Criminal Destiny (19 page)

If we ever manage to make a real life for ourselves, remind me never to get a job working for the post office. The uniforms are itchy.

But I'm glad I've got that sucker on when I roll up to the front gate of Kefauver.

The sentry peers in at me. I can't help noticing the rifle strapped to his back. “Where's George?”

I keep the hat pulled low over George's mirrored sunglasses, and speak in my deepest voice. “He's got a pinched nerve in his neck,” I say, and almost laugh in spite of how scared I am. There's not much Gus Alabaster in me right now. Or maybe the problem is my butt hurts from sitting on a postal manual of US ZIP codes so I'll look taller. The metal rings of the binding are digging into my skin, but I'm
afraid to shift to a more comfortable position.

They open up the back of the truck to make sure I'm not smuggling anything inside. It's empty, as it's supposed to be. That's the way it works—empty going in, loaded with brand-new mail sacks going out. Or, in the case of today, loaded with mail sacks plus one sleazy embezzler.

As I'm passed through the security gates, I reflect that C. J. Rackoff can't be all bad because, without his DNA, there could never be Hector. I'm still blown away by the fact that we actually got Hector back, that the shrimp is alive and well, and with us. When I think about the days when we believed he was dead, it still casts a dark shadow over me.

Concentrate!
I admonish myself.
There will be plenty of black clouds to go around if you screw this up!

A signalman waves me over, directing me toward a loading bay. I experience a moment of genuine alarm. Frieden and I have been driving for so long that we've started to forget the fact that we're basically faking it, and have very few driving skills at all. I don't really know how to back up a car, much less a huge cargo van. If I bash in a part of their prison, they're going to want to take a closer look at this young employee the post office sent to fill in for George.

So I back it up, because I've got no choice, inching along
at a snail's pace. Meanwhile, I check my mirrors, waiting for the screech of metal that will tell me and the world that I've blown it for everybody.

It doesn't come. I'm in!

I jump out of the van and run to open the rear doors. My eyes pan the workshop—dozens of inmates, all dressed in the same orange jumpsuit Rackoff was wearing yesterday. There are guards, too, with that blank look they have. Like they could just as easily shake your hand or shoot you through the head—it makes no difference to them. And mailbags. George was right. If this is a day's output, how could one country possibly need so many? Seriously, the postmaster general must be eating them! They've got haystacks of them loaded up on wooden skids, and the prisoners are securing them in place with plastic wrap that they're unwinding from giant rolls.

I scan the faces sticking out of the bright orange collars. No Rackoff. Where is the guy? Did something go wrong? Was he caught? Hector and Tori were only taking him as far as the laundry chute. He had to make it the rest of the way here on his own. Let's face it, he has the same DNA as Hector. I love the kid, but I wouldn't trust him to cross a room without tripping over his own feet.

A forklift picks up the first skid and places it inside the
van. My lunch is rising. There are two more to go, and then what? I'm going to have to drive out, whether I have Rackoff or not.

The second skid is wrapped and loaded. Oh no! Feverishly, my mind goes over every detail of our plan. What am I missing? Is there something I should be doing?

The third and final skid is wrapped. The forklift picks it up.

Don't just stand there!
I want to scream at myself.
Can't you see it's all going down the toilet? Do something!
But there's nothing to do. I'm not a magician. I can't conjure Rackoff out of no Rackoff.

Agony. There's no other word for it as I watch the skid arcing past me toward the last space in the van's cargo hold. It's not just a load of jail-made mailbags; it's a ticket for eleven clones to be able to prove who they are, and what's been done to them. And maybe, just maybe, have a future!

I'm staring at this last skid, struggling to keep myself from howling in frustration, and that's when I see it. Buried in the beige of the burlap is—a knee?

There's someone hiding in there!

And my next thought:
Rackoff!

He must have taken off the bright orange jumpsuit to avoid being spotted when he crawled in under the skid of
mailbags. Then he let himself be wrapped up into the shipment, and loaded into my van!

For a moment, I'm overcome with admiration.

As soon as the forklift withdraws, I'm about to slam the rear doors shut when a guard stops me.

“Not so fast.”

Did he see? Does he know?

He turns to the assembled prisoners and barks, “Head count!”

I tremble through that count but, miraculously, they have the correct amount of guys. Rackoff isn't on work detail; he's supposed to be having a picnic with his niece and nephew. So how could he be missing?

Now that I have the okay, I close up the van, jump behind the wheel, and drive off. My biggest effort is not to floor it. They'll get suspicious if I leave the building at a hundred miles an hour.

“Mr. Rackoff?” I call over my shoulder.

“Keep your big mouth shut until we're past that gate,” the skid replies.

Obviously, he's overcome with gratitude.

At the main sentry station, I hold my breath as they open the back doors and scan my cargo. If I caught a glimpse of a knee amid all those mail bags, maybe one of
them can too. When the phone rings in the gatehouse, I almost launch myself through the roof of the van, positive they've discovered that Rackoff is missing. But all they say to me is, “Tell George to ice that neck.” I promise to pass on the message. At this point, I'd promise them anything.

And then we're out. I can't describe the feeling. The craziest, most impossible million-to-one shot in history, and we pulled it off! I don't even know if Gus Alabaster could have done this. Or any of the other master criminals we're cloned from. This is big-time!

Rackoff seems to sense my triumph. “Congratulations, kid. You did good.”

“Thanks!” I know he's a terrible person, but I'm so pumped up that I need to talk about it. Besides him, who can I ever tell and not get arrested? “So what are your plans once you get back out there in the world?”

A chuckle comes from the bundle. “I've got an iron or two in the fire. First things first, I've got to bust out of this shrink-wrap.”

“We'll swing by the motel and pick up the others,” I promise. “They'll get you out.”

I turn into the Tumbleweed Inn, and cross the parking lot, bumping down to the hard-packed dirt as I pull behind Room 18. Their faces are already in the bathroom
window, noses pressed to the glass. One by one, they climb out and cram themselves into the rear, where there's very little room.

“Where's Rackoff?” Hector asks, mystified.

“Down here,” comes the reply. “Get me out of this gift basket. I'm suffocating.”

We have to ditch the post office van as soon as possible. It's only a matter of time before the Kefauver authorities realize that we used it to break out one of their prisoners. Our plan is to go back to where we parked the pool/bean truck and continue on in that one.

As we drive, the others rip away the plastic wrap imprisoning Rackoff. Turns out the guy's wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Trust me, it's not a pleasant sight.

“I can't believe we did it,” Eli says in an awed tone. “I mean, we must have always felt it was possible, or else we never would have tried. But the fact that we pulled it off just blows me away.”

There's a chorus of agreement.

Tori is all business. “We're going to switch to a different truck that can't be so easily identified. We'll use that one for our getaway. Okay?”

“Okay.” In the rearview mirror, I see Rackoff regard her with an inscrutable expression. “But I don't think it's
going to work out like that.”

And then I hear it—we all hear it—a rhythmic thrumming coming from outside. It's more than just sound. There's a vibration to it, one that you feel in the deepest reaches of your body. Just as it registers with me that the sensation is familiar, it happens.

The trees are buffeted by strong winds, and the wheel gets harder to manage in my hands. Up ahead in the road, a giant black military helicopter comes into view, settling down onto the roadbed, blocking our way. I slam on the brakes, and the van fishtails to a screeching, lurching halt. My passengers are bounced around like Ping-Pong balls.

That's not any chopper. That's—

“Purples!”
wheezes Amber in horror.

A trap! The emotions flash through me, one after the other: shock . . . outrage . . . terror . . .

“Get us out of here!”
barks Eli.

I'm way ahead of him. I throw the van into reverse and make a frantic three-point turn that almost sends us down an embankment. I stomp on the gas, and the van leaps forward, heading back in the direction of Kefauver. At this point, anything is better than Purple People Eaters.

Suddenly, there are two identical black SUVs coming at
us, one in each lane. There's no way around them. The road is completely blocked, a ditch on one side, the embankment on the other.

In the side mirror, I can already see men pouring out of the chopper. They're not wearing the purple uniforms; they're dressed in street clothes, but there's no mistaking their military posture and movements. These are the Purples, all right.

We're trapped.

What can I do? I stop.

“How did they find us?” Eli laments.

“Well, I guess you're not the masterminds everyone thinks you are,” Rackoff drawls. “They drew you to me, with Hector's help, of course.”

“Hector?”
My head whips around to look at him.

Hector is red-faced and miserable. “You left me stranded in the woods! What choice did I have but to go back to Serenity and cut a deal? Catching you was the only bargaining chip I had! I'm sorry!”

I'm too stunned to be angry. Sold out—and by my best friend.

Rackoff slaps him hard across the face. “You have nothing to be sorry about! You did what you had to do to
survive, just like I would have! We're the same person, you and me!”

“No!” Hector whimpers.

“It makes no sense!” Tori exclaims. “They've known where we are for a couple of days! Why wait till now to pick us up?”

“Don't you get it yet?” Rackoff asks in amusement. “First they had to use you to get me out of Kefauver. Who do you think has been bankrolling Project Osiris ever since Tamara Dunleavy dropped out? This escape has always been a part of that deal—fourteen years in coming, but well worth the investment.”

They're pouring from the SUVs, too, now. Mostly Purples, but I recognize their ringleader, Felix Frieden, or Hammerstrom, or whatever his name is. And—yikes—it's my dad, Dr. Bruder. My burning desire to take his bow tie and shove it up his nose evaporates with an unexpected pang of regret at the sight of him:
He'd never hurt me. He loves me.

“No!” I shout aloud, trying to shatter the thought.

There's a sharp banging on the rear doors.

“Open up!” barks Felix Frieden.

Eli blanches.

Not Laska, though. The more hopeless our situation
becomes, the more her jaw sticks straight out. She squats and struggles to lift up the heavy wooden skid that held the mail sacks and Rackoff.

“What are you doing?” Rackoff asks suspiciously.

“Maybe you're the one who's not such a mastermind,” I sneer at him, bending my shoulder to give her a hand.

Growing up in Serenity, all Amber and I ever did was argue and insult each other. But these days, she's one of my favorite people. What do you do when you're hopelessly cornered and outnumbered? You fight that much harder—using every weapon at hand. And the fact that you can't win doesn't change anything.

Go, Laska! I should have appreciated you before it was too late.

Eli and Tori join us, and we heave the big skid upright. I reach for the door latch, but before I spring it, I turn to Hector.

“The next time you see me, you'd better be running the other way.”

“I'm sorry, Malik!” he whimpers again.

“Not sorry enough, but you will be.”

I pop the doors, and the four of us crash out of the van, pushing the skid in front of us into the mass of Purples and parents. It's a beautiful thing. We flatten everyone standing
in the front ranks. A forest of grasping arms reaches for us, but somehow we avoid them, protected behind the heavy base like it's a tractor blade. My loving father jabs at me with a syringe filled with some kind of cloudy liquid. But he misses, and the wood strikes his shoulder, bouncing him out of the way. The syringe goes flying.

I've lost track of Tori, and a hand grabs Eli by the back of the collar, yanking him out of my line of vision. It's just Laska and me now, thrusting with all our might behind the skid, bulldozing like our lives depend on it, which they do.

All at once, the wood falls flat to the ground, and we see the slope in front of us, a steep embankment down to a river below. The base is already sliding on the incline.

“Come on!” Amber shouts, leaping onto it.

It's the craziest thing anybody's ever done. And, I realize, the only chance for at least two of us to get away. I hurl myself onto the wooden slats. The impact of my weight moves the skid even faster, taking us over the edge. There's a lot of shouting and running. The Purple we call Mr. Universe dives for the skid, and actually gets a grip on it for a second. But Amber kicks his hand away. And we're out of his reach, sliding down the slope, like we're
on a toboggan ride over snow.