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Authors: Kathy Reichs

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“Are you messing with me? Say yes.”
“Nothing’s settled yet, obviously. All I know is they liked my résumé.”
“How much would it take to keep LIRI operating?”
I’d given the problem some thought. Fundraisers? Donors? Surely something could be done.
Kit frowned. “Ten million, annually. Minimum.”
Ugh.
“There’s nothing we can do? No trustees to beg? Letters to write?”
Kit shook his head. “It’s just too much money. CU can solve its fiscal crisis and fix a PR disaster with one pen stroke. To them, it’s a no-brainer.”
Silence. Not much to say.
Kit grabbed his keys and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he turned.
“Chin up, kiddo. We’ll land on our feet. You’ll see.”
With that, he was gone.
“Chin up, my ass.”
Coop padded over and nudged my palm. I scratched his ears, but even the wolfdog failed to brighten my mood.
Loggerhead Island was home to so many animals. Whisper, Polo, and Buster. The rhesus monkey troops. A centuries-old sea turtle colony. Hundreds of other species. Lives would be uprooted, possibly destroyed. All so the university could save a few bucks.
I thought of the LIRI scientists and staff. Everyone would get the ax. My friends and I would be scattered across the country. Our pack destroyed.
Enough.
We had to preserve LIRI. Had to save Loggerhead Island.
There was simply no other option.
Kit said it would take millions?
So what.
Time to find them.
Somewhere.
CHAPTER 6
“H
ow would you like to make thousands of dollars, from the comfort of your very own living room?”
Hi read from note cards. He wore a white button-down shirt, navy clip-on tie, and tan slacks. Business casual. A quick glance at his audience, then he resumed his presentation.
“What about cash? Fabulous homes?
Luxurious
vacations?”
Hi searched the group for receptive faces. Found none.
“You can’t be serious,” Shelton groaned, eyes returning to his laptop. “I’d nearly hacked the Ben and Jerry’s website when you called. We could’ve been eating free Chunky Monkey right now. I’ve got to start all over.”
After cleaning the kitchen, Coop and I had walked to the bunker. Hi wanted a Virals meeting. With a sinking feeling, I began to understand why.
Shelton and Ben slouched on the window bench, sporting identical frowns. I sat on the rickety wooden chair beside the only table. Coop was curled at my feet.
The furnishings weren’t exactly
GQ
. But what our clubhouse lacked in amenities, it more than made up for with privacy.
Built during the Civil War as part of Charleston’s naval defenses, our bunker once guarded Morris Island’s northern tip. Buried in a sand hill overlooking the harbor mouth, the sturdy, two-room wooden dugout is practically invisible.
No one else remembers it exists. The place is our fiercely guarded secret.
Sensing resistance from the bench sitters, Hi turned his charm on me.
“And you, Miss? How would you like to be your own boss? To earn more in a month than most people do in a year?”
My snort was sufficient response.
Hi soldiered on. “Join our team at Confederated Goods International, and you too could realize the dream of being—” dramatic pause, arms swept wide, “—a
millionaire
!”
With a flourish, Hi dropped a folder onto the table. Inside was a stack of papers printed off the Internet.
I did a quick perusal.
“There’s nothing in here but clip art,” I said. “Images of yachts and sports cars. This page is just a giant dollar sign.”
“Ridiculous.” Snapping his computer shut, Shelton grabbed a sheet at random. “Silver-haired men standing in front of mansions they don’t own, arms around models they don’t date.”
Shelton tossed the folder to Ben, who didn’t bother to catch it. The pages scattered across the floor.
“Now, now!” Hi continued quickly, reading from a new card. “I can tell you’re excited to get started on the home business of your dreams. Just sign our ‘personal empowerment agreement,’ and we can open your path to financial success!”
“This is a rip-off, dude.” Shelton scooped up a sheet. “Twenty pages, and I still don’t know what these people do. But here’s a JPEG OF A DIAMOND RING. VERY HELPFUL.”
“You sell their products or something,” Hi said. “‘Just as good as available in stores.’ I pay a small start-up fee and find three people to work for me. Then those people—you guys—each find three more people—”
“That’s a pyramid scheme, you dope!” Ben smirked. “It’s a scam.”
Shelton shook his head. “Oldest trick in the book.”
Hi flipped through his index cards, selected one from the back.
“I’m sensing you might be hesitant to embark on this new phase of your life,” he began. “But don’t let fear of the unknown—”
Hi ducked as his folder sailed inches above his head and exploded against the far wall. “Hey!”
Coop shot to his feet, startled, growling everywhere at once. I arm-wrapped his neck to calm him.
“Great.” Hi began gathering the strewn papers. “You just ruined our marketing department. That’s more overhead.”
“Oops,” Ben said.
“It’s a classic rip-off, Hi.” I corralled the last few pages. “We won’t make any money. Get-rich-at-home programs never pan out.”
“Fine.” Red-faced, Hi pulled off his tie, untucked his shirt. “But we need to raise cash somehow.”
“We need to
make
money,” Ben said, “not lose our own in the process.”
“And we need a lot of it,” I muttered, stroking Coop’s back. “Millions.”
I told the others what Kit said over breakfast. “What about bank robbery?” Hi scratched his chin. “I mean, how hard could it be? We’re pretty good at breaking into places, sneaking around. Plus we have superpowers. Sort of.”
“Try again.” Ben.
“Bank heists are a
little
out of our league,” Shelton agreed. “I don’t want to move away, but a prison cell? No thanks.”
“Well we need
some
kind of plan,” Hi said. “We can’t allow ourselves to be split up. I don’t want to be a freak alone. Been there, done that. I like having friends.”
His voice dropped. “And this virus terrifies me.”
For a moment, I felt as hopeless as Hi sounded. What could four teenagers possibly do?
“Stop whining, hippie.” Ben crossed to Hi and mussed his hair. “We’ll figure something out. But no spazzing inside the bunker. I won’t allow it.”
Hi swatted Ben’s hand away. “Why, because that’s
your
specialty?” But he was grinning. Sometimes, Ben knew exactly what to do.
“I got an email from a Nigerian prince.” Shelton kept his face straight. “Apparently I just send him my bank account info, and he deposits a bunch of money. Can’t see how it could go wrong.”
“The lottery,” Ben said. “Let’s just play Powerball.”
“Vegas?” Hi suggested. “I’ve got forty bucks and a fake moustache.”
“Great ideas all around,” I deadpanned. “But we
do
need to come up with something. We have to fight this.”
The others nodded, but offered no serious suggestions. They were just as stumped as I was.
“And now I have to go.” I sighed. “Keep me in the loop.”
“Now?” Shelton asked. “You just got here.”
My eyes rolled on their own accord. “I have a cotillion event. Some yacht-club charity fundraiser thingy. Whitney is insisting, and Kit took her side.”
Three wide smiles.
“Oh shut up.”
CHAPTER 7
H
alf an hour later, a surprise waited at the dock.
Ben. With
Sewee
primed and chugging. “I’ll give you a ride.”
Unexpected. When I’d left the bunker, Ben hadn’t indicated any interest in my afternoon. But he’d readied the boat while I changed.
Down the pier, Ben’s father sat in a lawn chair beside his vessel. With Kit at work, Tom had agreed to ferry me into town.
But now Ben was here. For some reason.
“Fine by me.” A wry smile crossed Tom Blue’s lips. “But you don’t have to ride with my boy if he’s bothering you, Tory.”
Ben scowled, reddened, but kept quiet.
“No, that’d be great,” I said quickly. “Thanks, Ben. Thanks anyway, Tom!”
Ben cast off with more haste than usual. I could hear his father chuckling as we began to pull away.
“Where to?” Ben asked.
“Palmetto Yacht Club. On East Bay.”
“I know where it is,” he said curtly.
Okay then.
We rounded Morris Island and motored into Charleston Harbor. As we passed the point, I tried to spot our bunker among the sand hills. And failed, as always. Good.
Ben picked our way through a tangle of sandbars. Since he practically lived in his boat, I let him choose the route. He seemed to know his way around every islet in the Lowcountry, and there were dozens. Hundreds.
It was midday, and blazing hot, so I was thankful for the ocean breeze. The sharp tang of saltwater filled my nose. Seagulls circled over us, squawking. A pair of dolphins cavorted in
Sewee
’s wake. God, I love the sea.
“You look nice,” Ben said stiffly, keeping his eyes on the horizon.
“Thanks.” Awkward.
I was wearing the Katey dress by Elie Tahari. White, with golden metallic floral embroidery. Trendy, expensive, and not mine. Another designer number I could never afford.
What can I say about the grand southern tradition of cotillion? Defined as a social-education program for young people, it’s really a suffocating nightmare engaged in by elitist brats. At least, that’s been my experience.
We were
supposed
to be learning the fundamentals of courtesy, respect, communication, and etiquette, along with the art of social dance. Instead, silver-spoon prigs lounged around comparing price tags and munching pâté.
Cotillion also presented endless wardrobe problems, and I lacked the necessary firepower. Kit’s insufferable girlfriend, Whitney Dubois, had so far solved the dilemma by borrowing dresses from her friend’s boutique. The accompanying jewelry—this time a sterling silver charm bracelet and matching Tiffany necklace—belonged to the salon-tanned wonder herself.
I hated playing dress up, but at these fêtes it was best to blend in. Even if it meant accepting Whitney’s pricey, stylish attire.
Blargh.
Ben throttled down to pick up speed. “How many of these events do you have, anyway?”
“Not sure. I think maybe two or three a month.”
As part of the nightmare, I was scheduled to make my debut next fall. Thanks to Whitney, my fate was sealed. I was doomed to rub elbows with the city’s junior elite not just at school, but also on my own time.
Double blargh.
As we shot across the harbor, passing Fort Sumter on the right, Ben kept a careful watch for larger vessels.
Sewee
is a sturdy boat—a sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout—but against a cargo ship she’d be kindling.
We reached the peninsula in just under half an hour.
“There’s your snob warehouse.” Ben pointed to the yacht club. “I’ll drop you as close as I can get without a trust fund.”
Wonderful. If this ticked him off so much, why offer me a ride in the first place? I didn’t want to be here, either.
Ben was being even more moody than usual. Sullen. Almost angry. I couldn’t understand why. If I hadn’t known better I’d have said he was jealous, but Ben Blue had zero interest in attending a lame cotillion party. So why the attitude?
My iPhone beeped, sparing me the need to reply to Ben’s comment.
Text. Jason. He’d meet me on the dock.
“That the blond meathead?” Ben asked.
“Jason’s not a meathead. What’s your problem with him anyway? He’s helped us before.”
Ben shrugged. “I’m allergic to jackasses.”
We glided into the marina in frosty silence.
As surreptitiously as possible, I glanced over at Ben. He sat in the captain’s chair, his long black hair dancing in the breeze. He wore his standard black T-shirt, cutoff khaki shorts, and a scowl that seemed permanently locked in place. With his dark eyes, copper skin, and muscular frame, he had the sleek, toned look of a jungle cat.
It occurred to me that Ben was an attractive guy, even when brooding.
Hell,
especially
when brooding.
“There’s the dork now.” Ben’s voice snapped me back to reality.
Standing on the pier was Jason Taylor. Tall and athletic, he had white-blond hair and sky-blue eyes. The Viking-god type. Pure Scandinavia.
Jason was Bolton’s star lacrosse player, and superwealthy—his family owned a ritzy estate in Mount Pleasant. He could’ve been an elitist jag, but his open, honest personality made him one of the most popular kids in school.
Basically, my polar opposite.
One of my lab partners from last semester, Jason inexplicably had taken a special interest in me. While flattered—and, frankly, stunned—I wasn’t sure if his attention pleased me or not.
Don’t get me wrong, Jason’s great. He’d step in when the cool kids mocked me or the other Virals. Still, he didn’t haunt my dreams or anything.
I should probably throw myself at Jason
.
Dating him would keep the Tripod at bay. Of course, that would mean being around them all the time. No thanks.
“Nice tie on Thor,” Ben said. “Guy looks like a cell phone salesman.”
One thing I
did
know for sure: Jason and Ben did
not
get along. I’d never understood why, but these two were oil and water. Every time I’d brought it up, Ben just changed the subject. Boys.
Was Ben jealous of Jason for some reason?

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