Overtaken (18 page)

I got so lost in thought that I didn't notice the bus had shot right past the turn it needed to take to start up the mountain. I didn't notice anything was off until the incline increased severely and the road got jarringly bumpy. I didn't remember this from my last trip up here. By now it was too dark to get a good look at where we were. I felt the same fear and loss of control that I'd experienced in planes jetting through rough air. All I wanted to do was get off, but that wasn't an option. I wasn't in a position to yell for the driver to stop. I just had to hang on and wait it out. The jolting road gave way to smoother terrain before long, though this new pavement was just as poorly lit. My neurons fired with new, unspeakable possibilities.

What if the driver knew what I was up to? He couldn't. What if this was a trap? Where was he taking me? It didn't make any sense. He couldn't know. There was no way. But the reality was that we were not on the road to Whiteface. We were headed somewhere else, much higher up the mountain. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of driving into a craggy void, the bus slowed down and came to a stop. I tried to get any view out the window that would give me a sense of where we were. There had to be a house, a barn, something with at least a light on. There wasn't. I was in the middle of goddamn nowhere on a mountain in the middle of a freezing January night. And the driver was standing up, turning around. My blood froze. He cracked his neck to the side and looked like he was going to open his mouth to say something—but I was the only one there to say anything to. I braced to be caught.

“‘Noooo woman, no cry. No woman, no cry . . .',” he crooned to no one in particular. I was so relieved I wanted to hug him. He wasn't a villain taking me deep into the woods to be eliminated; he was just a dude who liked to sing to himself. And his voice wasn't half bad. It still didn't explain where the hell we were, or why we were there. He didn't park on a desolate mountain pass to work on his Bob Marley. Then a radio chattered from the dash:

“One-eight, one-eight. Come in, one-eight.”

The driver picked up a handset by the wheel and held it to his face. “Ah, this is one-eight. Go for one-eight.”

“Cochran's predicting an eight-thirty release from the lodge. Copy?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head but adjusted his attitude before he rolled off a reply.

“Well, I ain't goin' nowhere else, so let 'em take their time.”

The lodge? But we weren't anywhere near the—

Then it hit me. I could see it clearly in my mind's eye: the building I'd spotted from the lift. The one that Chase told me had been shut down. Bar Tech was still using it—or at least Dana was. Suddenly “Ski Club isn't just about skiing,” was taking on a whole new meaning. I had to get off this bus. There were two options: yank the door handle and run out the front, or open the emergency door and escape from the back. Neither option was all that smooth, and both were likely to convince the driver that the bus was haunted by a furious poltergeist, but I had no choice.

I chose the one that seemed most cathartic and kicked open the emergency door. The alarm wailed, and the driver let out a gasp so sharp I feared for the health of his heart. There was no turning back now. I leaped into the darkness and circled the bus, looking for a way to the “lodge.” There had to be something, even if it was perilous and dark. The vehicle's halogen headlamps illuminated a gravel path about ten feet from where we were parked that extended into the woods. It dropped off into black after just a few feet, but it was wide and straight enough that I could make out the edges with a little bit of squinting and some help from the moon. I was on my way.

Fifteen minutes later and I was still walking, shivering in my guts, with no building in sight. Had I been hasty? No, this path had to take me to wherever that voice had broadcast from. It was the only thing that—

CRUNCH!
I stepped off the path and into six inches of snow. I yanked my foot back, but ice-cold jets of pain were shooting up my leg already.

“Shit!”

The path couldn't just dead-end in the woods. As I hopped on my less-freezing cold leg and tried to swat the remaining chunks of ice and snow that clung to the other, I saw light. I looked up. The path hadn't dead-ended; it just veered sharply to the right—and straight to the back of the concrete bunker. The “lodge.” The very same one I'd expected to see. My body tingled from excitement now instead of just the cold. Every step closer was like ripping a layer off a mystery package, and I was desperate to know what was inside. Only one thing stopped me from charging right to the door:

Guards. Of course. Oh, but I was patient. I was a monk. I was ready to stand out in the cold on one leg until sunrise if it would reveal to me what was going on in this lodge, what was going on with Dana, and what was going on with Bar Tech's master plan. What might've been a few minutes felt like a second while the guard had a smoke. When he put it out under his boot, I knew I was going to have just the smallest of windows to follow him into the facility and only if he opened the door nice and wide.

He did.

I kept quiet and matched his pace as he clomped inside on heavy, black treads. Knocking them against the wall to get the snow from deep in the nooks and crannies only helped disguise the sound of my wet feet squeaking gently against the linoleum floor. I ditched the shadow game and held tight to a corner, taking in my surroundings. This place was nice. High ceilings, cool, relaxing blues and purples on the walls. It didn't even look like a lab, but more like a mix between a doctor's office and a spa. As my heart stopped pounding, I heard soft, coffeehouse music drifting quietly from speakers above my head. I blinked to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. I don't know what I was expecting, but this was downright surreal. I held close to the wall, trying to map the place in my mind as I moved deeper inside. I could hear what sounded like muffled shouting in the distance and followed it. Guards passed by, oblivious to my presence as I came to rest outside the doors of what looked like a high school gym. The sounds of a pitched battle—grunts, groans, shouts—echoed from within. What the hell was going on in there? Gladiatorial combat? I patiently waited for the doors to open so I could slip inside. It wasn't long before two female medical technicians in white answered my prayers, throwing the door open the entire way and hurrying out.

“The scope and reach of our patents allows biological products . . . ,” the younger woman with a pixie haircut said as she whisked by me with trays of blood samples.

“As long as the genes are isolated from their naturally occurring states,” the older and obviously more senior of the two women added, carrying a stack of medical tests and readouts.

Without a second thought, I slipped inside, and the door clanged shut behind me. I was so eager to get into the restricted area that I wasn't really paying attention to what they were discussing.

Nothing could've prepared me for what I saw.

There were two teenagers with individual powers being put through a battery of tests. Although I didn't know their names, I recognized them by sight as kids from school. The petite girl with a perky ponytail was wired with electrodes. She was bending and melting steel rods of varying thickness with her bare hands. The tall guy with the blue-dyed emo haircut, also wired, was freezing objects with the slightest touch. A platoon of a dozen intense scientists and medical personnel with clipboards and iPads observed and noted every detail. They had drawn vials of blood, which were being analyzed and processed in centrifuges along with high-tech PET scans and EKG and EEG readouts.

Chief among the scientists was my biology teacher—Mr. Bluni.

I reeled. I'd never imagined anything like this in my worst nightmares. I was aiding and abetting Mr. Bluni with his genetic research paper. Which wasn't just any research paper or project. It was for Bar Tech.

Suddenly that brief conversation I'd overheard on my way in took on a whole other meaning. Those women were talking about biological patents. My brain scanned through the many genetic studies and articles I'd read for Bluni. I recalled reading about how adrenaline and insulin and other various genes had been patented. Bluni had been interested in how genetic traits were inherited and passed along from generation to generation. Then I thought about all those blood samples they'd had my father draw from the kids at school. Maybe Bar Tech didn't want to sell those of us with powers as weapons. Maybe they wanted to isolate the specific genes that gave us our ability and patent them. If Bar Tech could extract these genes, they could do that. They would own us. Our unique biology. And then they could transfer those genes to others. In a matter of time, Bar Tech would be able to grow its own army—or sell the technology for billions of dollars.

As I struggled to keep my breathing steady and my invisibility up, one nagging thought pounded to the core of my very being:

Could I have just found Blackthorne?

I wasn't the only one watching. High above the fray, I could just make out Richard Cochran surveying the horde from his position in a pristine glass office. This, of course, wasn't surprising in the least, but the person right at his side hit me like an old-school fist to the kidneys. It was Oliver. It was so painful to see my best friend becoming complicit in the work of the very person looking to control us—or worse. I couldn't know now how much of his determination to join Cochran was his own or created by Dana's influence, but either way the paternal draw was undeniably strong.

At the same time, my own father's departure had left me with a still-gaping heart. What was Dana hoping that would accomplish—force me to join their group? I was beginning to doubt my own ability to not follow directly in Oliver's path. Not ready to submit to defeat quite yet, I decided if I could find my way to Cochran's war room, maybe I could piece together another part of the puzzle.

The facility was a labyrinth unkind to those who did not know its geography inside and out. I found myself moving farther and farther from my destination, but as my mother always said, sometimes the scenic route pays off. In this case, she was right, but in a bitterly unexpected kind of way.

I had noticed that Jackson wasn't a part of the display in the large training hangar, but I hadn't stopped to consider why. Now, with him right in front of me, I knew. The secluded hallway I'd found myself in featured a large Plexiglas window that peered into a slightly smaller training space. Jackson was alone. It reminded me of the movie moment when a formidable villain would show off his or her prowess, letting the hero know the only possible outcome was a crushing defeat. However, in this scenario, Jackson had no idea he even had an audience to show off to.

I watched as he powered through a series of exercises and was floored by how much his powers had advanced since the last time I'd seen them on display. There was a gigantic board rigged with hundreds of small lights that he was able to control by calling up different patterns, like lighting up every other bulb or creating patterns—an assortment of shapes and stripes. Then I watched as Jackson powered up an electric grid—the same kind that was usually surrounded by chain-link fence and
HIGH VOLTAGE—STAY OUT
—and calmly placed his hands directly on top of it. Jackson closed his eyes; he was as calm and collected as I was terrified and panicking. As the grid grew to a whir, Jackson's skin began to tint an icy blue like what I had witnessed the night of Dana's homecoming party. But instead of losing consciousness or control, Jackson continued to absorb the raw power—and then wielded it as his own.

Hands off the grid, Jackson was able to create an electric field that encircled his body. It was a perfect sphere, like Glinda the Good Witch's bubble, but with a lot more X Games and blue-raspberry Gatorade thrown in. Using his supercharged body as a battery, the sphere grew larger and more tempestuous, twisters of electricity swirling on the surface like a Jupiter storm. He pushed the field toward a variety of test objects—wood, paper, plastic—most of which burned in immediate combustion upon contact with the shimmering blue.

Jackson's eyes were so dark with focus and raw power that a stormy gray had completely polluted their clear waters. Logically, I knew it was Jackson, but I didn't recognize him. I knew then I had to drag myself away. Watching this pod version of one of my closest friends was too disturbing for me to continue. With only adrenaline and an overwhelming rush of emotions to propel me, I finally found a stairwell that led up to the second floor.

The upstairs of the building was more of an observation deck than a second floor. There were windows in all directions, a 360 view of the entire floor below. Just rotating around on my heels, I could see the group training together. Jackson and others who were practicing more unpredictable powers were in more private areas. I was lucky to find that Cochran and Oliver were still here, now with a third man joining the conversation. It was my mild-mannered biology teacher, Mr. Bluni.

The men were midconversation, but I did my best to play catch-up. He might be on Bar Tech's payroll, but Bluni commanded authority. At the moment he was updating Cochran on the progress of his genetic research. He was confident that once they isolated the specific gene the patent could be expedited by Bar Tech's contacts in Washington.

Cochran didn't seem impressed. “We're still missing the runaway, right? Maya Bartoli?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Security is confident they'll be able to bring her in. She'd been staying with family in Illinois, and then disappeared. There are only so many places she can hide,” replied Bluni. “We'll find her.” That didn't seem to warm Cochran over.

Cochran turned to Oliver. “Why don't you head downstairs and join the others? Mr. Bluni and I have a few more technical details to cover.”

Oliver looked disappointed to be excluded from the grown-ups table, but he quickly agreed and did as he was told. It was weird watching him walk by, completely oblivious to my presence. I heard his voice echo back in my mind, asking how I could spy on my own friends. I didn't have a good answer, but it was becoming easier and easier.

With Oliver gone, Cochran and Bluni got back to business. Cochran heaved a big sigh of skepticism. “My biggest concern here remains instability. Yes, their powers have been developing at an impressive rate. And with proper training those abilities are able to be honed, but—”

“Not just honed. Improved. Expanded,” Bluni said, jumping in, but this just irritated Cochran further. He wasn't buying what the biology teacher was selling.

“It doesn't change the fact that they're adolescents. I know scientific interest is high in our research—”

Bluni jumped in again. “High would be a massive understatement. The minute we successfully implant genes in embryos, we'll have a five-year waiting list at 200 percent of our initially proposed rates.”

“That's a long way off to see results,” Cochran groused, none too pleased.

“Scientific progress demands patience,” said Mr. Bluni.

“Then it's a good thing I'm still in a position to decide how my own money is going to be spent. Bar Tech needs to start monetizing its significant investment now.”

It was a command, not a request. I scurried out of the way as Cochran's fervor whisked him out of the room and then followed him out.

•  •  •

I stood around shivering in the snow for nearly an hour, waiting for someone—anyone—to drive back down the mountain so I could get the hell out of there. As my luck would have it, Cochran was the first to leave. An eager young Bar Tech Security officer, hoping to make a good impression on his boss, brought Cochran's Range Rover around. He cranked the heat up at full blast, making it nice and toasty inside for Cochran's drive back to Barrington. While Cochran was busy conferring with one of the other scientists, I darted along the opposite side of the car and slipped in undetected. I hunkered down on the floor of the backseat, praying that Cochran wouldn't hear me breathing. Fortunately, he listened to the Denver classical radio station. They were playing Beethoven's
Eroica Symphony
, drowning out any and all other random sounds, inside and outside the vehicle.

During the ride, I considered taking Cochran hostage and demanding to know what he'd done to my father. But as I had no weapon to threaten him with, it seemed unlikely that abducting him would work. I knew I had to enlist Maya if I had any hope of combating Cochran and Bar Tech and getting my father back safely.

Cochran made it home quickly and without any violence on my part. I waited until he was well inside his house and all the lights were out before I slipped out of the car and scaled over his property wall to freedom.

By the time I hoofed it home, I was ready for a long, hot bath. But I was so exhausted and spent that I couldn't do much more than shed my clothes and crawl into bed.

•  •  •

The next morning, Maya and I watched the video clips I'd taken at Whiteface on my laptop. It might've looked like cheap, found movie footage, but it was just as disturbing playing on a small screen as it had been in person. Maya dug her fingers into her hair when Cochran mentioned her name, and I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a few items on the table twitch. She brought her finger down on the computer's space bar, freezing the video.

“I can't take another minute of it,” she confessed.

I silently agreed. It was terrifying and nauseating, and I was sitting with one of the only people in the world who would understand exactly what I was going through. I hoped it was horrible enough to make her stay, not horrible enough to convince her that she was crazy to ever have come back to Barrington. I guess those two weren't mutually exclusive.

“I wish I'd come back sooner,” Maya declared. “What are we going to do?”

Before I knew what was happening, I was crushing both of our rib cages with a hug of monstrous proportions. Maya let out a cough, a mix of surprise and from the sheer force of the blow. I released her from the hug, suddenly a little sheepish. Maya didn't miss a beat.

A look of intensity came over her face. “We need a plan,” she announced.

I nodded in agreement, but all I had been trying to do was build a plan. It would've been much easier if every step I'd taken was a failure or a trick or swept out from beneath my feet. Not to mention, I didn't trust anyone. What would my mystery texter say about Maya?

“It's just hard to wrap my brain around,” she admitted.

“We have a new enemy now,” I quickly reminded her. “Dana.”

Maya shook her head. “I think it just feels that way. She might have a more personal grudge against you, but Dana's just another cog in the system. We need to think outside of that.”

I felt like I was watching Maya become an adult in real time, and I wondered if she saw the same thing in me. She got up off the kitchen stool and started to pace. After a few darts back and forth, something seemed to shake lose.

“You've been trying to piece it together, figure out what's going on . . . ,” she continued, “but now we know.”

“At least we know some of the details,” I countered.

“That means it's time for a shake-up in our strategy,” Maya replied. “We need to go on the offensive.”

She said it with a force that made me immediately want to rally behind her, but what did it mean? There were only two of us. Even if we had enthusiasm and positive thinking on our side, they weren't an army of superpowered teenagers. I pushed her to continue. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm not sure,” she muttered. The pacing continued to turn the wheels in Maya's head.

“We need to get outside the Barrington bubble,” I said. “Break the story. Even if it's just a part of it.”

I saw the flash of the lightbulb in her eyes. “We'll be whistleblowers.”

My mind roared ahead, catching up to Maya's as we both landed on the same idea.

“My mom.” I voiced it aloud. “She's a journalist. She can help us tell the outside world what's really going on in Barrington. And she'll be an effective bargaining chip to help get my dad back.”

Maya smiled.

I knew my dad would be opposed, as well as maybe even the entire government, but it wasn't like I could call up the Department of Defense or the NSA and ask them for an alternate plan. Who would I call anyway? My dad never told me who else he might be working with in Barrington—if anyone. My dad would also probably be in huge trouble for revealing his true purpose to his sixteen-year-old daughter, but one problem at a time. Why, yes, Ms. Receptionist, my dad is an undercover agent for the DoD who recently had his memory wiped by a teenager who can control minds. I was hoping I could speak to his superiors, to find a way of handling this without exposing their top-secret mission. There was no way I'd make it past the front desk.

Maya was already handing me her burner cell. “Call her.”

I pulled her number (they were extra long to call the South Pole) off the fridge and started to dial.

“Even if she leaves today, it'll be a couple days before she can actually get here,” I said.

There was a delay until the line started to ring. One ring, two . . . I crossed my fingers that I wouldn't be on the receiving end of the same automated message from my last attempt, but as soon as the recording clicked on, I knew exactly what it was going to say.

“Shit.” I shook my head, discouraged, and angrily hung up the phone. Of course Lydia had to be at the farthest outpost on Earth when I actually truly needed her. It was unfair to blame my mother, but I knew this was one I really couldn't pin on Dana Fox.

Maya heaved a weighty sigh. “We'll keep trying.”

“I'll e-mail her, too. It could be a while, though.”

“In the meantime, we need a backup plan.” Maya was working another nugget of an idea.