Exposure (3 page)

I hear that.

Kit gathered me with one arm and we hustled from the chamber.

S
helton pulled the portal shut behind us.

My heartbeat finally slowed.

I sank into a chair beside our bunker’s circular worktable.

What a day.

“I still can’t believe he came at you like that!” Hi, for the third time. He dropped into the space-age super-chair attached to our computer workstation. “That was a pure psycho move right there. What a loon.”

Hiram can be described as husky or chubby, depending on your generosity. A funny kid, with twinkling brown eyes and wavy brown hair, Hi has quick wits and a razor-sharp tongue. He’s also a science nut, and loves setting up complex experiments.

Hiram had ditched his school uniform, and was now sporting faded brown cargo shorts and a red
Gremlins
tee. He was obsessed with retro gear—half the time, I’d never even heard of the subjects.

Hi was always happy to explain. At length.

“Sorry I froze in there, Tor.” Shelton frowned as he shirt-wiped his glasses. “Not exactly my ‘One Shining Moment,’ huh?”

I waved off his apology. I knew Shelton hated how skittish he could be.

“Hey,
I
froze, too.” My skin crawled at the memory. “Let’s just hope the jury got a good look. And that Parrish doesn’t find some way to spin it. That man is a snake.”

“True story.” Shelton had changed into Bermuda shorts and a yellow polo. Both hung loosely on his skinny frame. Shelton’s dark chocolate skin mirrors that of his father, Nelson, but he’d inherited the soft facial features of his Japanese mother, Lorelei.

Our computer ace—a cyber-hacker extraordinaire—Shelton’s equally adept with codes and puzzles. An expert lock picker, too. He’s not, however, much of a thrill seeker. Shelton’s list of phobias is a mile long.

Shelton had turned sixteen in November, the second Viral to clear that lofty bar. He’d gotten his driver’s license just after Christmas, and now spent countless hours searching used-car websites, hunting the perfect ride.

I’d celebrated my
fifteenth
birthday six weeks before the trial. We’d kept the festivities low key—just Shelton and Hi, Kit and Whitney, a few gifts, and a three-course meal at Husk. I’d been more than satisfied, though why Hiram thought I’d want an Angry Birds T-shirt was still a mystery.

No Bolton Prep kids had been invited, not even Jason.

He’d understood. The last thing I wanted was to broadcast how young I was. How I’d skipped a grade, and was “so smart.” That hadn’t worked out for me in the past.

Maybe next year.

Ben hadn’t been invited to my birthday, either. That was harder.

But facts were facts: Ben had worked with the Gamemaster.

He’d known who that lunatic was, all along, and said nothing.

I hadn’t seen Ben much since his confession the night of the hurricane. Not that I’d wanted to see him. He’d turned seventeen in December, and I’d been invited to a celebratory dinner—along with Hi and Shelton—but didn’t attend.

How could I?

“You have to admit,” Hi said suddenly, “that wacko is pretty agile. He got, what, halfway to strangling you? Not a bad effort.”

Shelton blew out a breath. “When the Gamemaster started moving, I just couldn’t believe it. His lawyer must be going
crazy
right now.”

“He’ll have nightmares about Kit diving for his knees,” Hi added. “I’m pretty sure that was an illegal tackle. Chop block. Something.”

I was replaying the courtroom madness in my head when something brushed against my kneecaps. I glanced down. Spotted Cooper’s giant head poking from beneath the table.

The wolfdog pawed at my lap, his deep blue eyes locking onto mine. He could usually sense when I was feeling troubled.

Part of our unique bond? Or just a pet’s intuition? Who knew.

“Hello, dog face.” I scratched behind his gray-brown ears.

The four of us were holed up inside our clubhouse, an ancient Civil War bunker at the northern tip of Morris Island, the middle-of-nowhere barrier isle on which our families lived. Hidden deep inside a sand hill overlooking the Atlantic, the remote dugout was practically invisible to the outside world.

I felt safe there. Mainly because no one else knew the bunker existed.

Except Ben, of course.

I pushed the thought away.

Morris Island is essentially off the grid, an empty stretch of hills, fields, and cattail-covered dunes that forms the southern half of the entrance to the Charleston Harbor. The entire four square miles is one parcel, owned by the Loggerhead Trust, which preserves it in a mostly undeveloped state.

Only one modern structure exists on Morris—the small townhouse complex where we all live. A single road connects our neighborhood to the outside world—a one-lane, unmarked strip of blacktop winding south through grassy meadows before crossing to Folly Island.

Our tiny community is one of the most isolated in the Lowcountry. We live in virtual exile from the rest of Charleston. Even most
locals
think Morris is uninhabited.

The Loggerhead Trust also owns the townhouse complex, and leases its ten identical units to employees working at the Loggerhead Island Research Institute, one of the most advanced veterinary research facilities on the planet.

Kit and I have one. Which makes sense, since Kit is not only LIRI’s director, but also the founder and manager of the trust.

The Stolowitski and Devers clans each have a unit—Hi’s dad is the institute’s chief lab technician; Shelton’s dad is IT director, while his mother is a vet tech working in Lab One. Ben’s father, Tom Blue, operates the institute’s shuttle boat,
Hugo,
and lives in the last unit on the right. Ben splits time between there and his mother’s place across the bay in Mount Pleasant.

“Has anyone cycled the batteries lately?” Shelton asked.

“Yeppers.” Hi was booting the iMac. “Did it yesterday. We’re good to go.”

Once a key outpost protecting the city from naval attack, our bunker had been forgotten by the world. At least, until my friends and I discovered it while tracking down a stray Frisbee.

Things had changed quite a bit since that day.

At first the dugout had been little more than a dark, drafty hill cave, empty but for a dangerous mine entrance and a splintery wooden bench. But as a result of our adventure chasing the legendary she-pirate Anne Bonny, we’d acquired some funds and put them to good use.

Cash—and backbreaking effort—had transformed the bunker into something special. Meticulously up-fitted, and jammed with the latest technology, our clubhouse now had enough juice to land a space shuttle.

Indoor-outdoor carpet covered the floor, and a clever retractable window sealed the wall-length cannon slit overlooking the ocean. The interior was decorated with sleek modular furniture—circular drafting table, matching chairs, cabinet, bookshelf, and our totally kick-ass computer workstation.

Hi had demanded and received a mini-fridge. The old wooden bench still ran beneath the window, but had been sanded, polished, and stained. A quartet of cheery floor lamps manned the corners.

Our largest purchase, by far, had been a solar-powered generator. Getting the bulky-yet-delicate gadget delivered—and hauled out, undetected—had been a nightmare. But we’d somehow pulled it off, installing the four-panel array in the scrub grass just above the bunker’s entrance.

“Stupid wireless is on the fritz.” Hi rose and stepped into the bunker’s second chamber. Fumbled for the light. That room was always dark—we’d permanently sealed the cannon slit and boarded over the collapsed mineshaft snaking from its rear.

Bundled cables dangled from metal shelves against the wall, each packed with hardware. Wireless routers. Servers. Blade drives. AV equipment. A dozen other high-tech components. The bottom rack housed a row of industrial-sized rechargeable batteries.

Coop followed Hi, eyes alert to his every move. The room’s far corner doubled as the wolfdog’s private lounge: Kong doggie bed, food and water dispensers, and a half-dozen antlers, bones, and slobber-covered chew toys scattered on the floor.

“Relax, Cujo.” Hi reset a power strip on the upper shelf. “Just tripping the modem. Your kingdom remains undisturbed.”

Coop walked to his bed, circled twice, then curled up and went to sleep.

Hi returned to the main room and plopped back into his chair.

“What was the problem?” I asked.

“Network was out of whack.” He avoided my eye. “Ben might’ve stopped by and tried surfing the net. He always forgets the password. I fixed it.”

Shelton walked to the window and peered down. “The mooring ropes have been moved. He probably came by yesterday.”

I didn’t comment.

Outside our hideout, a narrow path knifed down the hillside to a tiny cove hidden among the rocks. Shielded by a pair of rugged stone outcroppings, both path and cove were hidden from view by sea. Within the bay was an ancient sunken post, perfect for mooring a vessel away from prying eyes.

Ships passed night and day, entering and exiting the harbor, their occupants never imagining that a high-tech nerve center was tucked away inside that hill.

Our secret.

The remodel had taken weeks, cost thousands, and stretched the limits of our abilities at subterfuge. But the results were worth it.

And, thankfully, Hurricane Katelyn had spared our lair.

I’d been a nervous wreck while riding out the storm at my great-aunt Tempe’s house in Charlotte. A full week had passed before we could finally return.

Katelyn had pummeled Charleston with sustained winds of over 130 mph. Our island had gotten shellacked—the storm even knocked out the small bridge to Folly.

With less than thirty residents on Morris, fixing that particular span wasn’t high on the county’s priority list. In the end, Kit elected to have the repairs done privately, with LIRI funds. Anything to get us all home.

We’d weatherproofed the bunker as best we could, dismantling the solar array and hauling it inside—a backbreaking process I hoped never to repeat. But we’d had no clue whether the centuries–old hill cave would survive a Category 4 tempest.

But the gods had been kind—the townhouses were mostly unharmed, and our hideout had survived with nothing more than some mild flooding.

“Is the trial almost over?” Hi’s question brought me back. “This drama-in-real-life is cutting into my TV time.”

I shrugged. “The DA isn’t sure
what
Parrish will do next. I mean, his client just went psycho in front of the jury. Harris is worried the judge might declare a mistrial.”

“Mistrial? So you’d have to do it all over again?” Shelton’s eyes widened as he took the seat across from me. “But the Gamemaster practically confessed! What a nightmare.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

“Ben will
freak
if he has to testify twice,” Hi said. “Parrish was way harder on him than you, Tor. He tried to make it look like
Ben
was responsible for everything.”

I glanced at the window bench. Where Ben always sat.

Had
always sat.

Before he betrayed us.

My eyes jerked away. I didn’t like thinking about it.

Hi and Shelton had forgiven Ben almost immediately, but I couldn’t. To me, his betrayal was still too raw. Ran too deep.

Plus, I wasn’t ready to deal with the other stuff between us.

He’d confessed something else that night. A secret I kept to myself, even now.

Ben had done it all to impress me. He wanted to be more than just friends.

Even five months later, I didn’t know how to feel about that. About
any
of it.

So I did what I do best when it comes to boys—avoid the topic.

Hi must’ve read my thoughts.

“Ben didn’t know what was going to happen,” he said quietly. “Not the bad parts. He wouldn’t have done that to us, Tory. You know that.”

I didn’t respond.

Maybe I agreed, but it didn’t change how I felt.

How can I ever trust him again?

Ben, one of my closest friends. The boy I’d gone to school with every day, and hung out with for hours afterward. A member of my pack. A Viral.

Ben, who was practically family. In some ways, even closer.

No longer.

Ben had been kicked out of Bolton Prep for his role in the Gamemaster scandal. That’s why he mostly stayed with his mother now. Myra’s Mount Pleasant apartment is much closer to Ben’s new school, Wando High.

Ben’s expulsion wasn’t fair. Even I could admit that. But when is life fair?

There was nothing fair about Mom getting killed.

Enough.

Ben was gone, and we couldn’t change it.

Closing my eyes, I tried to banish the topic.

And felt a tingle in the corner of my mind. A slight . . . pull. Barely perceptible, like a mild ocean current. A gentle breeze of Viral awareness, tickling the recesses of my brain even though my powers were switched off.

I’d experienced it a half-dozen times since the hurricane. Most recently in court that morning. The sensation came and went without warning—I could neither summon it, nor capture it once it surfaced.