I hoped.
Driving away from our HQ and my friends felt a little like saying good-bye. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to happen, something I couldn’t stop, and that I might never see them again. I tried not to look at the distant shape of the observation tower as it receded in the distance. Tried to keep focused on the tasks at hand.
First task: drive to the rest stop.
Second task: let Bethany talk without pissing off the kids she needed to get on our side.
Third task: get home safely.
Task three seemed to be the one giving my gut trouble as I turned onto the Jersey turnpike and drove south. These kids were unpredictable and dangerous, and our enemies had an inexplicable way of tracking us down whenever we left HQ. Anything could happen at any moment, and while Bethany and Thatcher had some pretty awesome powers, I had a Coltson strapped to my back and not much else.
Sarcasm was so not a useful weapon in nonverbal negotiations.
Bethany fidgeted in the backseat the entire trip, tapping her feet and humming nonsense until I wanted to stretch a hand back and slap her. Fortunately our destination arrived before I gave in to the urge.
The motorcycle Landon had arrived on a few days ago was gone, a prize too tempting for any thief to leave abandoned. I drove to the front of the empty restaurant where another car was parked—old, rusty, the kind of junker you wouldn’t expect to run at all. Next to it, my Sport looked positively Space Age.
A little bolt of apprehension tore through my gut as I climbed out of the driver’s seat. I scanned the parking lot but saw nothing distinctly out of place. The occasional hum of a passing car crept over from the turnpike. Somewhere a crow called out, and I couldn’t help wishing Marco was nearby, watching my back. I never went off without my friends like this, and now it was twice in three days.
Thatcher took point, approaching the glass restaurant doors with careful steps. Bethany followed with the satchel of medical supplies, and I brought up the rear. The glass was tinted and reflective in the sunlight, preventing a good look at the interior. The door opened with a tired squeal, and we walked into the lion’s den.
The restaurant lobby branched to the left and right into two separate eating establishments, chains long ago gone out of business. Booths with red vinyl and black tables filled the room on the right, and two familiar figures stood up front near the shiny metal counter. Sasha wore the same clothes as before, along with a brand-new weight of exhaustion. Next to her Rick was rubbing the fingers of his right hand together, creating little blue sparks that were probably supposed to intimidate us.
He looked too tired, young, and scared to be all that intimidating.
Thatcher stopped with a good six feet between us and them, then crossed his arms over his chest, doing a very good impersonation of an impatient parent waiting for his unruly kids to come clean about their latest disaster. This, of course, made Rick bristle, pegging him as the Alpha male of their little group. He moved forward half a step, putting himself in front of Sasha.
We went through the formality of introducing ourselves. Sasha glanced at the face of her phone, then said, “You have thirty minutes. Go.”
“Uh . . . ,” was Bethany’s inauspicious beginning.
After she found her voice, she launched into a brief history of the work she and Landon did for small, starving communities; our little battle at the warehouse and next-day meeting; Landon confronting his father for the first time and taking us to the little town with no name. While she spoke, Thatcher called HQ and got Landon on the line, and he added his two cents over speakerphone. Afterward, it was Thatcher’s turn on the floor, repeating the same things about the War, the Bane label, and being told his wife and son were dead—things that I already knew.
Since this was all an epic rerun of information for me, I studied Sasha and Rick while they listened and occasionally interjected to ask a question. They were exhausted, that was plain to see. And they looked lost. They were both raised to follow orders, to report to someone older and more experienced than them, and now they’d been cut off. They were floundering and doing their damnedest to be strong for the other kids. In some strange way, it was like looking in a funhouse mirror at Teresa and Gage ten months ago.
“Your mother was a good friend of mine,” Thatcher said to Sasha. “She was a strong woman, loyal and brave.”
Sasha’s eyes got glassy and wet. “Is she alive?”
“She died a few years ago. She got sick after her second daughter was born, and she never got better.”
He left out a big chunk of conspiracy theory there. Some of the island residents had blamed a handful of deaths on the depressant the government had pumped into the fresh water supply. Warden Hudson’s bosses had wanted the Banes docile, no matter what. No one had tried to prove the drug caused the deaths. Yet.
“Second daughter?” Sasha asked.
“Whitney. She fell ill, too, a few months ago. She passed away.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “You said something about a half-brother?”
“Yes, he’s eight. He doesn’t live in Manhattan anymore. Maybe one day you’ll be able to meet him.”
“They could be tricking you,” Rick said. He sounded like he was trying to make himself believe his own accusation.
“Your father’s name was Arnold Anderson,” Thatcher said to Rick. “We knew each other during the War. He was a good man. If he was anything like me, he gave you up to protect you from people who would use you against him.”
Rick’s expression soured. I flashed Thatcher a surprised look. I hadn’t been aware that he’d figured out who Firework Boy was, and I was annoyed that he’d kept that bit from me. I couldn’t help but wonder what else he was keeping to himself about these kids. And damn him, anyway, he wouldn’t look at me.
Thatcher didn’t say anything else, and Rick finally relented and asked, “What happened to him?”
“He was killed by police seventeen years ago. Forty-seven bullets.”
Rick flinched.
My heart beat with anger on Arnold Anderson’s behalf. Forty-seven bullets to kill one man? The fucking police had gone way overboard—but that wasn’t the first whisper of excessive violence used against Metas during the War. Just the first I’d heard spoken so plainly.
“We’re all Metas,” Landon said over the phone. I’d forgotten he was part of the conversation. “We need to fight together, not separately. We’re stronger as a family.”
Sasha looked at her phone. “Your thirty minutes are up. Medical supplies?”
Bethany inched close enough to hand over the satchel.
“Maddie will get better treatment at our HQ,” I said. “Bullet wounds are tricky, especially if they get infected.”
The look Sasha and Rick shared dinged a bell for me. The infected comment must have hit pretty close to home.
“Part of being a leader is taking risks,” I added, speaking directly to Sasha. “When someone’s life is at stake, sometimes you have to play the odds and trust strangers.”
“I want Maddie to get better,” Sasha said, voice rough.
“Then let us take her to our doctors. Please.”
“We’d need a trade,” Rick said. “One of you for her, just in case.”
“I’ll go with you.” The words left my mouth before I could even think them through. I couldn’t very well nominate someone else as a hostage, and while I didn’t relish the idea of being blindfolded and carried off again, I could do it. Just as long as they didn’t try to tie me up. Thatcher turned to glare at me, and I gave him a shushing look in return.
Off Sasha’s dubious look, I added, “What? I’m the harmless one, remember?”
Bethany snickered.
“All right, agreed,” Sasha said. “When we bring you Maddie, you’ll come back with us while she’s being treated.”
“Deal. Where?”
