by Ellery Kane
“Dad? Are you mad at me?” I asked.
He stared straight ahead. “We’ll talk about it at home.”
“Because I was just defending—”
“At. Home. Lex.”
Langley cleared her throat. “I don’t want to break up this party, but I just got a text from the station. There’s been another gang shooting in Chinatown, multiple fatalities, probably Onyx-related. Do you mind if we … ?”
“It’s fine,” my father said flatly. Without looking at me, he added, “This time stay—”
“I know, I know. Stay in the van.”
“Hold on,” Langley advised before making a hairpin turn down Grant Avenue and flooring the accelerator, the green-roofed gates of Chinatown up ahead. We screeched to a stop near a police cruiser. Langley grabbed her handheld camera and started running. I saw the outline of two bodies lying in the street—one covered with a white sheet, the other attended by medical personnel. My father issued one last warning with his eyes before trotting toward them.
I covered my ears to block out the wailing sirens and peered out the back window up Grant Street, where the street lamps were casting halos of light on the sidewalk. It was nearing 8 p.m., just two hours until the curfew, but it was already deserted. Now that I was alone, the entire day stretched out behind me, scene by scene, each begging to be revisited. But I chose to focus on one … Quin’s hand on my knee. Even more than Edison’s story, Quin’s touch—like an emotional shorthand—comforted me. The message, simple: It’s me, Quin.
In the distance, I saw a figure—a man walking. He stayed just to the edge of the light, obscured by shadow. The closer he came, the more certain I was. I knew him … his lanky stride, his spiked hair. A block away from the van, he veered left. It was definitely String. I’d recognize that hair anywhere. Since their breakup, he had told Max he was hangin’—String’s word—at the beach in Santa Cruz for a while, trying to earn a little money. I didn’t tell Max, but I suspected hangin’ was code for something illegal, immoral, or both. What was he doing here? And did it have anything to do with Radley? Or that picture of George McAllister that Max found inside his backpack? Within me, I felt pulled—the gentle tug of intuition—to follow.
Through the front window, I found my father interviewing witnesses, the light from the camera spotlighting the worries on his face. Leaving now would be wrong. Leaving now would be dangerous. But to stay—I watched as String disappeared from my sight—I just couldn’t. I sent a quick text to my dad. Another lie, of course.
8:10 p.m. Getting late, curfew time. Got a ride home with Elana and Max just in case. See you in the morning.
I opened the console where Langley kept her gun—or as she liked to call it, her confidential informant. I tucked it into my waistband, pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, and cracked the van door. Act natural, I told myself as one of the police officers stalked toward me. “Hey, you!” I froze, but he headed right past, not even noticing me. I crossed the street, ducked into the shadows, and started walking.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LONG SHOT
JUST AS I LOCATED String’s Mohawk, he turned onto Montgomery Street and into the Financial District. Though most of the businesses reopened within the past year, a few remained frozen in time, their doors chained or boarded, marked with Resistance graffiti from before the city’s evacuation. At this time of night, with the curfew looming, everyone was somewhere else. Aside from the faraway rumblings of car engines and the occasional, unnerving crack of gunfire, it was quiet. I stayed several blocks behind String, afraid he might hear the padding of my sneakers behind him. But he seemed focused on whatever or whoever lay ahead. Was he following someone too?
Further up ahead, breaking through the fog, was Coit Tower. Like many of the city’s landmarks, restoring it wasn’t a priority. I hadn’t been back since my escape from Resistance headquarters, but Quin had. The last time he went, it was cordoned off with hazard tape, thick plywood blocking the door. Parts of the base had started to crumble away, leaving the structure vulnerable to collapse in an earthquake. When Quin told me, I was secretly relieved. I wanted it to be ours and no one else’s.
String paused—his first moment of hesitation—at the bottom of the Filbert Stairs, the steep climb that led through the trees and right to the tower. Concealing myself behind a dumpster, I watched and waited. His head swiveled left, then right, then left again, searching. He retraced his steps and peered down the nearby alleyway, then returned to the stairs, where he sat down. He removed his cell phone from his pocket. Surrounded by silence, the smooth timbre of his voice chilled me.
“Hey man, I lost him.”
“Um, sort of near Coit Tower.”
“You can tell him that he’s a lot harder to tail than his dad.”
“Fine.”
“Should I wait?”
“Okay. Later.” String directed one last intent gaze up the stairs before he reversed course back down the hill. I watched his shadow get smaller and smaller until there was only sidewalk.
Now what? I whispered to myself. I sat on the curb and took out my cell phone. In the corner of the screen, the tiny battery flashed red. Great. As I texted Elana, a raccoon trotted past me, heading for the dumpster. He climbed its edge and disappeared inside.
8:40 p.m. Are you still here in SF?
Elana: Back at home. Why?
8:41 p.m. Long story … but I need someone to pick me up by Coit Tower.
Elana: I wish I could help. My mom’s watching me like a hawk since I left without telling her. Try Edison … and be careful!
Another raccoon tumbled headfirst into the bin. I listened to the sounds of their scavenging, trying to ignore the persistent warning from my phone. Battery low. I composed another text, this time to Edison.
8:45 p.m. Any chance you could come and get me?
At 8:50 p.m., there was still no response. I wasn’t surprised. Elana always complained Edison was a bad texter. “Is that even a thing?” Edison asked me once. At the time, I laughed with him, but now, I had to agree—bad texter.
By the time the third raccoon began his plundering, my screen had dimmed—my battery critically low—and I was running out of options. Max’s mom would never let him take their car into the city, especially with the curfew looming. And my dad was probably gone by now. Just the thought of his face, his disappointment tangible, twisted my stomach in an impossible knot of guilt. I settled back onto the sidewalk, all but resigned to my fate. It was going to be a long night … unless. I scrolled do-or-die through my phone until I landed on my last hope. To say the least, she was a long shot.
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
CLEAN
EMMA TOSSED ME A HELMET and patted the seat behind her. Her mouth was moving, her words drowned by the throaty growl of her idling motorcycle. Hesitant, I stepped toward her—still surprised she agreed to come at all—and buckled the helmet tight under my chin. “ … getting on or not? We don’t have all night.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked, instantly cursing myself. There I go again. Boring Lex.
Emma rolled her eyes at me as expected. “Safer than sleeping out here.” Then she revved the motor, laughing when I jumped. “It’s 9:40. We gotta go.” She tapped her watch.
“Coming,” I said. Securing Langley’s gun inside my waistband, I tried to imitate the graceful leg swing Emma had perfected. Mine was not so effortless.
“Are you alright back there?” Emma snickered as I scooted into place. The bike purred beneath me, a momentarily contented beast.
“I’m fine.”
“Hold on tight—I like to drive fast.” Shocking. I locked my arms around the soft leather of her jacket, squeezing until I felt the knobs of her rib cage. “Not that tight, Knightley. I still need to breathe.”
The first part of the ride was the worst and the best. Engine roaring, we careened straight downhill, Emma’s blonde tendrils blowing back in my face. At the bottom, she let out a loud whoop. I stayed qu
iet. But inside, I was secretly thrilled. It was a little bit like flying—with a deranged pilot at the helm. We took a hard turn to the right, and the weight of the whole world leaned with us. With ease, Emma steadied the bike, commanding it forward, a marvel for someone so small.
“How was that?” she asked, her voice breathy with exhilaration.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” She was incredulous. “Seriously?”
I smiled to myself. “Okay, it was awesome,” I admitted. “Terrifying, but awesome.”
Within ten minutes, we whizzed by the first sign for the Golden Gate Bridge. MILITARY CHECKPOINT AHEAD, CURFEW IN EFFECT: PREPARE TO STOP. The bridge itself was invisible, cloaked behind a dense layer of fog. Emma’s watch read 9:50.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” I yelled into the wind.
She answered with a forceful turn of the throttle, sending us past the tollbooths in a blur. It seemed we were alone on the bridge, a white cloak shrouding the highway. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew at its end, waiting, were the watchful, red eyes of the checkpoint. “Slow down,” I cautioned as we approached, even as Emma went faster and faster, speeding into an opaque oblivion.
In the fog, everything around us was formless, unseen—until it wasn’t. Light poles appeared alongside us, as if from nowhere. A gull swooped in from another world. A man materialized, hand raised, cautioning us with his palm.
“Stop!”
Emma squeezed the brakes hard—the bike screeching and skidding to a halt inches from his boots. The soldier’s mouth remained set in an unforgiving line. “This is a mandatory checkpoint. Are you aware of the speed limit?” It was the sort of question that had no right answer. His partner hung behind him, waiting for instruction. “Get over here, Greenhorn.”
“Yes, sir—uh, Commander.” The soldier followed orders, shuffling over toward us.
“Sorry,” I muttered to them, offering an apologetic smile. Unaffected, Emma removed her helmet, shaking out her hair. “We were—” I began.
“Don’t bother explaining. I need both of you to step off the motorcycle. We’re going to have to test you.”
“Test us for what?” Emma asked.
With a nudge from his partner, the greenhorn handed her a laminated card with a list of banned EAMs. “Have either of you used any of the drugs on this list?”
“It’s in your best interest to fess up now,” the commander added.
“Of course not,” Emma said.
“Fine. Have it your way.” The commander shook his head in disdain. “Your reckless behavior would strongly suggest otherwise.”
I protested with a lie. “Someone was chasing us.”
“Oh really?”
“He followed us out of the city,” I added, waiting for Emma to back me up. She said nothing.
“You were running for your lives?” His voice was flat, unconvinced. He put his hand above his eyes, peering out from under it, as if he was looking out through the fog to the horizon. “And where is this mysterious culprit?” When neither of us responded, he reached inside his pocket and withdrew a small plastic applicator, then handed it to the greenhorn. “Who’s first?”
“I’ll go,” I volunteered, extending my arm toward the young soldier. He swiped the applicator across my wrist several times, then looked at Emma’s forearm with expectation. Wrinkling her forehead in annoyance, she rolled up her jacket sleeve.
“Guardian Force,” he observed stoically, considering her tattoo. Emma gave him a blank face. On his forearm was a matching mark, but its borders were red and swollen, as if newly inked.
“When did you serve?” I asked him, trying not to stare. It was becoming nearly impossible to believe the Guardian Force was really disbanded.
“I just—”
“Greenhorn! Zip it!” The commander sidled over to him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. Unlike his inexperienced partner, his Guardian Force tattoo was well worn—there was a thick, circular scar in its center, similar to the one on my side. “Do your job,” he hissed, his breath like steam in the cold air. Then with a sardonic smile, he addressed Emma. “Pretty tough to quit Emovere, huh?”
Scowling at his forearm, she shot back. “You would know.” I swallowed a gasp. The young soldier watched Emma from the corners of his eyes, as if she was a sleeping tiger. Nonplussed, the commander stepped toward her. He leaned down until his face was inches from hers.
“What’s your name?” Emma stared straight ahead—eyes to the middle of his chest. “Your name,” he demanded. Her jaw tensed, but she made no sound. Stalemate.
The greenhorn consulted the applicators in his hands. Mine was a bright shade of green. He nodded at me. “Clean.”
“Does that mean we can go?” I asked, rushing to put my helmet on. The cool blade of dread pressed to the back of my neck was too persistent to ignore. My question remained unanswered. Both the commander and the soldier stared at the second applicator as it turned from white to pink, then to a vibrant red—the kind of red that meant stop, the kind of red that meant danger, the kind of red that meant Emma was most definitely not clean.
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
START’ER UP
“YOUNG LADY, you are under arrest.” The commander was smug, that red strip a mere formality, confirmation of what he seemed to know all along. How could I have missed it? “Put your hands behind your back,” he told Emma.
In the space between us, Emma’s fingertips twitched like live wires. I held my breath, waiting for whatever was coming. The commander shoved the greenhorn toward her. “Cuff her.” His eyes trained on Emma, the soldier took a methodical step forward, then another. Her move, when it finally came, was sudden, unexpected, charged like a spark of lightning. She grabbed at my waistband. The gun!
“No!” I yelled at her as I reached for it too—and so did the greenhorn. But our hands only clutched air. Then I felt the barrel pressed against my temple, the heat of Emma’s body behind my back. I gulped. Warm, bitter bile rose up into the back of my throat.
“Don’t move.” Emma’s voice was ice at my ear, smooth and biting cold. “If you move, I’ll kill her.” Her. Me. “I’m going to get on my bike and ride away.” I imagined she was looking up at the commander with indifference—matching his deliberate stare. The greenhorn was less focused, his gaze traveling from Emma to the commander and back again. “And you’re going to let me,” she said. “You’re both going to forget you ever saw us.” Us?
Emma jabbed at me with the gun, nudging me toward her motorcycle. “Get on. You’re driving.” It wasn’t a question, so I swallowed my words—I’ve never driven a motorcycle before—and mounted the bike. She followed alongside me, the gun’s barrel never far from my head.
“Think about what you’re doing,” the commander cautioned. “You won’t get away.”
“Start’er up,” Emma instructed, completely oblivious to his threat. Must be Emovere, I thought. It would certainly explain a lot.
I considered the mechanical beast in front of me. How hard could it be? I turned the key in the ignition. Silence. Apparently, harder than I thought.
“Ugh,” Emma groaned in frustration. Keeping the gun pressed firmly to my skull, she pointed to a button near the handlebars. “The ignition switch—you have to press it.” Following her lead, I brought the engine rumbling to life, its motoric heartbeat reverberating through me. Emma nodded, satisfied.
“Put your weapons on the ground and kick them to me,” she directed. Both men complied, sending their guns scuttling toward her feet. “Now turn around. Slowly.” Like a music box figurine, the commander began a slow spin until his broad shoulders faced us, but the greenhorn’s feet stayed firmly planted. Only one of his hands was visible. It made me nervous. “Move,” Emma said blandly, unconcerned.
The soldier’s face was serene. “Alright, alright,” he agreed, his voice equally as calm. His flat tone and dead eyes made me wonder if I was the only clean one around here. With a lightning-fast step, he lunged for Emma an
d stabbed a liquid-filled syringe into her leg. She barely noticed, hardly flinched. As he tried to depress the plunger, she kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying into the commander. Both of them toppled like felled trees. By the time they scrambled to their knees and the commander retrieved his lost weapon, Emma was on the back of the bike screeching at me. “Go! Go! Go!”
Panic flooded me, leaving my hands and feet as heavy as lead. “I don’t know how!” I screamed back at her, instantly breathless with the effort of my hysteria.
The commander stumbled toward us, regaining his balance. He aimed the barrel at Emma, its lethal black eye trained on her chest. “Drop the gun or I’ll—”
Emma fired.
Silenced, the commander crumpled to the ground. The center of his uniform began to darken.
She didn’t even look at me—just pushed me off the bike and pulled the still-full syringe from her thigh, discarding us both on the highway. While I sat there, shell-shocked, the greenhorn discharged shot after shot into the drifting white clouds until his gun was empty. The bike’s steady snarl mocked him long after Emma disappeared into the fog.
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
GONE
“IS HE DEAD?” I asked. The greenhorn didn’t answer. He was hunched over the commander’s body, pressing his fist, wet and red, against the wound on his chest. A soft gurgling came from the commander’s mouth. I thought of Elliot, the unnatural arch of his body on the library floor, the first death I’d seen (caused) in real life. Somehow, I felt responsible for this one too. After all, I’d assembled the pieces—Langley’s gun, Emma, the race to outrun the curfew—and set them in motion. I watched the commander’s chest, waiting for the constant rise and fall, but it was stiff, still.