Tracked (22 page)

My team jumps into the back of three waiting Onyxes.
I sit with Cash and Auguste in the lead rig. We disappear behind dark, tinted windows, and the crowd parts to let us ride into Belaram. Cash's people line every street, laughing and shouting and throwing red poppy blossoms, as if they've been waiting for this moment for a hundred years.

As we leave the good road, and move onto a narrower street, I look out my window. The city's nothing like Capitoline, with its clean lines and endless sun-bleached horizons. These streets are a riot of sound and color. Tangled vines and moss cover the ancient facades of crumbling high-rises. The buildings are patchy layer cakes—mismatched levels of brown brick are sandwiched between gray stone walls. From hundreds of balconies, yards of silk hang to dry. Each faded swath billows and flaps in the breeze, waving as we pass.

When I crack our windows, I smell rainwater and spices and roasting meat. Beyond the crowd, I hear voices calling and the stomp of feet. Ragged laborers hustling to work. Sidewalk vendors guarding their wares from the mob. Quick-fingered children running from shops. It's dirty and jam-packed and noisy as anything.

I love this place.

Auguste glances at the beggars lining the walk. “It would seem Bisera has seen better days.”

Cash frowns. “My brother has no concern for his people.”

“They seem to love you well enough.” Goose snorts, then reaches into his breast pocket for his handkerchief. Nervously, he dabs his forehead.

Cash doesn't answer, and I can only guess what he's thinking. His country's been caught in the crossfire for so long, and the weight of a kingdom seems to press down on him. I can see it in his eyes—despite the warm homecoming, he's anxious about so many things.

When our Onyx turns right, we pass through a set of
gates and leave the crowds behind. Our road curves, leading
us up to the elevated heart of Belaram. Here, the squalor is cleared away. The whitewashed villas of merchants and noblemen jut above the rest of the city. On these wide streets, there are even a few gleaming skyscrapers. One of them looks like a mini version of the Spire.

I scowl at Benroyal's handiwork. Even here he has to make his mark.

Our driver lowers the screen between us. “Almost there.”

“The hotel?” I answer.

He nods. Our convoy of Onyxes turns another corner. I see the marquee, but I can't read the Biseran script. As we pull under the circular portico, Goose sits up. Cash and I both look through the glass to see what's spooked him.

Someone is waiting for us. It's a diplomatic motorcade, half a dozen sleek black rigs. I catch a glimpse of the flag they're flying. A red, five-point star on a field of black.

I've seen the emblem on a million feeds. Cash's ay-khan. The evening star, the symbol of the Royal House of Bisera. For a split second, Auguste's eyes widen in full-on alarm, but he's quick-witted enough to recover. By the time we get ready to step out, he's already put on his most charming smile.

Cash reaches for the door, but Auguste stops him. “Perhaps you should stay.”

Cash shakes his head. He and I step out of the rig. While the rest of the crew does the same, Gil and Auguste flank us, moving slightly ahead. “Battle stations, everyone,” Gil mumbles under his breath. He laughs, but I don't think he's joking.

Three thick-necked bodyguards slide from the front seat of the third rig in the motorcade. They open the backseat doors. Three men, one more guard and two more-richly dressed passengers, step out and move toward us in a lockstep gait.

Even though they are all Biseran, they are not so different from Castran Sixers. Their suit jackets are cut a bit longer and their ties are fat and old-fashioned, more like knotted scarves, but the finely tailored threads have the same silken sheen as Benroyal's.

The guards and one of the passengers give a slight bow, but the taller man from the backseat stands proudly and smooths the lapel of his jacket, as if he had nothing better to do. I stare at him. His expression is stern and ugly, and his features and imposing height give him away. It's the same face I saw on the gallery portrait. He is a cold, bitter reflection of Cash.

“Hello, little brother.” The dark familiarity in his voice chills me to the bone.

Before Cash can answer, Dak's well-heeled lackey bows again. “I welcome you on behalf of His Royal Highness, Prince Dakesh Mohan Benyaran Bahkra-Anan, Prince of Belaram and Lord of the Eastern Isles, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Evening Star, of the Royal House of Bisera, Steward of the Crown and First Son to Her Majesty, Queen Napoor.” He takes a breath and wipes his brow. “I am Her Majesty's foreign minister, Ammad Negendra.”

I do not like this diplomat. I sense his closed-mouth smile hides the hungry snap of teeth. He waits for us to bow before His Royal Highness. Most of us nod or awkwardly lean forward, but Auguste obliges best, gliding into an elegant low sweep.

Cash stands tall, his face blank, betraying nothing.

“Thank you, Minister Negendra,” Auguste purrs. “We are not worthy of this unexpected visit.”

“Unexpected? Surely you would expect His Royal Highness to take great interest in your arrival. After all,” he says, bowing a third time. His voice drips with false sincerity. “You have been gone for so long, Prince Cashoman. It is not every day that we have the pleasure of serving the queen's second son. And of course, we hold Mr. Benroyal's interests as close as our own. We want to ensure that your stay is most pleasant.”

“Thank you again, Minister,” Auguste soothes. “We are at your service, Your Royal Highness.”

Nagendra, the rusting jackal, interrupts. “Perhaps we might be of assistance to you? We are prepared to take on passengers and any burdensome cargo. Indeed, you need not stay here. We would be delighted to host your entire crew at the palace.”

Dak nods, still saying nothing. His guards approach, as if to escort us all into the waiting vehicles. They stop when Auguste raises his hands in protest. “Minister, I thank you, but again, we would not dare impose on your hospitality and I'm certain Mr. Benroyal would insist we stay here. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, he and Mr. Anderssen have just arrived at the palace to greet Her Majesty, Queen Napoor? I believe they have important matters to discuss. Surely we should not detain you from receiving the Castran diplomatic envoy?”

Dak flicks his hand at Negendra, dismissing him to verify our story. The servant steps back and makes a call. He touches his earpiece and nods several times during the conversation. After he is done, he approaches his master and whispers something in his ear.

“It would seem you are correct. The queen awaits. That is disappointing . . .” Dak stares me down, and for the first time, he smiles. “We were looking forward to spending more time with Cashoman. We've missed him since he ran away.”

Cash's fingers flex, then curl. His expression's cool, but the rage is there, just under the skin.

Dak springs, pulling Cash into his embrace, in a mocking show of brotherly concern. He leans into his ear, and I strain to hear the thread of his whisper. “Run along, Cashoman, play your little games, run your foolish races. But watch your back. Step out of line on your own and I will end you.”

Cash smiles and grips him tighter. “Could you hear them, my brother, all the way at the palace? Eb banat bakar.”

Flinching, Dak breaks away. Without another word, His Royal Highness, sap-hole of the realm, turns on his heels. Nagendra, along with the rest of the servants, scrambles to catch up. A minute later, the motorcade is gone.

After they disappear, Cash pivots toward the hotel, but I'm still so stunned that Auguste has to grab me by the arm to get me moving again. I feel the shake in his grip. A fat drop of sweat trickles down his temple. He wipes it away, swiping the back of his free hand across his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “Perhaps our stay will be much less complicated if we avoid the palace.”

The night before the rally, I stay in Cash
's suite while
he sits by the window, staring at the lights of Belaram. It's three a.m. by the time I finally stop tossing and turning. Still, I wake up too early.

At the foot of the bed, I spy a tidy stack of clothes. Black pants and a black shirt, creased and starched and folded. The crisp IP uniform doesn't belong here. The second I look at it, I know. Cash won't be slipping into his circuit gear today. He's traded it in for this new disguise. He is leaving.

Groggy, I stumble out of the bedroom, then stand against the loft's railing to look down at the rest of the suite. I'm dumbstruck by the mess, the room service carts that weren't here last night. The scattering of dirty plates and crystal glasses. On the counter, empty wine bottles lined up in drunken rows. It's as if someone dumped an all-nighter across the entire room.

Cash is there, a bottle in each hand. They clink as he empties them into a sink and sets them aside. I wonder if he slept at all.

“Cash . . .” My voice comes out in a sleepy croak. “What happened? Who trashed this place?”

“Hank helped me out. You were sleeping.” His eyes sweep the room. “That should be enough, I think.” He pauses. “But I have to go soon.”

“We both have to go soon. We have pre-race interviews in three hours.”

“You have pre-race interviews in three hours. I have a food service truck full of ice-packed bluefin to catch in forty-five minutes.”

“You're leaving.”

Someone pounds on the doors of the suite. Cash checks to see who's there before opening. It's Hank. He thrusts a helmet and a pair of spit-shined boots at Cash.

“You have big feet.” Hank smirks. “Took me a while to snag these. See you in a few?”

Cash nods, taking the gear. “Wait for me. I'll be out in a sec.”

After Hank leaves, Cash meets me at the bottom of the stairs. We're face-to-face, and playfully, he drives me back up, one step at a time.

“You have to go and get ready. And I have to blaze.” He puts on his best sad-face smile, the one I know he's wearing to melt me.

“You can't leave. The race.”

“I won't be in the race.”

I snatch the gear from him. I've got a step's advantage, but I still have to tilt to meet his eyes. “Who's going to pace me? How am I going to win and make this work if you're not even there?”

“You'll have a pacer. I haven't forgotten my promise. Bear will know what to do. The Larssens will be there. I swear it.”

I stare at Cash, lit up by the thought of my family, safe and waiting. I nearly drop the boots.

Cash takes them, sliding past me. He ducks into the bathroom, and I move into the doorway as he slips into the uniform. He's more handsome than ever, even with the emblem of Benroyal's Interstellar Patrol embroidered over his heart.

Cash stares at the mirror, frowning. But he looks the part. For the moment, he is all ruthless eyes and jutting chin, and I see a dangerous man. With his visor down, he'll be another sleek soldier in polished jackboots, just another IP officer patrolling the capital.

When he turns on me, I balk. “Why do you have to do this?”

“It's better this way. I can't show my face in that rally. I need to go ahead and set some things up.”

“If you don't show your face, Cash, everyone will notice. Look at the way the crowds were waiting for you, shouting out your name. If you try to sneak off, they'll know something is wrong.”

Tenderly, he runs his fingers through my hair, then traces a path down my shoulders until our hands link. “That's exactly why I have to go. The crowds. The feedcasters. The whole circuit complex will be crawling with security. Once the race starts, I won't be able to slip away. And the longer I stay in Belaram, the more I put us all at risk. The whole city's crawling with royal informants, hungry spies who'd love to feed my brother information for the right price. It's better if I leave now.”

I sigh, resigned.

“My friends are waiting, Phee. They need me. Before we rendezvous, I'll have my hands full. Evacuating hundreds of rebels isn't easy work, and by the time you get there, we'll have to be ready to move. To a safer base, closer to Cyan.”

I don't answer. He wraps his arms around me, and I rest my cheek against starched cotton. “So all this”—I wave at the bottle-strewn room—“is just for show?”

“To make the Sixers believe what they've heard in the feeds. To show them I am everything they think and nothing more, just a spoiled amateur who stays out too late and gambles and drinks. Hank will confirm that I'm too sick and hungover for the race, and you'll lock the bedroom doors. Standing orders. Do not disturb. By the time they catch on, we'll both be gone.”

“And you'll be?”

He touches my cheek. “I'll be waiting. I'll always wait for you.”

I start to argue, to stall him again, but he presses his lips to my throat and works his way up to my mouth. When my breath catches, we both know he's won. “We'll only be apart for a little while. I promise.”

I kiss him one last time before I mouth the words
I stand with you
.

Bidram arras noc.

After I'm dressed and my last pre-race interview is done, an Onyx arrives to take me to rally headquarters, the circuit complex near the starting line. Our motorcade crawls through the security checkpoints and we finally reach our compound made up of luxe quarters for Benroyal and a separate garage designated for our crew. Enormous metal hangars overshadow red poppy groves and ancient stone lodges. It's a strange sight—Bisera's past so crowded by the Sixers' present.

When I walk into our garage, everyone is waiting for me. Billy and Arad. Banjo and Gil and all the rest. Every member of my team mills around my new slip-covered rig.

“We've got her fixed up and ready,” Gil says. “Made a few cosmetic adjustments.”

Navin, our detail man, pulls off the slipcover so I can take a look. My new ride is supposed to be identical to the one I wrecked, but this one could not be more different. The sweep of gold paint, the side racing stripes, the crimson blush of the hood—it's all gone. My rig is drenched in black. Everything, from roof to wheelbase, is a glossy midnight mirror.

“What about my number, the Benroyal mark?” I ask, surprised.

“It is there, spitfire girl,” Auguste says. “Look closer.”

As I walk around the rig, I see it. The phoenix crest and the side detailing are barely visible, painted in a quicksilver, iridescent finish. The wings on the hood seem to move, a ghostly shimmer against the pitch-black.

The paint scheme is killer, unlike anything I've ever seen. I'm speechless.

“Auguste thought we should capitalize on your dramatic finish in the last race,” Gil explains. “The smoke and ash. Rising from the wreck and all that.”

Yes. The hint of light in the dark.

“You might wanna take a look inside,” Gil says.

I lean through the driver's side and check out the interior. Everything is the same, save for one detail. A mechanical throttle. No more touch-screen triggers.

“Yesss,” I growl, high-fiving Banjo.

“Took the fabricators three whole days to get it right,” he says.

I crack a real smile for the first time today. “Thanks, you guys.”

Looking around at my crew, I see the pride and excitement on their faces. I feel the weight of it. They believe I'll take the lead today and win the race.

In a few hours, I'll be nothing more than smoke and skid marks on a hairpin turn and they will be left to answer for it. I can only hope that Auguste and Gil have enough wit and clout to deflect Benroyal's wrath away from my crew.

I'm in such a daze—awestruck and anxious—that I don't notice right away how quiet it's gotten. Everyone on my team is gone. Auguste has silently ushered them all out of the garage. “Another surprise,” he says, escorting three more people inside. “One last detail . . .”

The Larssens. Here. In this room.

“Bear,” I gasp. Without thinking, I run to him and put my arms around him, but he is frozen. With his hands still at his sides and every muscle tense—he might as well be made of stone. I pull back and look up. He is staring through me, as though I were nothing. Right now, I wish I were.

I focus on the concrete floor. His parents rescue me, surging forward while Bear is unmoved.

Hal squeezes the life out of me, and then Mary does too.

“My Phee,” she whispers. When she takes my hands in hers, I feel the warmth and care in her calloused fingertips. This woman's patched me up and taken me in a hundred times. She will always be a mother to me, and I will always be her south side girl.

“I'm so sorry,” I answer. “I wanted to tell you.”

“We know. Your friend the Dradha boy came by the apartment, the day after—when Bear came home.” She's kind enough to leave some things unsaid.

Cash kept his promise, and I can only imagine how hard it was for him, after all the insults and hits he's taken for me. I look in Bear's eyes, desperate to find some trace of the bond we once had. “I'm glad you changed your mind.”

“I'm here for them.” Even his voice sounds far away, as if he's disconnected his heart and there's nothing left inside but empty space.

Mary's smile tells me not to give up hope. Give him time, her eyes beg.

Auguste offers her his arm. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but we are running out of time. Barrett and Miss Vanguard must prepare for the event. May I escort you and your husband out? I believe James has already arranged transportation for you.”

Mary nods, then embraces me again. “Stay safe,” she says with a knowing look. “And we'll see you after the rally.”

Unless something goes wrong during the race. Unless I don't make the rendezvous. Unless we fail to escape.

Finally, I'm alone with Bear. For the first time in my life, I don't know what to say to him. Turns out that won't be an issue; he can hardly wait to leave.

“I'm going to go change,” he says. “I'll be on the headset.”

“How are we going to work this out?”

“Got here yesterday. I'm ready.”

“You were already here?” I ask, more than a little upset. “No one told me.”

“I was busy. Scouted the terrain. Double-checked all the pace notes for your route.”

The detachment in his voice, the way he stares past my shoulder; it stings. I try again. “Is there anything we need to talk about? Are you sure we're okay?”

“Cash told me what to do.”

“So we just need to go over the route.”

“I've been briefed.” When he steps toward me, I read his eyes. He can hardly stand to be near me. But he moves in anyway, so no one else can hear. “I have to go. Now, before the race starts, or we won't have time to get ahead of you. I'll be waiting with Hank.”

And then he's gone. I sag against the exit doors. An hour until I slip into my rig, and I'm alone. Outside this compound, a million eyes watch the feeds, ready for us to perform, but my thoughts keep wandering back to the family I've lost and the one I've found.

Before the race, there's one more person I need to see.

On my way inside, I run into Goose.

“Are you ready, ma chère?” he asks. “It's almost time.”

“Where's Mrs. Benroyal?”

He shrugs. “I suppose she is in the lodge, entertaining Mr. Benroyal's guests.”

“Can you take me there? I don't want to be seen. I mean, there's something I need to tell her.”

Flustered, he backs away, palms up. “We do not have time for this.”

“It'll only take a second. Please. Come with me. I have to see her.”

He sighs and offers his arm. “Quickly, then.”

We cut through the grove behind Benroyal's lodge. We're halfway up the steps to his private terrace when I hear the hum of chatter and music. A party's in full swing. Through open archways, I catch the flicker of giant flex screens, all fixed on the latest circuit coverage. Seeing it all does nothing to help my pre-race jitters. My stomach's in knots because of the rally, but for Benroyal and his friends, it seems the victory celebration has already begun.