by Ellery Kane
Only one of us seemed certain. Mr. Van Sant pumped his fist, lit with excitement. “A witness!”
The last time I saw the inside of the Map Room, I was a different girl. Naïve, I’d sat at the table and pleaded with the Council to let me leave Resistance headquarters. Now that table was covered in a blanket of dust, and my heart was armored. I knew better than to demand fairness from the world.
“I can’t believe your mother sent you here alone,” my father said, his eyes darting to the corner where a rat’s thick tail slipped just out of our sight.
I laughed. “It wasn’t quite this scary back then, Dad.”
He put his arm around me. “I know. Still, you were braver than I would’ve been.” I placed my hand on the back of Augustus’ chair, the leather already cracking with neglect. I could picture him there, could still feel the table shaking when he pounded it with his fist.
“I wasn’t that brave.”
“Yes, you were,” Elana whispered. The map was there too, yellowing a little at the edges and peeling back from the wall in spots. Max and I tugged at the corners until the paper gave way, revealing the other version underneath. Mr. Van Sant held the light up as Max traced his finger along the blue line, marking the BART tunnel at Embarcadero Station.
“Here it is.” He pointed to a thinner line drawn in pencil. “It looks like it ends at … ” I followed it with my eyes.
“Pier Twenty-six.” I finished for him. “Right underneath the Bay Bridge.”
CHAPTER SIXTY - THREE :
TYPICAL
Carrie was waiting at the door. Artos sat near her, still rubbing his eyes with his paws. “Thank God!” she exhaled. “I was beginning to think I was on my own here.” We made our way back inside and bolted the door behind us. Carrie looked from Artos to Max and back again. “Looks like you both got a taste of pepper spray.”
Max lowered himself to the ground, glowering again. He didn’t answer. Carrie gestured toward the television set. It was turned on—the usual reality show reruns—the volume down low. “They’re looking for your … friend,” she said to Max, settling on the least awkward word. I cleared my throat, hoping to stop her. “String, right?”
“Carrie—” I started to interrupt, but Max stopped me.
“Who’s looking for him?”
“The police. I guess they figured out he shot at Quin because they’ve charged him with attempted murder. See, there it is.” Carrie pointed to the scrolling bar—BREAKING NEWS—at the bottom of the screen. My heart unsettled, I followed the words as they streamed past.
SUSPECT IDENTIFIED IN ATTEMPTED SHOOTING OF ZENIGENIC SPOKESMAN, QUIN MCALLISTER … SEBASTIAN CROFT, AGE 18, HAS A LENGTHY JUVENILE RECORD THAT INCLUDES ARRESTS FOR PETTY THEFT AND LARCENY … XANDER STEELE OFFERS $100,000 REWARD FOR HIS CAPTURE … UNNAMED ZENIGENIC SOURCE POINTS TO POSSIBLE LINK BETWEEN CROFT AND WANTED FUGITIVE, AUGUSTUS PORTER.
I watched Max’s face. It was a bellwether—his frown deepening, his blue eyes stormy, tempestuous.
“Typical Xander,” Edison muttered. “He’s always blaming someone else. From what I overheard in the closet, he was well aware String was going to shoot Quin, and he didn’t seem to have any problem with it. But he didn’t want it to happen that night.”
“No!” Max’s voice was a forceful gust of wind blowing with the strength of all his bottled frustration. “It’s typical String. He deserves this. He let George McAllister go to prison and never said a word. He’s probably been playing both sides. Playing me too. Laughing at us. I hope they catch him. I hope I catch him. A hundred thousand dollars is way more than he’s worth, but I’ll take it.”
“Max—you don’t …”
“Don’t tell me I don’t mean it, Lex. Because I do.”
“I’ll split it with you,” I said, waiting for him to laugh. It took longer than I expected, but eventually the corners of his mouth turned up in a melancholy smile.
“Seventy-thirty,” he replied.
CHAPTER SIXTY - FOUR :
IMPROVISE
The sun was a glowing yellow ball, lost behind a dense thicket of clouds. But after the pitch black of the tunnel, even the muted brightness stung my eyes. From the Embarcadero, the bridge towered up against the morning sky like something out of a dream. A long line of cars extended back into the city, their path congested by spectators filing up the highway from the newly erected mandatory checkpoint. I looked at my watch again. 9:10 a.m.
Keeping my head down and my jacket collar turned up, I walked at the edge of the crowd, convinced someone would recognize me. My jeans were still damp from the overflow tunnel—and the four bottles of water I’d used to clean them. They felt even tighter with the gun tucked inside my waistband. With every step, I smelled the faint odor of dank water and heard the refrain of my father’s goodbye. He and Carrie were safely hidden in the BART tunnel with Artos. “How is it possible I’ve nearly lost you so many times, when I’ve only just found you again?” I knew exactly what he meant, but I’d only shrugged my shoulders under the weight of his embrace, afraid I might cry.
A soldier with a canister of Docil-E strapped to his belt spoke into a megaphone as we approached. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be prepared for random EAM testing. If you are selected, kindly step to the side so others can pass. Positive tests are subject to arrest and will be denied entry.”
“Great. Just great.” I was certain the soldiers had my picture in a plastic sleeve, my face lined up alongside Augustus, one criminal to another.
“Just act natural … normal,” Edison teased. “Tell yourself, I haven’t just spent the night in the BART tunnels. I haven’t crawled through sewage. I haven’t cheated death twice in one week. No problem, right?”
I masked a chuckle with my hand as we passed the first line of soldiers. “Was that normal enough for you?”
Edison chuckled. “I haven’t been duped by a psychopath … again. I haven’t made out with a B-list celebrity. I haven’t—” Elana ended Edison’s comedic monologue with a sharp elbow to his side. A thick-browed soldier stood in our path, unsmiling.
“Young man, step to the side please.” He ushered Max away from us, then covered his nose with his uniform sleeve. “Phew! You stink!”
“Sorry.” Max shrugged. “I must’ve forgotten to wear my soldier-approved cologne.”
Humorless, the man hastily swiped Max’s wrist with the plastic applicator. I slowed down but kept walking—afraid to stop—and listened for the sound of his stern voice. “Clean,” he finally said, stoically, seemingly oblivious to the contradiction in terms.
“What’s the verdict?” Edison teased as Max caught up to us.
“Clean—but malodorous.”
As we reached the entrance to the bridge near Bryant Street, I nudged Elana. “Xander.” She nodded. Even from here, he was unmistakable. Sharply dressed and prancing about the observation booth, he was hobnobbing with the mayors of Oakland and San Francisco. A tall, well-muscled military officer joined them. I was too far away to see the name stitched on his uniform, but I was willing to bet it was General Anton Maze.
Valkov was there as well, his broken arm resting in a sling against his chest. He wasn’t speaking to anyone, just frowning indiscriminately. Barbara Blake was at the front of the procession, holding a microphone, ready to give the go-ahead while the rest of the media was cordoned off behind the checkpoint. Mr. Van Sant was headed there now to find Langley.
Elana pointed to an older woman approaching the booth. She shared Xander’s jet-black hair and ice-cold eyes. “Who’s that?”
“His mom?” I guessed. “She looks like him.”
As the apparent Mrs. Steele preened in one of the car’s side mirrors, ignoring the throngs of people attempting to sidestep her, Max snickered. “Those two are definitely related.”
“Well, Xandi did say he wouldn’t disappoint her, and he certainly has a big show planned for today.” Elana meant the joke for Edison, but he didn’t respond. He was clinging tight—white-knuckl
ed—to the bridge railing behind us.
“Are you okay?” she asked him.
At first, the only reply was the shaky inhale, exhale of his breath. But then, “What do you think? Of all places, why a bridge? Why?”
“Where’s Quin?” I could hear the worry in my voice. He’s supposed to be with Xander.
Elana clutched my arm. “There.”
Quin was in the driver’s seat of an ostentatious piano-black convertible, one of the first cars in the motorcade. The hood was ornamented with a metallic Z. A banner on the back fender trailed behind: Make the world a little kinder. I felt my knees buckle, and I gripped Elana tighter. He’s supposed to be with Xander. I willed him to look at me, but his back was turned to us, signing an autograph for a giddy teenager.
“I thought he would be with Xander.” Max echoed my concern, making it that much more difficult to ignore.
“Me too.” It was a simple equation. With Xander, Quin was safe. But now, he was just as vulnerable as we were. Maybe more so. Max leaned in and patted my arm.
“We’ll find it,” he said. It. The bomb. I was glad he didn’t say that word aloud. “We’ll stop it.” I tried to make a face of optimism, confidence even, and began scanning the cars behind Quin.
“What exactly are we looking for?” I asked.
“It’s probably in a van or a truck,” Edison answered. “Something big.”
The crowd was much larger than I’d expected. By now, the sides of the bridge were overgrown, unwieldy, teeming with people. But my gaze kept returning to the checkpoint. Just beyond it was a group of motorcycles and their pentagrammed riders—Satan’s Syndicate. Though it seemed unlikely they could see me, every time I looked, I shivered with the certainty I was being watched. I forced myself to focus on the cars instead, considering them one by one, a process of elimination.
“Got anything?” Edison asked.
“Nothing yet.”
I nearly missed it. Three cars back from Quin. An antique convertible—Resistance red—with an oversized trunk big enough to store explosives. It was the driver who first caught my attention. He wore a bandana over his mouth and another on his forearm. But as he shifted his hand on the wheel, it slipped a little, revealing the inked edges of a Guardian Force tattoo. Sitting atop the white leather backseat—at first glance—were five more bandana-clad protestors. At second glance, “It’s Emma,” I whispered, horrified. I couldn’t take my eyes from her black braid, afraid to look at the boy sitting next to her. I recognized him too, though I’d never seen him before. Quin’s brown hair. Their mother’s eyes. The hard set of their father’s jaw. It was Colton.
I swallowed hard before speaking, knowing I couldn’t take it back. “It’s in that car.” I lowered my voice and breathed the word, the one that would make it real. “The bomb. They’re going to blame it on the New Resistance.”
“Are you sure that’s her?” Edison asked, squinting as we walked closer to the car. “Why would Emma—”
He stopped mid-sentence when Emma, Colton, and the others started chanting. “We are the New Resistance. Not afraid to feel.” Their voices were methodical, passionless. And yet, protestors in the crowd joined in, quickly covering their listlessness.
Edison and I exchanged a look. “Docil-E,” he said.
“Docil-E2,” I corrected, noticing the microphones tucked inside their ears. “Someone’s giving them orders.” I silently measured the distance between their car and Quin’s. Thirty feet, give or take. Way too close.
My watch beeped, signaling 9:30 a.m. Barbara Blake tapped her microphone, her face looming on two giant television screens that offered a live feed of SFTV’s coverage of the festivities. Xander and the other dignitaries took their seats.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you to the opening of the repaired eastern span of the Bay Bridge between Oakland and San Francisco. Before we begin, I would like to take a moment to recognize Zenigenic’s CEO for his generous donation to this project. Without Xander Steele, we would not be gathered here today. To honor Mr. Steele, newly appointed Zenigenic spokesman, Quin McAllister, will be driving the lead vehicle in the procession this morning.” Quin gave a small wave to the crowd’s delight. “Mr. McAllister, please start your engine.”
The line of vehicles roared to life and began a slow crawl up the freeway ramp toward the bridge. “What are we going to do?” I asked, on the verge of panic.
Edison grinned despite the fear in his eyes. “Improvise.”
CHAPTER SIXTY - FIVE :
STREAKING
If there wasn’t a bomb in that car, if it wasn’t about to explode, if we were anywhere else but here, I would’ve found it impossible to stop laughing. Elana’s cheeks were flaming red. Her face turned a deep shade of crimson as she peeked through her half-covered eyes at Edison. “I’m creating a diversion,” he explained, completely straight-faced, while stripping down to his underwear. “Use it wisely.”
“Oh my!” Barbara Blake cried out as Edison tossed his boxers in her direction. He sprinted to the front of the procession, weaving between the cars and swiping the microphone from her hand. “Hey! Come back here with that!”
Quin’s brake lights flashed red, and the cars behind him ground to a halt as the spectators laughed and pointed. With high-heeled Barbara and two soldiers in pursuit, Edison tossed the microphone in my direction and kept running, ducking behind a van. His throw came up short. The mic hit the ground and bounced, announcing me with a resounding thump, thump, thump. It scuttled into the forest of feet lining the bridge. I scampered after it, searching until a spindly arm extended toward me, mic in hand. I followed it—elbow, shoulder, neck, pale face—blushing, hair as black as a beetle’s shell.
“Percy!”
He looked at me with awe, the kind of distant reverence usually reserved for girls like Elana. “Hi, Lexi … Lex … ugh. I always forget.” Captured by the mic, his voice resonated.
“It’s okay.” I took it from him and faced the masses of people, surprised at how quickly they turned their attention to me. I zeroed in on Quin, focusing on the surprised O of his mouth.
“Hello,” I said. All those curious eyes, and I wasn’t even sure where to begin. “My name is Alexandra Knightley.” Relax, Lex. It’s not a vale-dictory address. “My mother was Victoria Knightley. She spent most of her career creating emotion-altering drugs for Zenigenic. And then she died trying to stop the military from using them against us.”
Xander was already on his feet. “Arrest her!” he commanded. “She killed Peter Radley. She’s on something!”
There’s a bomb in that car! I wanted to say it, to scream it, but I needed more time. If I said it, they would run, never knowing, and I had to tell them—everyone—who put it there and why. My mother’s ill-fated mission to upload the video at Alcatraz made more sense to me than it ever had. I heard the gasps as I withdrew the gun from my waistband and waved it at the approaching soldiers. Masks already deployed, they hung back, unclipping their Docil-E canisters.
“But the public never learned the worst of it—how the military experimented with Onyx, how their experiments went horribly wrong. The military hasn’t stopped using people. Neither has Zenigenic. They’ve been selling Emovere, Eupho, and Onyx on the streets for months. And Xander Steele … he’s probably not even clean himself.”
“Ha!” Xander’s eyes darted from his mother to the crowd as if he couldn’t decide who to convince first. “She’s crazy. A complete nutso.” He stomped down from the booth. “Spray her!” he directed, covering his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket.
“No!” At his mother’s protest, the soldiers lowered their canisters. “There’s no need for a public spectacle, Xandi. If we react to her nonsensical claims, we only give them merit. It’s not good publicity. Think of Zenigenic!”
Xander took her words like a slap to the face, cowering, then turning away. Valkov sneered, first at Xander’s mother, then at me, his lip curling like a worm over his teeth
. “I don’t take orders from her.” He advanced toward me, calling my bluff. “Shoot me.”
I aimed the barrel right at his chest, but my hand trembled, giving me away. “If she won’t, I will.” Quin climbed out of the driver’s seat and stepped in front of me, his gun pointed at Valkov.
“And if he doesn’t, I definitely will,” Max said.
“That makes three of us.” Elana fell in line next to them.
“Four!” Percy shouted from the crowd. And in an instant, a fervor rolled through them like a wave. “Five!” a man yelled from the car behind Quin.
“Six!”
“Let’er talk!”
“Seven!”
“Sit down, Steele!” Then the chanting, “Not afraid to feel! Not afraid to feel!” The energy—electric—spurred me on.
“The military wants you to believe they disbanded the Guardian Force, but that never really happened. They’ve been recruiting soldiers, the most vulnerable ones, to blow up a bomb here today so we’ll all be afraid, and Zenigenic can keep profiting from our fear.” SFTV cut the mic at the word bomb, and I tossed it to the ground. Like a startled pack of animals, the crowd began to move. A few, including Percy, fled. A few stayed put, holding up their cell phones as silent witnesses. Most just skittered about, waiting for someone in charge to tell them what to do next.
The general joined Xander, his nostrils flaring with outrage. From here, I could read MAZE in bold black letters on his right pocket. I expected him to proclaim innocence and tell me—loud enough for the cameras—just how wrong I was. But he didn’t. Instead he turned to Quin.
“Quin McAllister, you’ve got a lot of nerve pretending to be a hero. I’ve kept quiet till now as a favor to Mr. Steele, but people should know exactly who you are and what you’ve done.” A knot tightening in my stomach, I watched the back of Quin’s head as he stood there, unyielding. The way the ends of his hair waved a little in the wind reminded me of the first time I saw him through the library window. “Quin McAllister is a murderer and a traitor. He took an oath for our country for the Guardian Force. Then he shot and killed people for the Resistance—in cold blood. Hard-working people like Jack Croft. In fact, Victoria Knightley is the only reason we didn’t arrest you, Quin. For treason. She made a deal with Jamison Ryker for your freedom.”