“What are you doing?” Wes whispers. His voice is low enough that Tim and Twenty-two can’t hear.
“Practicing my driving skills.”
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle at the corners and I know he’s amused. It feels like he and I are alone in here, and I can imagine us in a different lifetime, a normal Wes and Lydia driving in a car like this, the window down and the radio on.
“The keys are in the ignition. Maybe it’ll start.”
It is the first time he has even attempted a joke in this time period. I’m still not sure how to feel about him and his betrayal, but I don’t want to lose this moment. I reach over and turn the key.
The lights on the dashboard flicker on. I jerk back in surprise, the keys swinging in the air with the sudden movement.
“There’s still juice in it.” Tim leans forward into the space between the seats. “Listen.”
I hear a faint humming noise. Wes reaches forward and turns up the volume on the radio. A buzz of static fills the small car.
“It’s too loud,” Twenty-two says from the back. “Turn it off.”
“Wait.” I reach for the tuning dial and start to twist it slowly. “We might be able to hear the news. It could give us a clue about where the Secret Service is.”
It is mostly static—this far from civilization it’s hard to pick up any stations—but we finally hear the faint twang of a country song. I stop twisting and Wes turns the volume up. The song ends and a commercial starts, advertising for cars at a local dealership. Finally, the announcer’s voice comes on.
We’ll get back to the music in a sec, folks, but first we want to give you an update on the news that’s rocking the nation. Here’s the official report from Hill House.
The voice cuts out and a more professional-sounding woman begins speaking.
The suspects in the assassination of President Sardosky are still at large, and civilians along the East Coast are urged to wear their I-units at all times, so that any suspicious activity can be monitored by the FBI and the Secret Service. Officials believe the four have taken to the woods near the coastline, and northern states have been put on high alert as the suspects are most likely headed toward Canada. The four were initially identified as Michael Gallo, Samantha Greenwood, Bea Carlisle, and Paul Sherman, but the FBI has confirmed that those aliases were forged. We don’t know yet who the suspects were working for, or if this was an independent act of terrorism, but we can tell you that when they are found they will be prosecuted to the highest extent of the law.
Meanwhile, the funeral services for President Sardosky will be held . . .
Wes turns down the volume until the voice is just a low hum.
“He’s dead,” I say flatly. “We killed him.”
“Good.” Twenty-two lifts her head for the first time since the rain started. Her eyes are brighter than normal, dark and shining in the dim light of the car. “That means the mission was a success. We won’t have to do it again.”
“But why hasn’t the Project come for us yet?” Tim asks. “Why haven’t they tracked and rescued us?”
“We’ve completed the mission,” Twenty-two says. “But there were obvious complications. The Project will weigh the benefits of bringing us in versus the cost of leaving us out here. The odds are rarely in favor of the recruits.”
“We’re valuable to them.” I cannot keep the frustration out of my voice. “They wouldn’t just leave us here.” I think of what Twenty-two said earlier about the Secret Service torturing us for information. If the Project knows that’s a possibility, then they wouldn’t risk us falling into the government’s hands.
“Some of us are more valuable than others,” Twenty-two mumbles, and I think of what she said about me being special to General Walker in some way. “But I guess not valuable enough, huh? Not if they don’t come for you.”
“Maybe they can’t get to us.” Tim keeps his voice even, but he slumps back against the battered seat, his shoulders low. “Maybe the manhunt is too big for them to rescue us without drawing too much attention to themselves.”
“The size doesn’t matter. They could still find a way,” Wes says. “There might be another reason they haven’t come yet. The time line could have changed.”
No one speaks. Right now, the four of us are outside our normal times. If the past, and therefore the present, were altered, we would be completely unaware of it.
“But the president is dead,” I say. “So the time line couldn’t have changed that much. They know we’re out here. But we can’t count on them coming. We need to stick to the plan and make our way to Montauk before the Secret Service finds us.”
“You heard the radio,” Tim says. “They still think we’re going north. They have no idea where we are.”
“We can’t trust that.” Wes stares out the windshield at the water beating against the smudged glass. “They wouldn’t leak their military strategy to the local media. I bet they know we’ve changed direction by now. We need to try and steal a car. Quickly.”
I lay my palm against the steering wheel. This car might have a tiny bit of power left in the battery, but it isn’t going to take us anywhere.
“Turn the radio up.” Tim says. “They can’t track us in the rain, and we’re not going anywhere until it stops.”
Wes turns the knob and the announcer’s scratchy voice fills the car again, cut here and there by patches of static. We sit in silence, listening. Every once in a while they will play a song, or sometimes an advertisement, but mostly it is a constant, repetitive loop
