I didn’t know why Indy had slugged him—and I didn’t much care. Of course Jag didn’t offer an explanation.
After Vi had glared Indy’s face off, and after Pace had bustled Jag down the hall to the infirmary, I escaped to my hole of a room, where somehow the stench had already permeated. I yanked my notebook off the crude shelf and began scribbling. Anger simmered under my skin. Communicating with Jag would be simpler if he’d get fitted with implants. But he’s as stubborn as he is smart, and he won’t allow a technician within fifteen feet of him.
Everyone living in the cavern used their cache for conversation. Jag’s voice echoed off the walls everywhere he went. But now that an implantless Indy had arrived with her team, talking out loud would become normal again. I sorta “loved” her for that too.
Falling back into being Jag’s second-in-command came naturally for both of us. I had half a dozen items on his to-do list when I sensed someone coming down the hall. I tucked away my anger, loosened the grip on my pencil, and pasted on my Insider face. I’d gotten pretty good at thinking and feeling one thing while portraying something completely different. Fine, I was damn good at it. I’d been doing it flawlessly for four years.
Besides, I knew who was standing outside my door. “Hey, beautiful,” I said without looking up. “Jag stop bleeding?”
“You sound tired,” Vi said, ignoring my question.
I allowed myself to look at her. The sight of her made me ache. Because I could only look.
Not touch.
“I’m always tired,” I said. Vi wore a pair of men’s jeans that hung off her bony frame and a faded blue T- shirt. In the wild we scrounged for whatever food and clothing we could find. “The Director of Mountain Dale donated some clothes,” I said. “Nothing’s arrived yet?”
A sparkle entered her eyes. “Don’t I look good in these?” She gestured to her outfit.
She’d look good in anything. Or nothing. “Absolutely.” I moved toward her as she took a tiny step into my cramped quarters.
“Zenn—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t in every relationship I had. I wouldn’t fake it with her anymore. We didn’t need a cache—or words—to communicate. She could read my every thought.
While my voice was more developed than my mind control, I could catch the gist of most people’s inner thoughts.
Especially Vi’s.
I focused on the ground as I felt her inner conflict, her inability to make decisions, even simple ones. I’d like to think it was just a side effect of Thane’s extreme brainwashing, her crazy-controlled life, or that making choices was a new thing for her. But all that would be a lie.
Vi just sucked at making decisions. Especially hard ones.
“I love you,” I whispered, looking directly into her eyes. “It is what it is. I can’t change it. I don’t want to change it.” I took a deep breath and prepared to say what I should’ve said long ago. “I can’t change you, either. I don’t want to. Not anymore.” I gathered her into my arms and was more than a little surprised when she let me.
For the first time since Jag had picked us up outside Freedom, I kissed her. I could lie and say it didn’t mean anything. But I was done lying. Kissing Vi was earth-shattering every—
single—
time.
The memory of her smooth, warm skin kept me sane during those long hours on my hoverboard. The smell of her hair gave me energy to talk to one more Director, endure one more sleepless night.
I’d do anything for Violet Schoenfeld.
She pulled away first. “I just came to tell you that Jag’s ready to start.”
I nodded, trying to bottle up my emotions before any more spilled out, revealing too much.
Vi traced her fingertips over my eyebrow. “I love you, Zenn Bower.” She turned and walked away, leaving her next words unsaid but screaming through my mind.
Jag
3.
Two weeks ago, the night Gunn and I had rescued Vi and Zenn, Gunn had pulled me aside after everyone else had gone to their holes to sleep.
“Starr Messenger gave me this.” He held out a blood-crusted chip. “I haven’t been able to watch it,” he said. “My wrist-port shorted out.”
I didn’t need a cracking wrist-port to watch a microchip. “Let’s go see my brother.”
Pace manned the tech development for the Resistance in the second-largest cavern in the underground safe house. Since Ty’s death I don’t think he’d slept more than a few hours at a time. He hadn’t said as much, but I knew. His eyes told me things his mouth couldn’t say.
When Gunn and I showed him the chip, he pulled out an e-board. “Let’s see. From Starr, you say?”
“She’s the hot contact,” I told him. “I’ve dealt with her for years,” I explained to Gunner. “She used to send messages every week.”
“Every week?” he asked. “For how long?”
I shrugged. “Three years? Close to that. I wouldn’t know every intricacy of Freedom without her.”
“Here we go,” Pace said. The projection screen above the e-board brightened with Starr’s face. She’d done something funky with her hair. I liked it.
“Gunner,” Starr’s voice said, and it echoed weirdly from the projection. “I’m sorry about Trek.”
I cut a glance at Gunn, who frowned. “That’s what she starts with? Trek Whiting?”
Pace paused the vid. “Trek is a genius,” he said. “He’s our communications guru in Freedom.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Trek. Love him.”
But Gunn did not. He wore a sour expression and rolled his eyes. “So the guy can falsify a feed. Big deal.”
But it was a big deal, whether Gunn liked him or not. “What’s with you and Starr and Trek?”
“She’s my match, and they’re together.”
“Oh, well,” I said, the pieces aligning. “So you don’t like him.”
“He’s not my favorite person,” Gunn confirmed. “But I’ll deal. Keep going.”
Pace started the vid again. “Trek and I are still fully on board with the Resistance. When you get somewhere safe, make sure Jag Barque watches this.”
I leaned forward as the camera cut away from Starr. The image vibrated and the screen went dark. One breath later, a new stream started. This time the camera wasn’t in Starr’s room.
“That’s a laboratory,” Gunner whispered.
“Where?” I asked, scanning the long rows of counters in the vid.
He didn’t answer as the image zoomed in on one workstation. A man sat on a high stool, a piece of tech clutched in his hand. He wore a white coat, gloves, and a pair of protective goggles.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Gunn said. “Most of his face is covered by those glasses.” The three of us leaned closer, anxious not to miss a thing.
The man—not much older than Pace—fiddled with his tech instrument. He glanced at the camera—right at it. “My name is Cash Whiting,” he whispered.
Gunn jerked away from the screen, and Pace paused the vid. “What?” Pace asked.
“Cash is Trek’s brother,” Gunn said. “He’s—well, Raine drained him and, uh, now he’s dead.”
I raised my eyebrows. “She killed him?”
“No, no,” Gunn said. “Zenn’s report said Thane did.”
