“I killed them. It was my fault.”
“You killed them?”
“I was responsible for their deaths.”
“I see,” she said, seeming to roll the answer around in her
mind. “And how many do you suppose died when the remaining pyramids were
launched to form the Grid?”
He exhaled deeply. “Tens of thousands.”
“And you were responsible for their deaths as well?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
“And do you happen to know how many died in the riots and
fires afterwards?”
His shoulders sagged. “Hundreds of thousands.”
Something about the answer seemed to please her but he
didn’t care. The conversation had taken a toll on the growing fragility of his
psyche. Dark thoughts threatened to overwhelm him and he struggled to shove
them aside.
I’ve got a job to do.
He still didn’t know what they wanted from him, but in the
final analysis that didn’t really matter, did it? He’d confirmed these were the
people who’d taken his family—and probably his friends—and that would have to
be enough. It was time to go on the offensive. Time was running out.
Min said, “What about the mini?”
The question startled him. He clamped his mouth closed so
fast that his teeth clicked.
She rose, grabbed his shoulder pack, and dumped the contents
on the table. “Is it in here?”
He stood, barely catching himself when the forgotten ankle
restraints held him fast. Pistols appeared in the guards’ hands, aimed at his
chest, and it seemed as if the playing-nice segment of the interrogation had
come to an end. He froze as she sorted through the pile, cringing when the
9-volt battery slipped out of the rolled-up baseball cap. She ignored it, but
the relief he felt vanished when she picked up his smartphone. Panic drove its
icy claws into his chest. He couldn’t permit her to see the text about Lacey. Then
they’d know where he was heading...
Holding his breath, he shifted his jaw and bit down on the plastic
tip of the pressurized ampoule.
The hiss of odorless gas felt cool on his lips, and its expansive
properties spread it quickly throughout the room. The effects of the
military-grade desflurane derivative were instantaneous. Eyes rolled, guns
clattered, and all three of his captors slumped to the floor.
He hopped to the nearest guard, dragging the chair with him,
and rifled through the man’s pockets to retrieve the knife and cut himself
free. He was shoving his belongings into his pack when he heard a shout,
followed by a rush of footsteps that echoed down the hall.
How the hell did they know?
Cursing himself for realizing too late that there had to be
a camera somewhere in the room, he dove to one side and came up with one of the
thug’s fallen pistols. His mind recognized the weapon as a Chinese model, but
the normal flash recall of the make, model, and specs didn’t occur. He
chambered a round and shot four chest-high holes in the door.
“The first man through that door gets his head blown off!”
he yelled.
The pounding footsteps slid to a stop.
Adjusting his bag over his shoulder, he slid his finger along
the underside of the strap to retrieve a tiny chip from its hidden sleeve,
keeping in mind his movements were being captured by a hidden camera. He palmed
the chip like a magician would a hidden coin, then made a show of searching the
men’s pockets for identification. After finding nothing, he rifled through the
woman’s purse, pulling out hypos, vials, makeup, and several razor-tipped
throwing stars while dropping the chip in the recess of one of the interior
pockets.
“You’re trapped, Mr. Bronson,” a man’s voice said outside
the door. “Are you willing to risk the lives of your wife and children?”
Jake knew it was an idle threat, at least for now. They
still hadn’t told him what they really wanted from him, and Min’s inquiry about
the mini had only confused him further. It was missing, and if they didn’t take
it, then who had? In any case, it was time for him to make a few moves of his
own.
You can’t threaten a man if you can’t find him...
He heard sirens in the distance and suspected someone had
reported the gunfire. He triggered five more shots at the door, tracing a tight
circular pattern at groin height, then opened the window, stepped onto the
ledge, and lowered himself down the drainpipe. He hit the ramp running, his
mind sweeping through the memorized maps and transportation schedules, grateful
his short-term memory was still intact. Using several modes of travel would
make it next to impossible for them to follow, especially if the transfer times
were minimal. He calculated a route and stepped into an alley. Then he opened
his pack, plugged the 9-volt battery into its compartment under his baseball
cap, and pulled it over his head.
W
ITNESSING THE SCENE
on several live video
feeds in the Hong Kong control room, Jiaolong bolted to his feet when the
American disappeared over the sill. “He jumped out the window,” he shouted into
his headset to the guards hunkering down in the hallway outside the room.
“After him, you idiots.”
The images jiggled and bounced as the three guards scrambled
down the stairs and out the front door. They panned left and right but there
was no sign of Bronson.
“Split up and find him!” Jiaolong ordered. He ripped off the
headset and tossed it into his command chair. The techs and engineers averted
their gazes. Even Lin stepped back. But sister Zhin kept her cool and took
control of the situation.
“Activate Passcode,” she ordered. “Tap into the city’s
surveillance and facial recognition systems. I want every camera in Amsterdam
looking for him.” Hands blurred over keyboards and the large wall screen split
into dozens of smaller views of people on sidewalks, cafes, parks, plazas, and
public transportation areas, digital squares jumping from face to face as each
was analyzed against the blueprint of Jake Bronson’s features.
The speed with which the Passcode system had penetrated the
secure system was astounding, Jiaolong thought, and the fact that its owners
would be unaware their system had been hijacked brought a smile to his face.
All because of his video game.
Zhin added, “Have one of our Interpol teams input a BOLO for
the Netherlands, and be prepared to expand it to neighboring countries if we
don’t locate him within the hour.”
“Should we include an order to apprehend?” Pak asked.
Zhin took a moment to consider. “Yes, but only as a person
of interest, a key witness. We don’t want someone to shoot him by mistake.”
Jiaolong stopped pacing and nodded his approval. Lin moved
beside him. “You are truly brilliant,” she said softly, motioning toward the
video wall. “Look at what your system allows you to do. And this is only a
single facet of the jewel that you have created.”
“I am pleased,” he admitted. “But my grandfather—”
“Mr. Bronson will be in our hands soon enough, my love. And
from what we witnessed earlier, he can save him.”
He nodded, recalling the interaction they’d watched between
Bronson and his grandfather, captured from various angles by the hidden cameras
Jiaolong’s people had installed throughout the Everlast facility. When his grandfather
had revealed the true nature of his health condition, Jiaolong had seen the
flicker of compassion in Bronson’s expression, and when the two of them had
been mentally linked, his grandfather had responded like never before, his
artificial voice remaining calm throughout the process. His grandfather had
come out of it convinced Bronson could make it happen. But something had frightened
the American and he’d shrunk back from the prospect of helping, leaving Jiaolong’s
dying grandfather without so much as a backward glance.
You will pay for that.
“The video footage was useful, was it not?” Lin asked.
“It was outstanding,” he agreed. He thought back to the
interrogation. “Though sister Min’s methods could use a little work.”
Her question about the Grid had bothered him; it hadn’t been
part of the script. And her outburst of violence had been another sign that Min
didn’t share his passion for his plan to reap vengeance on Bronson. She’d
rather kill him and his family and be done with it. Jiaolong suspected that
Zhin might share her doubts to some degree, though she’d have never allowed her
emotions to get the better of her as Min had. But despite the sisters’
feelings, he knew they’d not stray from the plan. They’d been loyal to him
since they’d met so many years ago. They were family. He wrapped a hand around
Lin’s waist and she responded by subtly melding her body against his.
He sighed, recognizing that Bronson’s escape was nothing
more than a bold move in a game the American had no chance to win. Marshall
Erickson, aka TurboHacker, would be delivered here soon, and Jiaolong’s team
would finally discover how he’d penetrated the Passcode firewall. The hole
would be patched and then nothing could stop them. Of course, the fact that
Marshall’s wife had been tragically injured would have to be kept from him. The
man would likely spiral out of control at the news. Jiaolong understood the
sentiment. Long before the networks broadcast the story, he’d witnessed the
actress’s disfigurement from the live feeds his team streamed from the scene.
He’d cringed at the sight, as he did again now just thinking about it.
The thought lingered for a moment as he considered how that
same news would impact Bronson. Turning to sister Zhin, he said, “I need to
speak to the leader of our team in Rome.”
One way or another Bronson would be brought to heel. After
all, the man’s closest friends and family were already in custody and en route
to Jiaolong’s ancestral village. What father could refuse an order when knives
were held against his children’s delicate necks?
T
HE FIRST THING I FELT
was the tingle from the
mini, prying open a locked memory.
I’m in the underground facility on the island, standing on
the special chair with a bulky skullcap on my head, connected to the grid of
pyramids that ringed the planet. My brain is being bombarded with images and
information, and I’m overwhelmed as hundreds—no, thousands of drawers in my
mind are being filled. I slam them closed one after another, doing my best to
send a message of my own to the pyramids’ makers, trying to convince them to
leave us alone. But it’s a losing battle. My brain feels like it’s on fire and I
know the overload is killing me.
Then my dad’s mind is suddenly there, his thoughts joined
with mine, his energy fueling me.
In the end, it works. My message is received. The
pyramids disappear into space and the threat to our planet vanishes with them,
but the packed drawers in my mind are still there, ready to burst open. I seal
them tight, because a part of me knows they contain something bad.
“Alex,” Sarafina’s voice was soft, as was her hand brushing
my forehead. “Please wake up.”
I opened my eyes to find my head cradled in her lap. Her expression
brightened and her lips parted in a smile.
“He’s awake,” she said, and Ahmed and Timmy entered my frame
of vision. I was thrilled to see them. It was still night, and the thick
umbrella of foliage beyond their faces flickered and danced from the flames of a
campfire.
“You okay?” Ahmed asked.
I wiggled my arms and legs. “Uh-huh,” I said, sitting up too
fast. It made me dizzy. I reached back and felt a tender lump behind my ear.
“Take it slow,” Timmy said. “You just survived a heck of a
drop.” He examined the lump. “It’s not bleeding. Do you remember what
happened?” He was looking at me the same way the nurse had when I fell off the
jungle gym at school. She’d asked me a bunch of questions. I didn’t say much because
I rarely did, and she’d told Mom on the phone that I might’ve had a concussion.
I’d felt fine but Mom made me stay home for two days anyway. The worst part was,
I hadn’t been allowed to play video games.
“We’re in China,” I said. “A hundred and fifty miles from
where they took Mom and Tony, and maybe Dad. The plane was going to crash so we
went skydiving on a pallet. We hit the trees, end of story.” I wasn’t sure Timmy
was convinced, so I pushed to my feet, picked up my backpack, and added, “Oh,
and next time try not to be late to the party. Climbing up the rope kinda
rocked the boat.”
It had been a long time since I said that much in a single
stretch, but sometimes words were necessary.
Timmy sighed. Sarafina rose and gave me a long hug while I
took in our surroundings.
“The plane crashed a few seconds after we dropped through
the trees,” she said. “We heard the explosion.”
My first thoughts went to the pilots and guards. They’d been
bad men, but did they deserve to die? Were their families wondering about them
right now? We didn’t mean to kill them but we still made it happen. My stomach
felt queasy. I thought back to the stories I’d overheard about Dad and Tony and
the others and how many people had died because of them. If the deaths had left
scars on them, I hadn’t noticed, though sometimes during our get-togethers the
adults would move to the den and have a quiet drink together. They’d seem a little
sad afterward but it always went away soon enough. Somehow they’d put it behind
them, and I hoped I’d be able to do the same. I put the memory of the four dead
men in a drawer of its own, but for some reason it wouldn’t close all the way.
At least for now.
Even though it was the middle of the night, it was warm and
humid. The ground wasn’t damp but it felt soft. I heard the gurgle of a stream
nearby. There was lush vegetation everywhere and the trees were higher than a
three-story building, their upper branches intertwined to block out the
moonlight. Clouds of insects danced just out of reach of the flames from the
campfire.
“I told you he’d be all right,” Ahmed said with a pat on my
shoulder. He had a mosquito bite on his chin. “Now let’s get back to checking
out the cargo.”
Four of the six plastic crates were already hinged open.
There were a few pieces of straw packing material on the ground around them,
and even more around the perimeter of the campfire, which must’ve been started
with the straw. The open containers contained military supplies, which the
others had lined up on the tarp that had been used to cover the cargo. There
were canteens, belts, vests, backpacks, flashlights, binoculars, flares, and a
few other things I didn’t recognize. Timmy had already exchanged his loafers
for a pair of boots. A smaller wooden crate had been nestled among the others.
The lid had been pried off and six bottles of whiskey were inside, plus a bunch
of CDs.
Ahmed gasped when he opened the fifth container. He reached
in and pulled out an assault rifle, handling it with the same reverence a mother
would have for her newborn baby. I recognized it immediately from the Spider
game as an AK-47. It looked comfortable in my brother’s hands, and I remembered
him telling me about the training he’d received from Uncle Tony when they’d
been on their way to rescue us from the island. As Ahmed stood there sighting
down the weapon, with the pistol from the plane still tucked in his belt, the
angles and planes of his face seemed to grow sharper. It made me feel uneasy.
Sarafina edged closer to me.
There were five more rifles. Timmy set them aside to access
the twin metal containers beneath them.
“That’s gotta be the ammo and magazines,” Ahmed said
eagerly.
Timmy opened the first one to find a row of bulky cell
phones lined up in foam cushioning. “Thank you, Jesus,” he exclaimed. “They’re
satellite phones.” He pulled one out and opened the battery compartment. It was
empty, and he quickly snapped open the second metal container. “The batteries
must be in here.”
“Or the ammo,” Ahmed said.
But all they found were more phones. They rushed to the
final crate. Timmy snapped open the clasps, whisked aside the straw padding,
and pulled out a box labeled
mre
.
“What’s an MRE?” Sarafina asked.
“Meal Ready to Eat,” Timmy said. He dropped the box on the
ground and pulled out one after another until the crate was empty. “They’re all
MREs,” he said glumly.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Ahmed said, the AK-47 dangling
loosely at his side. “What good’s an assault rifle with no ammunition?”
“Or a sat phone with no batteries?” Timmy asked.
Ahmed paced. “What idiot packed these crates? It doesn’t
take a brain surgeon to know that a gun has to have bullets.” He shook the
weapon in the air. “Without them, this thing is worthless. They didn’t even
pack a bayonet with it. At least that would’ve been something. And a cell phone
with no batteries? Are we being punked right now? Is this just a bad dream? Or
are we really stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way to call for help and
no protection? After all we’ve been through, isn’t it about time we had a
little good luck for a change? I mean, come on, we’ve been kidnapped, drugged,
and carted halfway around the world. Our parents and friends have been taken
and we’re…”
My sister and I exchanged a glance and I could tell we were
both thinking the same thing. Ignoring Ahmed’s rant, we dropped to our knees
and each ripped open a box of MREs. They were filled with vacuum-sealed bags.
“I’ve got spaghetti and meatballs and pound cake.” She was
beaming.
“Mac ’n’ cheese,” I said, hugging the bag to my chest. It
was my favorite.
Ahmed continued, “Why does this kind of stuff always happen
to us? It’s not like we deserve it. Heck, we saved the world, didn’t we? What
more—”
He hesitated when Sarafina stood and waved one of the bags
of food in front of his face. “Brownies,” she said.
It was his soft spot and she knew it. It wasn’t her usual
method for stopping one of his rants but it worked just as well. His gaze
darted from the bag to her and then down at me. Finally, he bowed his head.
“Sorry.”
Timmy pulled out several packets of MREs and fanned them out
like a big deck of cards. “Dudes, at least we won’t go hungry.”
“First off, I’m not a dude,” Sarafina said, ripping open
the bag and handing Ahmed one of the brownies. “Secondly, we need something to
heat them up in.”
Ahmed stuffed the brownie in his mouth, his cheeks bulging
as he chewed. He set the rifle down and ripped open another bag. He peeked
inside and grinned, as if he’d needed to see for himself that there were plenty
of brownies available. Then he grabbed one of the canteens and unsnapped the
canvas cover to reveal the cooking pot the canteen was nested in. He said, still
chewing, “We can cook in these. And we can get water from the stream.” He
popped another brownie in his mouth.
I liked how they pulled together. It reminded me of the way
my dad was with his friends. I guess things weren’t as bad as they’d seemed. We
had food, water, and if I could get a look at the stars I could keep us heading
in the right direction to find our parents. Maybe we were finally in for some
good luck.
Timmy had just opened a bag of pound cake when a
deep-throated growl echoed from the trees.
The hiss of thousands of insects stopped, and it seemed as
if the world held its breath along with me.
Then a second growl joined the first.
“Bears,” Timmy whispered.
The growls were short and angry but they didn’t sound like
they were getting closer. Sarafina and I huddled by the fire while Timmy and
Ahmed worked frantically around our camp. They’d already stacked the cargo
crates in a semicircle behind us. It wasn’t much but it made me feel safer. Timmy
rushed from the darkness holding another armload of branches and sticks. He lowered
it quietly onto the pile next to the campfire.
“Keep feeding them into the flames,” he whispered. I nodded
and he raced after the beam from his flashlight and disappeared into the trees
on the far side of the clearing.
We tossed the sticks one at a time into the fire. Several of
the branches still had dead leaves sticking to them and the flames engulfed
them with a hiss of crackles and snaps. The fire grew and we inched back to
avoid the heat. Bears don’t like fire, Timmy had said, so we hoped the roaring
flames would keep them away.
Ahmed used his pocketknife to peel strips of bark from a
nearby tree. The bark appeared softer than I imagined it would be and he peeled
away another large layer. He brought over a double handful and dropped it
beside the two branches he’d already gathered. They were thicker than a broom
handle and about half as long.
“We’ll use these for handles,” he said quietly, whittling
off the stray branches from one end but leaving the nubs on the other end. He’d
learned how to make torches on a field trip with Uncle Becker and Dad. I wish
now I’d gone with them. Instead, I’d stayed home to play video games.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Sure, grab the tool and the wire from my pack.” He had what
Becker referred to as a survival kit in his backpack. It contained a
multipurpose tool, fishhooks, flint, wire for snares, a compass, and basic
first-aid stuff. It made me feel foolish for stuffing my favorite Transformer
figure in my own pack. I fished the bundle of wire and the tool out of Ahmed’s
pack and handed them over.
He unrolled a length of wire and snipped it with the tool.
Then he jabbed the end of one of the handles into the ground. “Hold this.”
I gripped the smooth end with both hands while he wrapped the
strips of bark around the other, impaling them on the nubs to hold them in
place. The bark seemed to bend easily around the stick.
“Aren’t they too wet?” Sarafina whispered. I could tell she
was trying to put on a brave face, but her quivering lower lip wasn’t
cooperating and her gaze kept darting to the darkness beyond the firelight. I moved
closer to her.
“No,” Ahmed said. “They’re filled with oil and resin so they
shed water.”
He wrapped several layers around the end and then wound the
wire around it to hold the bundle in place. When he was finished he stood and
swung it like a baseball bat, and I suspected he was imagining a bear towering
in front of him. It made me shiver, but watching him also gave me courage. After
several swings he appeared satisfied that the end wasn’t going to fly off. He
crouched down and started working on the second one.
“How long will they burn?” Sarafina asked.
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
Timmy returned and placed more wood on the stack. “That
should be enough to keep the fire going until sunrise.” He crouched beside us.
“When’s that?” Sarafina asked.
“Couple hours,” he said, holding up his wrist so we could
see his digital watch. It was 4:00 a.m. “I reset it based on the LCD on the
plane.” He helped Ahmed wind the wire around the second torch. When they
finished they leaned the torches against the crates, where they’d be within
easy reach.
The growls stopped all at once, and there was a rustle of
leaves and a series of low grunts. Something was running toward us.
Sarafina squeaked, wrapping her arms around me. Ahmed and
Timmy each grabbed a torch and dipped it into the fire. Flames engulfed the
wrapped bark and the two of them rose protectively in front of us. Ahmed used
his free hand to pull the pistol from his belt as he stepped to the other side
of the fire. Firelight reflected off his back as he took up a defensive stance—the
torch held forward and pistol at the ready—looking like a warrior from an
adventure movie.
Twigs snapped and a low shadow rocketed through the brush
just beyond the reach of our firelight. It was the size of a dog, snorting as
it charged by. I gulped. There was a ripple of leaves and several smaller shadows
chased it, zigging this way and that. Ahmed swept the torch in their direction
and I saw something with gray hide scamper into the bushes.