Burn Page 5

  I hear Will’s cleats on the hardwood floor of the entryway and the thunk of his bag as he sets it down and digs inside. “Let’s see. I have change somewhere.”

  “I’ve got some,” Leo says, unzipping his pack.

  Livia gasps, and a hissing noise fills the entryway. The agents’ eyes go wide, but they move too slowly. I shove Graham hard and jump between the Scolinas and Congers as a flaming object whizzes down the hall, trailed by a plume of smoke. The room descends into chaos.

  FIVE

  WILL HURLS HIS ENTIRE DUFFEL DOWN THE HALL NEXT. Smoke billows from it as it lands in the middle of the living room, several feet from the first smoke bomb. A fraction of a second later, two smaller smoke bombs bounce off the walls, spewing white-gray clouds. I lunge for Congers as he opens his mouth to shout an order. Gulping in one last lungful of clean air, I elbow him in the throat, knocking him backward before jerking his head down and kneeing him in the face. He slides to the floor as the fire alarms begin to shriek.

  “Fire!” I hear Will shout from the hallway. “Call 9-1-1!” Hopefully the Scolinas’ neighbors are home and will do just that. We need as much confusion as possible.

  Leo helps. His backpack comes hurtling down the hallway and lands near Will’s duffel, doubling the smoke and adding a bit of fire when the fabric ignites—the chemical reaction must have melted through the plastic casing.

  My eyes burning, I yank my shirt over my mouth and nose. Mrs. Scolina screams, and I look up to see two figures wrestling in the living room—Mr. Scolina and Graham. Leo is on the floor with Mack, both of them coughing and gasping. As I run for the hallway to make sure Livia got out, Leo disarms the much larger man and pistol-whips his round head. Leo might be small, but he’s dead fast and knows what he’s doing.

  Still standing in the doorway, Will meets my eyes, and I nod.

  “Come on, baby girl,” he says, coiling an arm around Livia, who’s been huddled against the wall near the front door. He yanks her out of the apartment, heading for the stairwell. With any luck, he’ll be three blocks away before anyone notices she’s gone. I charge back into the living room, yank Graham’s gun from his holster as he struggles with Mr. Scolina, and press it against the young agent’s head. Clenching his teeth, Graham puts his hands up, and Mr. Scolina staggers back, coughing up a lung. His wife wraps her arms around him, and I smack Graham hard on the back of the head, dropping him to his knees.

  “The fire escape!” I bark, but Leo’s already moving, taking Mrs. Scolina by the arm and dragging her through the dining room toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Christina’s there, waiting to get them down the metal stairs and out onto the street, ready to throw some smoke of her own if she needs to. I put my arm around Mr. Scolina’s back and guide him to the hallway, my lungs raging and stinging.

  “My daughter,” he rasps.

  “Will’s got Livia,” I say as I hustle him along. I can’t see anything now—I’m working by feel. My eyes don’t want to stay open—they’re streaming, blurring my vision. “And Christina’s right outside.”

  I shove him into the dining room, groping for the wall, praying for some fresh air, dying to see Christina and know she’s there and okay and—

  A hand grabs at my ankle and lurches me back, away from Mr. Scolina, who blunders through the dining room like a bull, knocking pictures to the floor with his shoulder. “Rachel!” he shouts to his wife as Graham plows into me from behind, knocking the weapon from my hand. I try to pivot around and meet the challenge, but steely fingers are still gripping my ankle, digging in. It’s Congers, on the floor where I left him, but very much conscious—and dangerous.

  Graham punches me in the stomach, and I gasp, inhaling the smoke. My body goes into full-on rejection mode, doubling me over as my lungs try to turn themselves inside out. The other agents are hacking and stumbling, too, but Graham throws himself on top of me, knocking me to the floor. I land on my stomach. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Mack, bleeding from a gash in his freckled forehead, flings himself across the back of my legs before I can plant my foot in Congers’s face. I want to call for help . . . but who would I call? I need all of them to be safe. I don’t want them here in this smoky apartment, going down with me.

  Meaty hands shove my face into the floor, grinding my skull against hardwood while someone grabs my arms and wrenches them behind my back. Before I can jerk myself away, handcuffs enclose my wrists.

  “You bastards!” Leo shouts, crashing into one of the dark shapes hovering above me.

  “We’ll take him, too,” says Congers, who’s gotten to his feet and is covering his nose and mouth with his suit jacket. “The fire alarms will draw the neighbors. We need to get out of here.”

  I am rolled onto my back. They don’t give me a chance to make a move. There’s a hand on my throat and two bodies on mine, smashing my fingers between my ass and the floor. My ears ring.

  Leo hits the ground next to me. “Sorry,” he huffs. I glance to the side. My eyes are the only thing I can move, and through the spots that crowd my vision, I see the blood flowing from his nose. His wire-framed glasses lie between us, lenses cracked.

  He should have escaped when he had the chance. I’d roll my eyes, but I’m still fighting to breathe. Graham is sitting on my chest. I stare at the ceiling, though I can’t really see it through the haze. Be okay, Christina, I think. Be safe.

  “We’ll take them out through the basement,” Congers orders.

  “And the others?” Mack asks before he starts to cough again, his face as red as his hair.

  “Should we go after them?” Graham continues for him.

  “No. We have what we want. Prepare these two for transport.” Congers wipes blood from his lips and prods Leo with his toe while Mack clamps a set of handcuffs on the kid. Leo clenches his teeth as he’s jerked onto his back and manages to stay silent even when his head cracks against the floor. Congers looks down at us. “Nap time, children.”

  And that’s the last thing I hear before there’s a needle-sharp jab of pain in my thigh and a seeping heaviness unfurls within my body, sucking me down into the black.

  • • •

  The first thing that returns is the pain. Raw, hot, throbbing. My wrists, my ankle, my head. I stay very still and surf the rolling waves of nausea. Eyes closed, I listen, focusing on one sound at a time. The low hum of conversation. The deep vibration that tells me I’m in a moving vehicle. Somewhere in front of me, someone’s gasping, frightened.

  “When did he say he’d arrive?” asks a male voice. Graham, I think.

  “Twenty-three hundred hours,” replies Congers from right next to me. “The helo’s already left Charlottesville. We’ll go back into the city once we’re sure what we’re dealing with. Maybe this detour will end up working to our benefit.”

  “Why bring the body here instead of DC? What can that scanner tell us that we don’t already know?” Graham asks.

  My gut clenches. Congers must have the scanner. I wonder if it’s in this SUV.

  Congers shifts in his seat, and I can almost feel his gaze on me. “Focus on the road, Graham.”

  My eyes snap open. I’m staring at my legs, my head bowed. A seat belt keeps me upright. I’m sitting between two men in dark suits. Their jackets cover the bulges at their waists, but as I shift, my elbow bumps against the butt of Congers’s weapon. My wrists are shackled behind me. My shoulder muscles are screaming.

  I slowly raise my head. A narrow two-lane road, headlights shining on the dotted white lines. Someone in this car isn’t wearing enough deodorant. The odor is coming from the squirming figure in front of me. Leo. He’s between two agents, too, in the middle row of this SUV. There are two more in the front—Graham and Mack. Somewhere along the way, we picked up three more agents. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, or what time it is, or where we are.

  “Welcome back,” says Congers
. He’s sitting on my right. “We’re getting close. We’ll get you two something to eat soon, as long as you’re cooperative.”

  “Fuck you,” I whisper, staring straight ahead.

  “Silly, immature words from a silly, immature boy,” he replies, sounding bored.

  “How’s your buddy Race doing? My silliness worked pretty well against the last agents who came after me.”

  “He’s been busy cleaning up the mess you made in Virginia. You’ll see him soon.”

  Great. “I’m not going to help you get into my dad’s lab.” Now that Christina and her family are safe, it’s about withstanding what they do to me, not people I care about. Except, unfortunately, Leo tried to help me, like an idiot, and so I have to decide what’s more important—him, or my father’s discoveries.

  “I would think,” Congers says slowly, “that your father would have taught you to evaluate a situation thoroughly before shooting off your mouth. And yet that seems to be one of your most consistent characteristics.”

  He’s right. My dad did teach me that. It was a quality he prized. And being reminded of that only pisses me off more. Then Congers slaps my thigh in a condescending way that makes me wish my hands were free so I could beat the shit out of him.

  “We don’t have to be enemies, Tate, though I will be if you need one,” he says. “But please believe that you will regret it.”

  “You’re the one who framed my dad as a terrorist, aren’t you?”

  He looks me right in the eyes. “It was necessary.”

  “Ruining a good man’s name was necessary?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, seeing as his son set off a catastrophic incident that required extensive and decisive damage control. We kept it quiet for as long as we could, but information was leaking. The public required an overarching narrative to pacify them, and so we offered one that fit.”

  I look away from his cold gaze and swallow hard. I still blame him for smearing my dad’s name . . . but I also blame myself. I force the thought down and look outside again. “Where are we going?”

  “Your ridiculous rescue attempt drew a great deal of attention, and people were already on edge after what happened at your school on Monday. We decided to exit the city until our agents based there can assure us the scene has quieted down.”

  He still hasn’t answered my question. Judging by the shadowy outlines of trees on either side of the road, we’re nowhere near Manhattan. I expected them to take me straight to my dad’s lab, but I guess I made that impossible, which seems like a good thing at the moment. I squint at the license plate of a minivan in front of us as Graham comes up on it hard and swerves into the oncoming lane to pass. Garden State. “Are we in Jersey?”

  “We have a lab of our own,” says Congers with a smile. “Conveniently, it’s also a place where no one will hear you scream if I decide to make that happen. Or maybe I should just work on this one and let you watch?” He abruptly grabs a handful of Leo’s hair and jerks his head back. Leo’s wide eyes stare at the ceiling, but again, he doesn’t cry out. “He won’t tell us who he is, but you seem to be important to him.” Congers lets him go.

  “It doesn’t matter who he is. It matters what he is. A clueless kid. Just some science club wannabe from my school.” As I say it, Leo’s shoulders tense.

  “Then maybe I should kill him and have one less clueless kid to deal with today,” suggests Congers. “But I think his pain will motivate you.”

  “To do what? My dad’s stuff can’t be accessed remotely.”

  “We’ll return to New York as soon as we—”

  The SUV lurches forward as something crashes into us from behind. Congers and the dark-haired agent on my other side brace themselves against the seat in front, and Graham hits the gas. Congers twists in his seat, as do I, trying to see what hit us, but all I register is headlights closing fast.

  It’s the minivan we just passed.

  “Goddamn idiot road rager!” shouts Graham.

  “Don’t bet on it!” Congers snaps, then grabs my hair. “Who is it?” he hisses in my ear.

  “No idea!”

  He releases my hair and glares out the rear window. “It looks like there’s only one, but there might be more ahead to box us in. We need to take this one out now.”

  The van smashes into us again, honking, staying hard on our tail. Graham slams on the brakes, and the driver of the minivan slows accordingly, narrowly avoiding another collision. The van careens around us and speeds ahead. Its brake lights flash. “What the hell is he doing?” Graham asks.

  “Stop the vehicle!” shouts Congers as he peers out the windshield. “Now! Now!” The note of panic in his voice startles me. The minivan is pulling to the side of the road, so it would be easy enough to pass it.

  Instead, Graham stomps on the brakes, and we all jerk forward. “Open the back!” Congers calls, throwing himself over our rear seat and leaping out as the hatch swings up. I twist to see him lugging an honest-to-God shoulder-mounted RPG launcher from a case on the floor of the trunk. “Get out! Get the prisoners out! Get behind me!”

  I turn back around and look up ahead to see what’s got him so freaked. My heart stops.

  It’s my mom. She emerges from the driver’s side of the minivan, which is parked about ten yards ahead. One of her arms is in a sling, but in her other hand is a semi-automatic, and she raises it and fires at the grille of the SUV, looking more pissed than I’ve ever seen her. And to my horror, Christina jumps out of the passenger seat, holding a gun of her own, her eyes blazing with fury and fear as she joins my mom. She raises her weapon, but my mom shoves her behind their vehicle as Mack opens fire.

  “Move aside!” Congers calls. “I’ll take care of it!”

  With a freaking rocket launcher? “No!” I shout, flipping onto my back and kicking the dark-haired agent next to me in the face. His head thunks against the frame of the passenger door he just opened. I kick him again and again, and he stumbles onto the road. I dimly register Leo struggling with an agent in the middle seat, but I can’t worry about him right now. I hook my ankles over the seat and drag myself toward the open door, desperate to stop Congers, who’s about to blow my mom and Christina to bits. My wrists still cuffed behind me, I heave myself out of the SUV.

  The agents are wide-eyed and shouting as they fire on my mom and Christina. But I don’t slow down to look at the minivan—instead I spin and lunge toward Congers, who’s already put the grenade into the barrel and is hefting the green-gray launcher onto his shoulder. “Lovell and Warner, get over here. We’ll need your fire!” he calls as I charge at him.

  Before I reach him, another agent tackles me from behind, and I fall. Knees-hips-chest . . . I turn my head, and my skull hits pavement. Breath explodes from me in a strangled cry as my bones rattle. Graham was the one who hit me; he’s on my back, but I buck my hips and jam my foot back, gritting my teeth at the impact of my heel against flesh and bone. He wheezes, telling me I probably got him in the balls. I raise my head to see Congers peering through the launcher’s sight. “Please!” I cry. “No!”

  He pulls the trigger. A helpless noise winds from my throat as I curl onto my side to follow the projectile. The grenade rockets toward the minivan—

  Holy shit what the hell what the fuck is that

  A silvery, blurred thing rises above my mom’s vehicle, silent and slick. The grenade flies straight toward the thing, but it tilts lightning quick, and the grenade shoots into the forest across the road and explodes. I stare at the obelisk-shaped object hovering about fifty yards ahead of us, maybe thirty yards above the ground. That is what Congers and the other agents were firing at, but I’ve never seen anything like it. It shimmers like mercury in the light of the burning forest, moving like a helicopter even though it doesn’t have rotors. Or wings.

  A black dot appears on its lower front, swirling and sparkling and growing. Like som
e sort of hatch. Or torpedo bay. “Grab the boy!” Congers cries. “Get him off the road!”

  Movement near my mom’s van draws my eyes back to the ground in time to watch both her and Christina dive down the embankment—right as the obelisk thing gives off a low, throbbing whomp. The minivan explodes, flying into the air like a Matchbox car. One of the agents wrenches me to my feet and tosses me to the side of the road, where I roll and crash through thorny underbrush. My head thumps against a rock. Blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue. I land in a trickling stream at the bottom of a shallow hill, on my back, smoke and flames spurting from the mayhem above me.

  I open my mouth, but I can’t manage to draw in air. My eyes are riveted on the obelisk, which shoots backward suddenly as three more RPGs are launched. Congers and his men are shouting, calling to one another to reload, to fire. The obelisk, its hellish spire pointing at the sky, spins, but only dodges two of the grenades this time. The other glances its side and detonates. Before the smoke clears, the obelisk tilts backward, aiming that sharp nose at the horizon. I wait for it to fall from the sky, but instead, it darts away, moving too fast to track. A moment later, it’s like it was never there.

  Except for the carnage it left behind.

  Two agents plunge down the embankment and grab me while Congers barks orders, instructing the others to mount up. My voice returns to me as they lift me from the ground. “Mom! Christina!” They should be nearby. I saw them roll down the embankment. They couldn’t be more than a hundred feet away.

  But they don’t answer me.

  No. I can’t have lost both of them. I shout until the only sounds that come from me are hoarse croaks. I curse at the agents; I kick and struggle; I rage and thrash. The minivan is a twisted husk, overturned in the road, not two feet from the spot where I was lying when that thing fired on us. I spew question after question, but no one speaks to me. They’re focused on getting me contained, on getting me into the SUV. As they do, I see Leo, strapped into the seat in front of me, pale and scared as he watches me lose my shit. I’m wedged between Congers and Mack, the red-haired agent. The men on either side of me are sweating, tense, their movements abrupt and hard.