Burn (4 page)

I do. And my heart just about stops. There are people in the New York apartment. In the middle row of screens, the ones that show the place where I've lived for my entire life, black-suited men are milling about in the living room. Core agents. In my home.

I lunge for the display, seeking a volume switch, anything to activate some sound so I can hear what they're saying, but there's nothing. So I squint at the screens, trying to read lips. I don't recognize any of the men. Race isn't there. But one of them, a guy with a hook nose and hair the color of a storm cloud, seems to be in charge. He partially covers his mouth as he points around the apartment, directing the men where to search. It's like he knows there are cameras on him, and knows exactly where they are.

I watch helplessly as they ransack my living room. Something dark streaks across the floor at the agents' feet, and with a pang, I realize it's Johnny Knoxville, my cat.

“What are they looking for?” Christina asks.

I have a sinking feeling I know. Somewhere, probably in his lab, my dad is storing wreckage of an H2 spaceship, the alien technology he used to make the scanner. Race told me he wanted to get to my dad's stuff, and now they're trying to take it by force. I'm willing to bet that they tried something yesterday—whether it was attempting to hack his system remotely or trying to enter one of his other safe houses or labs—that triggered that text message that was sent to his phone. “They're trying to get their flying saucer back.”

Leo bolts up from his stool. “Are you serious? An actual spaceship—in your dad's lab?”

“If they try to get in my dad's lab,” I continue as I search for a remote in my dad's desk drawer, “they'll be in for some nasty surprises. He has lethal security measures in place.” I've seen the plans in his files. He probably had the same setup outside the lab in this safe house. Hydrogen cyanide, which boils at just over room temperature. If the keypad registers three fails within ten minutes, wall panels open to reveal vents, within which are blowers motion-activated by movement in the hallway. As the door to the first floor closes and locks, heating elements beneath the eight cyanide canisters hidden in the walls melt the cap-seals and turn liquid to gas. No one in the basement would survive. I hope they give it a try.

I turn around to expand my search for the volume control. I need to hear what those agents are saying. Leo's drifted over to the monitors. He still looks like he hopes I'll tell him the only thing about my dad he doesn't seem to know. Christina frowns as she watches the Core agents in my living room. And then her expression fills with horror, and she starts to scream. I whirl back toward the screens to see what's making her freak out, and my blood turns to ice. The hook-nosed agent is standing right in front of the surveillance camera hidden in the heating vent above the trophy case. And he has a pretty blond woman by the throat, a gun to her head.

It's Christina's mom. The agent inclines his head at the camera, and Mrs. Scolina stares up at us with a terrified, pleading expression. The agent smiles. And then he speaks, the movements of his mouth exaggerated. I can almost hear his voice in my head as he says, “It's time to come home, Tate. We'll be waiting at your girlfriend's place. You have until eight p.m.”

I MANAGE TO CATCH CHRISTINA IN MY ARMS WITHOUT
taking my eyes from the screen. As she cries, the screen goes dark. Then it begins to play again, on a loop, the whole thing unraveling before our eyes, letting us relive the horror.

Leo's voice cracks as he curses. “That's her mom, isn't it? It's her mom.”

I lock eyes with him as I hold Christina against my chest. And I nod. This is my fault. All my fault. I bow my head and whisper into her hair. “They won't hurt her. I'll give myself up. We'll figure this out.”

Christina only sobs harder. My fingers burrow in her hair, and I wish I could draw the fear and the sorrow out of her head and carry it for her. My own eyes are stinging as she shudders against me. “They said we have until eight, which gives us thirteen hours. It takes about twelve to drive to New York. We have to get out of here.” I glance at Leo, who's staring down at the Steno notebook where my dad wrote “Race: ‘Sicarii'” and “Find it in 20204.” I snatch the notebook out of his reach and flip it shut. “Can you make it back to Chicago by yourself?”

“I'm going with you.”

“I can't take care of you, too.”

Leo stands up straight, his eyes at the level of my chin, all skinny and defiant. He reminds me of me in a way, not yet realizing how small he is, and maybe stronger than he looks. “I can help you guys. You're not the only one with skills.”

“Ballistics?” I ask.

He nods. “And self-defense. Chemistry, too. Strategy.”

“And tactics,” we say together. Because my dad taught him. All those trips to Chicago, and some of that time away from home was spent on this kid. I shouldn't feel jealous. But I do.

Maybe he senses it. “Uncle Angus and Uncle George taught me a lot, too,” he offers.

“The moment you get in my way, I'm putting you on a bus back to Chicago. Do you understand me?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and bobs his head. His jaw is tense—he's clenching his teeth. Determined to prove himself. Fine. I'll let him. “We need cash. Where do you think my dad would have kept it?”

He smiles. “Maybe in the underground garage out behind this shack?”

My mouth drops open. “What?”

“You didn't notice it when you came in?”

I muscle down the urge to flip him off. “Let's go see what he left me, then.”

• • •

He left me a lot. As I explore the underground garage, Leo sits with Christina on the grass at the top of the ramp. Through the open doors, I hear snatches of their conversation, enough to know that the kid is actually trying to distract her, telling her some story about a time he made a red cabbage pH indicator for a chemistry experiment and ended up accidentally dyeing both his hands red. When I hear her let out a raspy chuckle, I'm amazed. And, okay, a bit grateful. It makes it easier to focus, knowing she's all right for the moment.

Until I hear shots fired, which sends my blood pressure so high that my vision spots. My heart in my throat, I scramble up the ramp and realize Leo's moved on to teaching Christina how to handle a gun. She looks angry and determined as she squeezes the trigger. He's not only made her laugh, he's given her something to focus on, something that makes her feel a little less helpless. Now I'm both annoyed and grateful. I can't get a bead on my feelings about this kid, and I don't have time to worry about it—we've got bigger problems.

“Hey,” I say between shots, “people will hear that for miles. Pretty sure it's not deer season.” Most major hunting seasons are in the fall and winter, and it's freaking May. This property is in the middle of nowhere, but gunshots carry.

Leo shrugs. “In Kentucky, you can hunt wild pigs, groundhogs, and several species of bird year-round.” He holds up his phone. “I looked it up before we fired a shot.”

Christina hands Leo the weapon. “It's okay,” she says quietly, then looks at me. “Can we go soon?”

“Almost ready.” I can tell by the tension in her posture that every minute of waiting is agony. I jog back down the ramp. This space is neat, three vehicles parked at the base of the ramp, boxes of tools, stacks of building supplies, almost enough to build another shack. I've already chosen our vehicle, so I make my way to a worktable in the corner and go through the drawers. My heart skips when I see my father's face peering up at me from a Kentucky driver's license for someone named Ray Spruance. I pick it up, staring at his steely gray eyes while my own burn.

He'd planned to be here with us.

I force myself to set the license aside and flip through the other fake IDs in the top drawer. There are a few more for him, several for my mom under the name of Margaret Dean . . . and several for me, all under the name of Edward Spruance—Admiral Spruance's only son. I put our pictures side by side. Me and my dad. We have the same eyes and same dark brown hair, except his was always combed and mine is always a mess. Our cheekbones are high, our chins rounded, but maybe we're saved from looking soft by our square jaw. The similarities make my throat tighten. He should have been here with me, helping me figure this out. If it hadn't been for the Core, he would be. Well, that's not quite true. I'm the one who brought the scanner to school. I'm the one who started this whole thing—and now Christina could lose her parents because of it.

I shove my fake driver's license into my pocket, grab a wallet full of cash I find in one of the drawers, and snag the keys for our ride. “Let's go, guys!” I shout up the ramp.

Less than ten minutes later, we're pulling out of the garage bunker in a nondescript forest-green sedan that has some major horsepower under the hood. Christina's in the passenger seat, and now that she's not all purposeful movement, the horror of what's happened seems to have caught up with her again. Her eyes are closed, and she's leaning against the window. “Does your head hurt?” I ask her, and she barely nods. It was a stupid question anyway. Of course it hurts. I put my hand on her thigh and am relieved when she doesn't brush me off. “I'm so sorry. About everything.”

She squeezes my fingers. Her skin is cold. “I can't talk about it now. Can we just . . . let it be?”

I guess funny stories about cabbage dye worked better for her. I swallow hard and nod. I'd talk about stupid stuff if I could, but I don't have it in me right now. This is a no-win situation if I've ever seen one. If I don't give myself up, I have no doubt the Core will take it out on Christina's parents—and her little sister. God, I want to kill every member of the Core with my bare hands. If I do give myself up, I have no idea what they'll do to me. And I hate to admit it, but it scares me. They want to get into my dad's lab, and they're willing to do awful things to get what they want. Can I withstand torture? I'll try, but I've studied enough to know that every man has a breaking point. I'm not arrogant enough to think I'm different.

“You're not just going to walk in there, are you?” Leo asks.

“Shut up,” I say, sighing. I'm so fucking tired. “Here's what's going to happen. I'm going in, and when they let her parents out, you and Christina will go to The Fifty and—”

“That's stupid. You could fight. You could figure something out.”

“Leo, there's a bus ticket to Chicago with your name on it.” I hand Christina the phone. “What's the next major town on the route? We'll drop him off.”

“Tate,” she says wearily, “calm down. He wants to help.”

“He's doing the opposite,” I snap.

“You're nothing like your dad described,” Leo blurts out. “He made you sound like some kind of prodigy with balls of steel. I freaking idolized you for years, and you turn out to be a total coward!”

“She has a little sister!” I shout, slamming on the brakes. Christina's hand shoots out, and she braces herself against the dash as I pull to the side of the road, fields on either side of us. “Her name's Livia! Am I a coward for wanting her to get out of this alive?”

“You can get her out and not let them take you!” Leo's face is red, and his green eyes are bright with fury. “You can't just lie down and let the Core get what they want! It's not about you, either. It's about your dad's invention. I heard him telling George how crucial the device was, and how that was only one part of his plan. That's the thing the lunch lady was talking about, wasn't she?”

“Yeah, but the Core already have it, Leo.”

“And now they want you to help them get to the rest—a freaking spaceship that they could use to do God-knows-what—and you're willing to let them do that?” His reedy voice fills the car.

I'm about to reach back there and toss him into a ditch when Christina whispers, “He's right.”

It freezes me in place. “What?”

She looks over at me. “If anyone can get my family out alive, it would be you. I trust you. And I don't want to lose you.” A tear slides down her face.

I slump in the seat. Can I do this? And what happens if I can't? “Christina, it's your mom and dad. It's Livia.”

“I know. And I believe you can make a plan to get them out safely.”

I take the phone from her and text my mom again.
Have to go back to NY. Please call when you can.

After a few moments spent staring at the screen, waiting for a reply that doesn't come, I put the phone away and pull back onto the road. “I want complete silence for the next hour, please,” I say when Leo starts to ask questions. “Not a single fucking word.”

He respects that request, and I let the gears in my brain turn, running through scenarios, remembering everything I can about Christina's place, a fourth-floor condo across from Morningside Park. Fire escape along the back of the building, connecting to her bedroom. Narrow courtyard between units, parking lot at the back. Quiet neighborhood, and—

“Will,” I say. He lives only six blocks away from her. The memories of our exploits are enough to inspire me. “I think we might have a chance.”

• • •

Christina falls into a restless doze just before we reach the border of West Virginia. I glance into the rearview mirror to see Leo's eyes on me. “What?”

He shrugs. “You look like him.”

“Considering that he contributed fifty percent of my DNA—”

“Just an observation. You asked.”

I did. “Sorry.” I check the mirrors for the millionth time to make sure we aren't being followed. “Not at my best today.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

I laugh. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I know how. And Christina obviously needs to rest.”

“It's okay. I can think and drive simultaneously.” I lean back against the headrest. “I just wish I had more time to do it.”

“A good plan, violently executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week.”

“You're quoting Patton now?” He sounds like my dad.

“If it fits,” he says defensively. We pass a Greyhound as it slows to exit the highway, and Leo sighs. “Uncle Angus is going to be mad when he gets back to Chicago and realizes I'm gone.”

“When will that happen?”

“I don't know. He's always busy. I'm on my own a lot. The Fifty headquarters is a big estate on the north shore, with lots of people going in and out.”

“But you're a kid. Nobody looks after you?”

“I'm fourteen. It's not like I have a sitter.” He shifts in his seat. “Not anymore, anyway,” he mumbles.

“Don't you go to school?”

“No. I think they were afraid I'd spill their secrets. After my parents died, they brought me to the estate, and I've had tutors ever since.”

“How often did you see my dad?” I clear my throat after hearing the jealous edge in my voice.

“Once a month. When he came for board meetings, he'd stay at a hotel nearby, and he'd spend time with me, reviewing my schoolwork, giving me extra assignments. He took me to the Museum of Science and Industry a few times.” He's quiet for a moment. “I think he felt sorry for me.”

Maybe. But my dad wasn't the most sympathetic of guys. “I'm sure he enjoyed your company.”

“I think he was just lonely. He talked about you and your mom sometimes.”

I wish he'd talked
to
us. “In that case, I'm surprised you wanted to meet me. I was a constant disappointment to him.”

The silence rolls in waves from the backseat, and after a while, I wonder if he's falling asleep. But then I hear him say, very quietly, “You didn't know him very well at all.”

I stare at the road in front of me. I could argue with him, but that would be pointless.

Especially because I'm afraid he's right.

• • •

I don't call Will. I know his schedule anyway. Eleven and a half hours after we leave Kentucky, after two quick stops for gas—one in which I raided the nearby convenience store—and one lightning round at a hardware store in West Virginia, we're pulling up to the curb a block away from his building. And sure enough, about five minutes later, he hops off the bus at the corner, lugging his duffel. His head is bowed, showing off his Mohawk, which is already starting to grow out. His shoulders are slumped. I cram a baseball cap over my hair and get out of the car. “Hey, loser,” I say.

His head jerks up at the sound of my voice. “Tate? Oh my God, dude.”

“Let me start by saying that my dad's not a terrorist.”

“Wasn't even tempted to believe it. I'm sorry about what happened to him, man.” He gives me a quick hug, whacking his hand against my back. “Really sorry.”

“Thanks,” I mumble as we step away from each other.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Long story.”

“You have no idea how weird it's been here. These FBI guys crawling all over the school, confiscating and erasing anything on our phones, warning us not to talk about what happened because it's a national security threat, and then that crazy lunch lady goes and tells everyone that I lasered her—”