I can just make out the white flesh and streaming blond hair of a girl. Naked, as Charles predicted. Next to the Rotunda steps, as Charles predicted.

  Kicking and flailing while a black-clothed figure clamps a hand over her mouth and drags her into a building across the lawn.

  Charles didn’t predict that.

  I squint and see another half dozen figures creeping across the worn grass toward our building. My heart rate skyrockets as I realize Charles didn’t fool Race at all.

  My mother curses under her breath. “He’s already here,” she says in a choked voice, whirling away from the window. She grabs my arm and shoves me toward the door. “Move!”

  Charles spins his chair, gesturing at my mother. “Text George and change the rendezvous point. We have to get the scanner away from here. George can meet us at the Walmart at the outskirts of town.”

  While my mother uses her black stealth phone to communicate with George, Charles races down the hall and comes out a moment later with a black bag on his lap. My mother hands me Christina’s backpack with the scanners inside. Charles opens the black bag and hands a gun to my mother, then pulls out one for himself.

  “Do you have anything for me in there?” I ask, staring down at the dozens of ammo clips in the bag. I’m a pretty good shot with both rifles and handguns, and my mom’s holding a basic semi-auto pistol, nothing fancy.

  “No. And you’re not staying. You’re taking the scanner,” my mother says as she stands next to the door and clicks the safety off.

  “And you?”

  She gives me a hard look. “I’m going to make sure you get out.” Without waiting for my reply, she pulls the door open and pivots into the hallway, sweeping the place with a smooth, experienced eye, never lowering her weapon.

  “Stairs?” she asks.

  “To your right,” Charles says. He offers her the bag full of ammo.

  She takes it and slings it diagonally across her shoulder.

  Charles clutches at my arm. “I have an elevator right here in the apartment,” he says as he points down the hall that leads toward his bedroom. “They only installed it last year, special for me, so it’s unlikely it would be in any blueprints Race used to plan his assault. You can take it if you leave now.”

  I know there’s no time. I know they’re coming. But— “Mom, we can all get out that way. Don’t go down there. Come with us.”

  Her brows draw together. “I wish I could. But they’re too close. If I hold their attention, they won’t catch you.” She touches my arm, and her jaw is clenched like she’s trying hard to control her expression. “Please, just go, all right? I’ll see you soon.” She turns and sprints toward the stairwell without a backward glance.

  I stand like my feet are encased in concrete, watching my mom head off to face a freaking SWAT team. “No.” The door to the stairs slams shut behind her.

  Charles pokes me in the side. “The elevator
is this way.”

  The first shots are fired before he finishes his sentence.

  “No!” I shout.

  My mother is about to get herself blown away over the foot-long piece of plastic in my backpack. Just like my dad did. From behind me, I hear Christina telling me we have to go, have to run, have to get out of here. But . . . I am frozen here as the seconds pass, thinking of my father and what he would have done. Yes, he would have died to keep the scanner out of Race’s hands. But would he have let my mother die? Would he have wanted me to lose both of them? I can’t believe he would have.

  “Tate!” Charles’s voice is as sharp as a grenade blast.

  I look over my shoulder, about to tell him I have to go, that I’m going to destroy the scanner or give it to Race or whatever, as long as my mother is left alive—

  Charles Willetts has a handful of Christina’s hair. She’s hunched over his wheelchair. His gun is pressed to her temple. “I’m sorry, Tate. I know this is hard. But I need you to transport the scanner, and you can’t do that if you’ve been captured by the Core.”

  “I need to get my mom,” I say stupidly over the splatter-pop-crack of gunfire. “And you need to let her go.”

  Charles shakes his head. Christina’s expression is all pain, which isn’t surprising given the fact that her head was stitched up only a day ago. She’s got her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes squeezed shut, like she’s sure this is her last moment on Earth. It makes me want to slam Charles’s head into something very hard. He must see that, too, because he rolls back a few feet, deeper into his apartment. “Take the scanner and go, son.”

  “I thought you said we could trust you.” And I should have trusted my gut.

  Charles gives me a ghostly smile. “I’m not your enemy.”

  My eyes flick to the muzzle of his weapon, pressed to the side of my girlfriend’s head. “You sure about that?”

  He loosens his grip on her, but only slightly. “This young lady will be perfectly safe, and you’ll be together again as soon as you deliver the technology to George. I just need you to focus. And you’ll be faster if you’re alone.”

  “This is stupid.” I slide the backpack down my arm and hold it out. “I’ll give the fucking thing to you right now, and you let me take her and leave.”

  He shakes his head. “George will be at the Walmart in less than half an hour, and you need to meet him there. I will not allow the H2 to get control of this,” he growls.

  My thoughts lock on to those words. “You won’t allow the H2 to control it?” I think back to last night, remembering that he never scanned himself. “Who are you, Professor, and which side are you playing for?”

  I take a step toward him, and his finger tightens on the trigger.

  The desperate gleam in his eye locks me in place.

  Right now, his allegiances barely matter. He’s perfectly willing to put a bullet in Christina’s skull to get his way. My hand is fisted over the strap of the backpack, and I’m fighting the urge to hurl it at him. Christina’s clutching the side of this douchebag’s wheelchair, and her arms are shaking.

  “How do I know you can get her out of here safely?” I shout, all my cool long since evaporated. “There’s a small army outside!” The gunfire hasn’t stopped this entire time, and I know it’s only a minute or two before they get past my mom and come up the stairs.

  He inclines his head toward the door, where another stairwell lies at the opposite end of the hallway. “I’ll get her out safely. Once the scanner’s concealed, I’ll call my contact at the Core. They’ll cooperate because we have control of something they want.”

  Christina opens her eyes. They are dry, filled with a cold anger that tells me Charles better not let his guard down. “I’ll see you soon,” she says.

  I step into the apartment and Charles rolls back, making way. The barrel of his weapon is jammed so firmly against Christina’s temple that it’s leaving a shallow indentation. “Down that hall,” he says. “The elevator opens onto a vestibule in the dorm connected to this building, and they won’t be able to see it from the lawn. You can get to the parking lot from the dorm exit.”

  With one last look at his finger curled around the trigger, I swing the pack onto my shoulder and sprint down the hall. There’s a window at the end of it that overlooks the rooftops. I hit the button for the elevator and turn to see Charles in the living room, still holding on to my girlfriend. The elevator whines and chugs—and then there’s an explosion within the shaft that shakes the floor and blows a wave of dust beneath the closed doors. I stagger back until my shoulder blades hit the wall behind me. Once again, we’ve underestimated this enemy. “They’re cutting off our exits! What now, Professor?” I shout.

  “The window!” he calls, dragging Christina into the hallway. “Take the window!”

  I fling it open and am immediately hit by the smoky, metallic scent of a firefight. Leaning out slowly, my movements punctuated by the crack-crack of bullets hitting glass and wood and oh God, please not my mom, I realize I can hear and smell the action, but can’t see it. I’m above a one-story section of this complex, hidden from sight by the side of the two-story Pavilion building I’ve just exited. I edge my way onto the flat front part of the roof, which overlooks the lawn to my right. To my left the roof juts up in a shallow incline, and on the other side is the parking lot. I peek over and see a drainpipe. My escape route.

  A man below me shouts, and I crouch low. Have they gotten my mom? Are they on their way up? Where is she? Flattening myself against the roof, I lean over, just enough to see past the columned walkway that runs along the front of the Pavilion.

  And I see her, beyond jagged, broken glass hanging from empty panes. Just inside the lobby.

  She’s squatting with her back against one of the columns. The lights over the walkway give me an easy view of the dozen or so agents she’s facing. There are two on the roofs of the buildings across the lawn, several behind nearby trees, and a bunch behind the colonnade out in front of the Rotunda. She’s completely outgunned and pinned down, and all she can hope to do is hold them back for a while. Judging by the ammo-filled bag at my mom’s feet, she plans to put up a pretty good fight.

  With cool precision, she whips around the column and pulls the trigger once, twice, three times, like she’s operating according to a map in her head. Three agents fall from behind a tree and two columns. It’s only a momentary triumph, though, because the rest of them all shoot at once, sending her to the ground beneath the ferocity of their fire.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Charles snarls. I look up to see him glaring at me from the apartment window. “You are wasting her sacrifice. If she dies and you still get caught, her blood will be on your hands.”

  One shot makes his point for him.

  My mother’s cry tears me in two. I turn my head in time to see her drop, blood flowing from between the fingers she’s clutching to her left arm. But after only a second, she swings the gun up with her right and keeps firing, wearing a look of pure determination.

  Charles is right. I can’t help her. All I can do is what she asked me to: get the scanner away from Race. I grit my teeth and push off the ground, throwing myself over the low roof and sliding down the other side. I grab the drainpipe in time to keep myself from falling, but it shudders and breaks loose in my hand. I have only a fraction of a second to decide how I’m going to go down. I thrust myself into the open air, away from the building, hurling my body at the huge red SUV below me. Its roof is nearly six feet off the ground. Better than hitting the pavement below.

  I hit it hard with knees and elbows, half on the roof, cracking the windshield. All the wind is knocked out of me, but my brain is screaming. I’m so exposed. I slide off the SUV and crouch between it and a compact car, orienting myself and trying to draw air into my lungs. Our car is across the lot. I just have to get there. Sucking in a wheezin
g breath, I lurch myself up and make a dash for it.

  I force my legs to keep pounding the ground, force my arms to keep pumping, force the image of my mother, bleeding and hurt, from my brain. The firefight is still blazing, so she must be alive, must be fighting back. It keeps me going. The bland gray sedan is parked next to the garden fence, and I pull the keys out of the pack as I race toward it. I throw the pack on the seat and am about to get in when I hear the crunch of shoes on stone.

  Mr. Lamb is standing on the tall garden fence, right in front of my car.

  LIT UP BY ONE OF THE OVERHEAD LIGHTS, LAMB’S WEARing a dark suit and a black tie, like he’s a full-grown agent today, a tool of the government instead of just a tool.

  But even from here, I can see the brown stain on his collar.

  He holds his hands out in front of him. His gun is holstered at his side. “Tate. We can stop what’s happening.” He tilts his head back toward the lawn. “It can end right now.”

  There’s nothing but cold inside of me. I imagine this is what Christina was feeling just now, when she was pushed too far, beyond fear, beyond hate, beyond anything but a simple, frigid rage. My voice is steady when I say, “Why would you try to make this a cooperative game, Mr. Lamb? Shooting me for the scanner is the dominant strategy here.”

  He chuckles, showing that gap between his teeth. “You always were my best student. And you’re a good kid. Give me the device and we’ll be able to talk this out without having to listen to a gunfight in the background.”

  “How did you find us?” I need to know if that wheelchair-bound asshole gave us up.

  Lamb grimaces. “His recent activities aren’t as covert as he thinks.”

  The gunfire on the lawn quiets, falling silent with one last, shallow crack. My stomach turns to ice. “Okay, you win. Hang on a second.”

  The overhead light is reflecting off my windshield; I can tell by the way Lamb is squinting as I duck into the car. His fingers twitch toward his holster, but he’s trying to be cool here, trying to be so much more charming than he could ever pull off. I open the glove compartment and grab the car’s user’s manual, a heavy, thick booklet encased in black vinyl. Holding it tucked against my pant leg, I slide back out of the car.