The Legacy Series Boxed Set (Legacy, Prophecy, Revelation, and AWOL)

by Ellery Kane

  “I trusted him too.”

  “We all did,” Elana added.

  Max sat up straight and turned to look at me. “Is it crazy I’m still worried about him and furious at the same time? I just want to look him in the eye and ask him why.”

  “And punch him in the face.” I tried to make him smile again.

  He didn’t. “That too.”

  “He was probably just following Xander’s orders,” Elana suggested.

  Max nodded. “Probably.” But when his eyes met mine and quickly cut away, I wondered if he was convinced. The way String slowed time to savor the moment just before he pulled the trigger, I had no doubt. Whatever he had against Quin, it was personal.

  “Are you sure he never told you?” I asked Augustus. He pretended not to hear me, his eyes shut in a sudden and unconvincing portrayal of sleep. Quin’s warning repeated in my head. What am I supposed to do, Quin? Frustrated and unnerved, I turned away. Across from me, Mr. Van Sant sat rigid in Augustus’ dusty office chair. He was a statue, stony and unspeaking. I was afraid if I looked too long, he might crumble, dissolve into sand and silt. He’d spoken just one sentence, a forlorn proclamation. “The email to Langley never sent.” Of all the things he could’ve said, it seemed the least devastating, but the tremble in his voice—and all he withheld—made it sound irretrievably dire.

  “I’m hungry.” Augustus stretched his legs, repositioning himself atop his golden egg, the briefcase stuffed with his $250,000 payment. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t deny the growl in my own empty stomach. What little we had with us—Elana’s now-lifeless cell phone, Mr. Van Sant’s gun, and a pack of chewing gum Max found squished in his jacket pocket—was laid out like a feast in the center of the room, lit by two kerosene lamps from Augustus’ closet. I took comfort in my secret, the gun’s icy metal against my back. I planned to keep it there.

  “I’m—”

  “We heard you the first time,” Edison snapped. “Why don’t you call for a pizza? Tell them it’s the first moldy, rat-infested tunnel on the left. I’m sure they’ll be right over.”

  “He’s right, Son.” Mr. Van Sant was hoarse, each word scraping his throat. And for a moment, I felt an indescribable shock as if I had expected him to stay mute forever. “We need supplies. We need electricity. We need a computer. I have to send that—”

  “Dad, wake up! The email to Langley is the least of our problems. There’s a gang chasing us. A gang with the symbol of the devil on their necks. The devil! Oh, and by the way—like they need it—the devil-worshippers are taking Onyx. Bombs are going off somewhere tomorrow. Lex’s dad is on the run. We’re trapped down here with this—” He waved a dismissing hand at Augustus. “—this lunatic and …”

  “And Barry’s dead.” Finally, Mr. Van Sant conceded it. And for a while, there was nothing else to say.

  When I found my voice again, it was as scratchy as Mr. Van Sant’s. “There might be food left in the kitchen.” We had passed it on our way here, too afraid to stop. “And we should check the other rooms too.”

  “I’ll go,” Max said, already on his feet.

  “I’m coming with you.” The words tumbled out before I considered their meaning—willingly walking into the unknown. But I couldn’t just sit here with our collective grief hanging heavy, covering me in its shroud. I stood and Artos followed.

  “Take the gun.” Mr. Van Sant directed Max to the pile at his feet. “And a lamp.”

  Elana shifted nervously in Edison’s embrace. “Be careful.”

  “Allow me.” Augustus unlocked the rusty deadbolt that stood between us and anything that wanted in. He bared his teeth in a smile, and I could only guess about the source of his gratification—when we walked out, he would shut the door behind us, securing it with a scrape and a thud.

  “This is spooky.” I shuddered as Max held the lamp up to the control booth. Its windows were covered in a thick layer of grime, making it impossible to see inside.

  “Why, whatever do you mean, Ms. Knightley?” Max asked in his best vampire voice, punctuating his question with a sinister cackle.

  “Not funny.” I rubbed the center of the glass, revealing a bit of red paint, the familiar mark of the Resistance. It reminded me of something—a trace of memory, receding like a will-o’-wisp as I chased it. A knot tightened in my stomach.

  “I can’t believe this is the same place.” Max directed the light down the tunnel where Artos was letting his nose lead him, sniffing his way from room to room.

  I turned my face back toward the glass to the red mark. I could see my fingerprints in the dust. “That day I first met String, you said he wanted to go to one of those New Resistance rallies, right?”

  Max froze, then spotlighted me. “Yeah. We saw Quin and his dad there.”

  “Did he ever say anything about it?”

  “Not really. We left early before most of the speeches finished.” Max hung his head. “That was a Eupho night.”

  I nodded, taking a step in the direction of the kitchen. Max’s hand stopped me and pulled me back. “You can’t just ask me that and not tell me why.”

  “I don’t know why. I’m just thinking out loud. Something about String in that red bandana, standing up there on the top of the world with his gun, all wild-eyed, it reminded me of … ”

  “Quin?” I was relieved Max said it first. Maybe I wasn’t crazy.

  “It was straight out of the Book of Quin,” I said.

  “The what?” He smirked at me.

  “His Guardian Force file. There was a photo from that rally in San Francisco, the one where Quin was disguised as a member of the Resistance, the one where he … well, you know.”

  Max started speed walking ahead of me. “Lex, that’s crazy.” Maybe I was. “How would String even know about that? Why would he care?”

  I dismissed myself with an exaggerated shrug. “You’re right. I think this trip down Resistance lane is getting to me.” That was true, at least. Neither of us spoke until we reached the kitchen. Just outside it, hanging by a few threadbare wires, was one of the intercom speakers. On the door—informing me I was, yet again, doing what I shouldn’t be—was a sign: Property of the United States Government, No Trespassing.

  “I wonder if these doors even open,” Max said. “Most of them were automated.”

  “Well, there’s one way to find out.” I tugged at the handle of the kitchen door. Set in a metal track, it was meant to release with the click of a button. It squeaked a little in protest and didn’t budge. “Help me pull.” Max set the lamp at our feet and held on next to me.

  Before we began, he gasped. “What was that?” I’d heard it too, the faintest rustle, like a snake in the leaves. I looked to Artos for a signal—safe, not safe. He was busy stalking a pair of crickets.

  “Cujo’s not concerned,” I teased. “It’s probably just a rat or some other animal.”

  “Comforting.”

  I repositioned my hands. “One … two … three … pull.” The door groaned with our effort. “One … two … three … pull.” It inched forward in the track, leaving a small opening. Artos squeezed his head inside, the rest of him slipping through with no effort.

  Max laughed. “Hey, Artos, can you bring back some food?”

  I wrinkled my nose at the sour musk of rot. “That doesn’t smell edible—whatever it is.”

  Heaving against the door with his boot, Max widened the opening. “Well, we’re about to find out.” The instant I sidestepped the threshold, I wanted to turn back. The air was dead, suffocating. There was a constant buzz that got louder and louder as we approached the center of the room. Even before Max raised the lamp, my stomach lurched at the sound. Flies. Swarms of them, writhing in a shapeless black mass on the table, beating their tiny wings as they delighted in the decay.

  “Let’s try the pantry,” Max suggested, ushering me ahead. Riding a wave of nausea, I kept my mouth closed, afraid I might gag. He swung open the metal cabinets one by one, taking a quick step back ea
ch time. Empty. Empty. Empty. “Jackpot!” Max stood on tiptoe to reach a jumbo-sized bag of chocolate bars hidden on the top shelf. “It could be worse.” He grinned, then dropped the bag in horror, kicking it away from us.

  “Chocolate covered ants?” I asked.

  Poker-faced, he repeated my words. “Not funny.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY - NINE :

  JACKPOT

  Empty-handed, we traced our steps back to the kitchen entrance, Artos trotting alongside. “I’d say that was a colossal failure,” Max said, averting his eyes from Fly Mountain. As we neared the exit, the lure of stale-but-breathable air quickened our pace. I stopped short of the door.

  “Hey, wasn’t there a portable TV down here somewhere?”

  Max snapped his fingers, invigorated. “You’re right! A few of us snuck it in. Augustus didn’t want us exposed to propaganda.”

  “Go figure.”

  Max opened a few drawers, scattering their contents—mostly silverware, tarnished by the damp air. “Dare I say it? Another jackpot?” He held up a small battery-powered television, wiping a film from its screen.

  “Don’t get too excited, high roller. It probably doesn’t work.”

  Max’s finger hovered over the button for a small eternity.

  “… number one source for television news, SFTV. Reporting live, I’m …”

  “Now can I say it?” Max asked, not waiting for my answer. “Jack. Pot. Yes!”

  I grinned back at him, never so enthused to hear Barbara Blake’s canned introduction. But a sudden rumble from Artos ended our celebration. Next came a crash, the sound of delicate glass cracking against the floor. Artos barked, then darted back into the cave beyond the kitchen doorway.

  “Someone’s here,” Max mouthed. Though I knew it, his pronouncement tripped the wire of panic already rigged inside me. I could feel my heart pinging in the hollow of my chest, my nerves firing off like tiny bombs. I steadied myself against the nearest counter and gripped Quin’s gun in my waistband, squeezing it so tightly that my hands stopped shaking. We took one step and then another and another, making methodical progress until we were poised at the mouth of darkness. The lamp’s meager light was a cruel trick. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever.

  “I think it came from the lab.” Max gestured ten feet ahead with his gun, where Artos waited, uncertain.

  “The door is already open,” I whispered, horrified at the gap wide enough for a large man to fit through. Setting the television and the lamp just outside the entry, Max put his finger to his lips, then pointed at the ground. The light illuminated a trail of glass, beckoning like breadcrumbs in the woods. I stopped my breathing and listened, but it was impossible to hear anything but the thumping whoosh of blood in my ears.

  Max held up his hand to caution me. He spun fast, aiming his gun inside, then waved to me. Artos headed past us, giving the broken glass a cursory sniff before trotting toward the back of the room, where the light barely reached. It was stacked high with the remains of the Resistance—carcasses of supply boxes, picked-over skeletons of lab equipment. Guns raised, Max and I followed him.

  To either side of us, the walls were blank sheets of white, the perfect stage for our dancing shadows. The large-screen computers that once lined the tables were gone, probably dismantled and removed by the government. Only the hanging diagram of the brain remained, its colors muted by age and dust.

  Artos whined a little, his ears at attention. He seemed curious, his eyes trained on a tower of boxes, piled haphazardly in the corner. With a nudge, I drew Max’s attention to the top of the pile. The highest box was shaking ever so slightly, like a petal flitting in the breeze.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” I made a move to cover Max’s mouth or clock him myself—what was he thinking?—when I realized the voice, feeble and trembling, wasn’t his. But it was one I recognized.

  “Dad?”

  Wide-eyed, Max kept his gun pointed ahead. Behind the boxes, soft footsteps and a figure emerged.

  “Mr. Knightley?”

  “Dad!”

  “Lex?” My father—still clad in a jail-issued khaki jumpsuit—was holding a broomstick and a shard of glass. His face was dirty, his eyes still pleading as if he half expected to be wrong. Dead wrong. Artos approached and sniffed him with earnest recognition as my father lowered his makeshift weapons and turned back toward his hiding place.

  “It’s safe,” he said. “You can come out.” Carrie emerged as tentative as a hunted animal. Unsteady on her feet, she teetered as she met my eyes.

  “Safe,” she repeated. Like she didn’t believe it. Like it wasn’t possible. Like there was no such thing. Then she collapsed in a heap at my father’s feet.

  CHAPTER SIXTY :

  THE SAFEST PLACE

  The small television screen reflected my face back to me. My hair was plastered to my forehead with a paste of dirt and sweat. I pushed it back, looking up at myself with bloodshot eyes. My unflinching assessment: haggard. But Carrie was much worse off than me, than any of us. She had been curled in the corner, unmoving since we returned. My father told us she’d refused to fall asleep at the jail, afraid to close her eyes, afraid of what might happen. Not surprising, her skin looked worn, her cheeks sunken in. Beneath her fluttering eyelids, her flesh purpled like a bruise.

  “Lex.” Max elbowed me. Everyone was waiting. I pressed the button bringing the television to life.

  “ … Van Sant is well known for representing San Francisco’s elite, spearheading the successful defenses of many wealthy, influential, and infamous clients, including Preston Abbott—better known as the Financial District Fiend who was acquitted in 2040 on multiple charges of corporate racketeering, fraud, and solicitation to commit murder. Van Sant recently suffered a rare defeat in his pro bono representation of George McAllister, convicted in October for the brutal murder of his wife Michelle and their unborn child.

  Police have yet to identify any suspects in today’s shooting that claimed the life of Van Sant’s 48-year-old bodyguard, Bernard Nelson. However, our sources suggest emotion-altering medications were discovered inside Van Sant’s multimillion-dollar villa in Pacific Heights. He and his son, Edison, have been missing since the homicide was discovered … ”

  “Off.” Mr. Van Sant turned his face away, but not before I saw his disgust. He was too defeated for anger.

  Edison reached to stop my hand with his own. “No, Dad. We have to watch it. We need to know what’s going on out there.”

  Mr. Van Sant shrugged, then let his shoulders droop. “What more do we need to know?” I understood how he felt. Somehow the closer we came to Xander, the Guardian Force, and the bombings, the further away it all seemed. Now in the early morning hours of January 23, 2043, we were as close and as far as we’d ever been.

  “A lot more,” my father answered. “I’m willing to bet what Carrie and I saw is the tip of a very large, Titanic-sinking iceberg. San Francisco is just the beginning. You know that.”

  “How many?” I demanded, glaring at Augustus. His cheeks were round as apples, stuffed full and chewing a stick of jerky from the supplies Carrie and my father found stashed in the lab. I watched him swallow with effort. Then his lips parted in a saccharine smile.

  “Give me a break, Ms. Knightley. That was only my second piece.”

  “How many bombs?”

  “Oh. That. I haven’t the slightest.”

  A frustrated sigh caught in my chest and was interrupted by the television, the story we’d been waiting for. I turned up the volume.

  “The Department of Transportation announced that, starting tomorrow, the newly constructed Bay Bridge spanning between Oakland and San Francisco will be available for motorists to travel. The rebuilding of the eastern span of the historic bridge, which was redesigned in 2013, comes just two years after it was bombed by Resistance forces.”

  Augustus sneered. “Still pinning that one on me, I see.” I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my agreement, but he was right.
It was unnerving how pliable the truth was, how SFTV could twist it into any size and shape that fit their agenda.

  “Repairs were funded primarily by Zenigenic CEO Xander Steele, who is scheduled to be among the leaders observing the inaugural procession across the bridge from San Francisco to Oakland. Social media is abuzz with rumors he will likely be accompanied by the newly appointed Docil-E spokesman, Quin McAllister. Large crowds are expected for the 9:30 a.m. reopening—with police and military personnel on hand to quell any violence. In an exclusive interview with SFTV, General Anton Maze denied safety concerns at the event and confirmed troops will have access to Docil-E should bystanders become unruly.”

  “My God … ” My father’s voice was haunted. Back to the wall, he was sitting cross-legged like a young boy, but his eyes were older, harder than I remembered. He was watching the rise and fall of Carrie’s chest.

  “You were right,” I told him. He nodded, solemn.

  “I didn’t want to be. But what else would the military be doing with a scale model of the Bay Bridge and a ton of fertilizer?” After leaving their cells, Carrie and my father had escaped through a heating vent. Crawling through the air ducts, they’d seen a lot—bomb components, a model of the bridge, and canisters marked Docil-E2. “We have to warn people, call the police, something.”

  Mr. Van Sant shook his head. “Easy, Knightley. If we do that now without any proof, Steele gets away again. And Zenigenic keeps right on rolling.”

  “So we just do nothing? Let all those people die? You really are the moral paragon I thought you were.”

  “Dad!”

  He shrugged at me. “I call it like I see it.”

  Chest puffed, Mr. Van Sant wasn’t about to back down from a challenge. “Call it like you see it, huh? Is that why you rolled over for Steele like a spineless jellyfish the minute he demanded you interview Quin with his scripted book of questions?”

  “Listen here, you … you … lawyer.” My father was obviously a novice in the art of insults. Augustus snickered as I cut my eyes to Edison, searching for an ally on the battlefield.