Renegade (13 page)

I rehoisted the bag over my shoulder and, after offloading the GPS onto a bus bound for Hunter’s home state of California, continued on my path toward the ticket counter. Each step accentuated the empty ache inside me, but I kept on walking. I had to.

There was nothing else left for me now.

T
he sky was darkening when the bus finally pulled up to the Chicago terminal. It was hard to believe that just this morning, I’d left Hunter behind. My fellow thirty-eight passengers and I had been on the road for seven hours—without air conditioning for the last two. All of us were thrilled to be getting off, but I doubt anyone was more relieved than me. With each stop along the bus route, there had been more chances for me to be recognized. More opportunities for someone to stop this quest of mine in its tracks. Thankfully, though, I was finally nearing the end of my journey. One more transfer, and I’d be in the right town.

When the bus parked, people jumped up into the walkway of the coach. I waited while they stood, their voices rising in conversation, stretching and shifting from foot to foot. As they shuffled forward in a single-file line of tired humanity, my thoughts drifted back to Hunter. In fact, I couldn’t stop picturing his rage-filled eyes since the minute he’d left me. There had been moments on this trip where I literally couldn’t take my gaze away from the window, afraid that someone might catch a glimpse, see me crying and want to talk to me. Even now I kept my head averted, waiting until the last person in line had passed my row before rising.

From here on out, making any kind of personal connections was absolutely forbidden. I couldn’t afford to take the risk.

Once off the bus, I pushed Hunter out of my mind and collected my bag, then headed toward the schedules to see when my final bus would depart. But as I edged through the crowd at the terminal, I caught a man staring. He’d been scrolling through something on a tablet, and he looked up at my approach. His attention locked on me for a hair too long, before he dropped his head to check out the tablet. When he lifted his chin, it was obvious that his focus zeroed in on my face.

I hunched my shoulders and whirled, walking in the other direction with carefully measured steps while my breath came in short spurts. Once I blended in with the mass of people, he’d forget about me. But not too fast. I didn’t want him to think I was running.

When I was about twenty feet away, I paused and sank into an empty chair. He’d seen something, but what? That same article from before, or something new? There was only one sure way to find out.

The information was sluggish in arriving this time, stopping and starting on its journey into my head. As usual, there were tingling strands of code, everywhere. But when I attempted to sift through with my usual precision, the data wouldn’t budge. I pushed, harder, but nothing happened. What the hell?

I realized then that the Wi-Fi here must be nonexistent or spotty. Maybe there wasn’t any in the terminal, and I was trying to glom on to a connection via an independent device. I still needed to try.

This time, the information kept flowing.

I searched for Nicole Laurent, and my heart stuttered at the magnitude of hits.

Dead D.C. woman identified as Nicole Laurent, former military scientist . . .

It was like being hit in the chest with a hammer. Not only was Mom identified in the report, the story was also headlining news.

Accompanying all the articles was a photo of Mom, from before I’d known her. Smiling into the camera, her pale blond hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, blue eyes catching the light behind a pair of square-framed glasses. She looked happy. Hopeful.

Things I’d never seen in her during our short time together.

I slumped into the chair, but the horror wasn’t over, not yet. Because next up was a photo of me—a new one, this time. One featuring the jagged black hair I had back at the compound.

Girl wanted for questioning in murder . . .

Even though I’d known this moment was inevitable, I still felt the impact like a kick to the gut. My fist flew to my mouth. Holland had finally pulled out all the stops. The bastard; he knew exactly how to rub salt in an already festering wound. I bet my reaction would thrill him.

No matter. I’d never let him win.

Just then, a warning flashed in my head.

My legs tensed, the red alert filling me with undeniable purpose. I craned my head to look over my shoulder. The man with the tablet was standing and heading my way.

“Hey!” he shouted, pointing at me. Curious heads followed.

My hands clenched into fists. I could. It would be so easy—one quick punch, or one choke hold later, and he’d be out. But too many people. Too public. And my face was out there.

And on the heels of that:

I pivoted, just in time to see a blue uniform bearing down on me. I scrunched my shoulders and dropped my head, trying to look less noticeable. Unfortunately, the man with the tablet spotted the policeman, too.

“Hey, over here!” he yelled, waving. “That girl, she’s—”

“Officer!” I screamed, trying to drown him out. “Please. That man tried to steal my bag!”

It wasn’t going to help much—just a split second of extra time. But that was all I needed. As the policeman glanced away from me to frown his confusion at the man with the tablet, I slipped to the side. Then, I turned and fled.

“Hey—”

Fear pumped through my legs as I shoved past a couple, knocking the man’s laptop bag from his shoulder. I didn’t know what was happening behind me, but I could guess. The cops were reaching the man. He was showing them the picture, explaining that I was wanted. And then—

“Stop! Police!” The shout rang out from behind, loud in the crisp night air. Ahead of me, the crowd parted like magic, eyes widening in shock, two mothers swinging their toddlers into their arms and clenching them to their chests. Like I was someone to be scared of. Like I was dangerous.

On second thought—I guess I was.

I tore past a crowd of Japanese tourists, found myself running headlong toward a row of chairs, where passengers still clustered. The one in front of me was wearing headphones and typing away at his laptop. No time to veer, so I leaped onto the empty seat next to him and vaulted over. My foot caught his cord, and the headphones pulled free, tangling on my leg and flapping behind me, slapping the floor. I shook them off and continued running. Over the gathering roar of excited voices, I could hear the policeman yell into his radio. “In pursuit of murder suspect at city bus terminal. Request backup, repeat, request backup. Suspect northbound, on foot.”

I tried to ignore the red question flashing in my head, but something about the continual onslaught felt . . . demanding. Like my android self was miffed that I wasn’t hell-bent on taking on the city’s finest.

I veered for the far exit. Closer, closer. If I could just get outside, I might be okay.

In the distance, a siren wailed, and I shivered. Well, so long as I had enough of a head start.

I burst outside, the cold air splashing my face with renewed hope. Night had fallen, and though the air was brisk, the exterior was swarming with people. Plenty of streetlights, but also plenty of opportunities to hide. They would be looking for a girl in a green T-shirt and jeans, no coat. I needed to remedy that—now.

Around the station, clusters of people laughed and chatted their way toward local restaurants and shops, oblivious that a wanted murder suspect was on the loose. I glanced over my shoulder, saw the door to the terminal start to burst open. Where could I hide? Or at least disguise myself? I needed new clothes—a hat, a coat. Anything.

As if the thought had commanded them, my eyes started scanning, doing a split-second semicircle sweep of the people ahead of me. Like the computer part of me had taken over my head and was moving it for me. Past a couple holding hands, a group of businessmen, and a cluster of fifteen thirtysomething women, just leaving a bar and grill that vibrated with live music.

The women’s feet were strapped into high heels and even higher boots, and their voices were unnaturally loud. One of them was wearing a tiara that said “bachelorette” on her head, with a veil flowing behind her. They all glowed with twinkling LED lights. Some men just inside the interior catcalled as they hung their coats.

“Marianne, do you hear that? Remember, you aren’t married yet,” one of the women shouted, and the rest cackled their appreciation.

Aware of a sudden ruckus back by the exit of the terminal, I darted into the door behind the men. The receptionist looked up, but I said, “Forgot my jacket—got to catch up,” with a general wave in the bachelorette’s direction. I grabbed the closest women’s coat—a long, olive-green one with shiny black buttons, probably five inches too long for me—and a black ski cap, and bolted. I slipped my arms into the sleeves, stuffed the hat on my head, and then hurried to catch the group of women. Luckily, their haphazard weaving meant they hadn’t made it far.

I slipped up to the petite redhead bringing up the rear. Her walking was exceptionally bad. “Hey, Marianne said I could borrow your lights for a little bit,” I said, matching my pace to her.

She squinted at me. “Do I know you?” she slurred.

I rolled my eyes, trying not to look over my shoulder when I heard the thud of running feet. “We just met in the bar, remember? Marianne invited me to join you?”

As I spoke, my fake heartbeat thundered in my ears. The runner was closing in.

“Oh.” Shrugging, she handed me one of her lights, which I draped around my neck. I shoved my hands into the coat, turned up the collar.

The footsteps came closer, and I tensed, ready to make a run for it. But at the last second, they veered to the left.

“This way,” the policeman shouted. I peeked over my shoulder and watched as he ran toward a compact female figure on the other side of the street.

Now I had a chance. But I still had to get out of here, and the bus was no longer an option.

GPS.

The map glowed to life in front of me, illuminating a crisscross grid of the surrounding city blocks. Every nearby street, every back alley; I saw it all.

I zoomed in on the area immediately surrounding the little blinking dot that represented me, looking for the nearest escape routes. There, just ahead—a narrow side street. When the women descended on another bar, I darted to the right, onto the side street, making sure to walk near a couple so as not to look alone. According to my map, this street continued for another half mile, before connecting to another main drag. I just had to get to that one, and then I’d hopefully be a safe distance away.

I was almost there when behind me, I sensed a presence. I’d started to turn when a hand clamped on to my shoulder and yanked me backward. Hard.

I stumbled through an open doorway, my toe catching on the corner and throwing me off balance. One of my knees slammed the ground before I regained my feet, ready to pounce.

How had someone snuck up on me without my sensors going off?

“Hello, sister.” The words stopped me cold, and something scuttled across my skin. That voice. Clear and slightly more baritone than the typical female. Young.

My
voice.

Three.

Turning around was a slow process, because my legs were so heavy with dread. I knew exactly what I would find, and there she was, in all her terrible glory. Three-point-oh, wearing my face. My smile. My eyes, though hers were now a dark brown rather than green. Her hair had been altered, too, from long brown waves to a short auburn bob. The slight changes made no real difference, though. To anyone looking closely she was still, in essence, my twin.

The newer version of me. The weapon with fewer pesky emotions.

The android who had helped Holland murder my mom.

Before I could move, think, breathe, she shook the object she held nestled in her palm. A Taser.

“Hopefully, you’ve discerned your options by now, and have realized that the only logical one is to stay in place. I don’t want to shock you, but I will if you try to run.” Her voice, as usual, was a slightly less animated version of mine. Exact same tone, but somehow . . . different.

I kept my chin up, scanning my surroundings, hoping for a way out. We appeared to be inside a women’s clothing store. Luckily, it was dark and seemed to be closed. Dresses in a variety of lengths and colors hung against the far wall, while up front, shelves held shirts and sweaters. A row on the other side was filled with shoes, most of them with rhinestones or fancy prints. The shop was on the small side—

—and dark. There were two doors near the back, behind the sales counter, but they were only dressing rooms.

Nowhere to run, except back out the front door—which Three was physically blocking. Trapped.

Icy fingers of terror dug into my spine.

She frowned. “Your fear is like a walking advertisement.” I guess I made some kind of muffled noise in my throat at that, because she paused, then said, “Oh, you like that? I’ve been working on my similes and metaphors. After visiting with you, General Holland thought they might be useful in the field.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “Visiting?” I said, my pitch rising at the end to reflect my growing hysteria. “That’s what you call locking me in the compound and forcing me to undergo those insane tests? That’s quite a euphemism.”

Her forehead scrunched in concentration, like she was trying to make sense of what I’d said. “As for what I was saying—is your fear manufactured, or are you really afraid?”

“We don’t all have your control,” I said, through gritted teeth.

“What a pity.”

“How did you find me?”

A pause; then, that unflappable smile of hers widened. “You still have no idea, do you? How connected we are?”