The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) (19 page)

“I guess it could work,” Eugene concedes, “if you have a good memory.”

“There aren’t that many of us,” Hillary says. “Even I could do it, and I’m a bit of a recluse. Thomas is new, so he’s recently been explicitly introduced to everyone by his girlfriend, who’s our official social butterfly.”

“Who’s the girlfriend?” I ask, although I already suspect the answer.

“Liz, of course.” Hillary smiles. “You didn’t figure that out?”

“No, not really. The fact that he’s her patient kind of threw me off,” I say, hoping I don’t piss off Thomas. Now that I think about it, I realize that the lack of significant-other pictures in Liz’s office is explained by the semi-forbidden nature of her relationship with Thomas. Obviously, she wouldn’t want to acknowledge him as her boyfriend in the work setting.

“Focus, people,” Thomas interrupts. “I need your heads in the game. You can gossip later, when we’re done with this.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Hillary salutes him.

Mira watches the whole exchange with a strange expression on her face. I wonder if her world just became more complicated. Before meeting these two, she’d thought all Pushers were evil, so everything was simple and clearcut. But now she’s met her so-called enemies, and they—especially my aunt—probably don’t fit Mira’s evil-villain stereotype.

Thomas leaves, ignoring Hillary’s mockery. As he moves a few feet away, he becomes difficult to see in the crowd. This place is much too packed to suit me.

“We have a lot of work to do,” I say, looking over the crowd.

“Then let’s start working instead of talking,” Mira says and approaches a buff-looking guy to the right of us.

“She just skipped those four people,” Hillary says, pointing at two elderly couples nearest us.

“Right, they’re the Russian Mafia, for sure,” I say, unable to resist a snarky tone. “I know you said we need to identify the mobsters in the crowd, particularly if any are trying to be stealthy, but I’m pretty sure they’re all going to be much younger than these four.”

This is the part of Hillary’s plan that found good use for Mira and Eugene. They’re supposed to help identify the gangsters in this crowd by Reading. I have my doubts about this being necessary, as I suspect mobsters won’t be trying for stealth. I bet we’ll find them hanging out together someplace. Still, since finding a use for Mira and Eugene meant they got to come along, I kept my mouth shut.

In any case, if any Russian gangsters are found in this way, Hillary will supply them with some special instructions. Then my aunt, Thomas, and I will instruct everyone else to leave the bridge as fast as humanly possible, but in an orderly fashion. This way, we’ll clear the place of any innocent bystanders.

“It’s ageism,” Hillary says stubbornly, interrupting my thought process. “You’re implying that people of a certain age are not capable of something that someone younger can do. And where do you draw the age line? Fifty? Sixty?”

“Hillary, we might end up spending a day in the Mind Dimension if we check every single one of these people,” I say, trying to placate her. “Let’s say, due to this profiling, you tell a mobster or two to evacuate the bridge by mistake. It won’t be the end of the world.”

“Fine,” she says and approaches the elderly couples.

Because Hillary can do her thing by a simple touch, Mira, Eugene, and I leave all the unlikely candidates for her.

I get to my job, which combines Guiding uninvolved people to evacuate with the work Mira and Eugene are doing—since, like them, I can Read.

I approach the first candidate, a muscular guy, with a scar on his cheek. He, in theory, could be one of Arkady’s men.

I touch his forearm and concentrate.

* * *

We worry about the white lies we put in our dating profile. Particularly those lies by omission.

Will she want to date a war vet? And if so, what about a vet who might actually have PTSD? Or do we have panic attacks? Would the difference even matter to her?

I disassociate with the conclusion that this one is not a mobster.

That established, I begin part two.

‘The date is going to happen in Battery Park instead of here. It’s a much longer walk and probably much less crowded. Text the date and change the venue. Walk off the bridge in an orderly fashion. Focus on not trampling anyone. When you begin to have the next PTSD episode or a panic attack, you’ll feel relaxed, the anxiety will leave your body, and you’ll begin to forget what caused this problem in the first place.’

Convinced the guy will leave the bridge and potentially have less of a PTSD problem, I exit his head.

* * *

One down, hundreds more to go. I take out a magic marker that I got from a pack Thomas had in his glove compartment, and put a big X on this guy’s head. This way, Hillary will know he’s been processed already. Eugene is putting a circle on his targets’ heads to signify that they’re clean and should be Guided to evacuate. Mira is using lipstick to draw her circles. In case it isn’t obvious, the forehead marking was my idea.

I look around and see a guy with a shaved head. He looks more like an athlete, but it’s feasible that he could be a mobster. He becomes my next target.

I quickly learn that the athlete is actually a plumber with a bodybuilding hobby. More importantly, though, he’s not a criminal of any kind.

I am out of his head and ready to draw my X when I get approached by Thomas.

“I checked about a quarter of the bridge and didn’t see anyone I recognize,” he says. “How are things going back here?”

“Just look at the foreheads. These two big guys are clean,” I say.

“Those four over there also,” Eugene says, overhearing our conversation.

“That guy too,” Mira adds from a few feet away. “And that woman.”

Why she even checked a woman, I have no idea, but I don’t say anything lest Hillary accuse me of sexism this time.

“I just took care of those elderly people and two children,” Hillary says. “Even if we skip the unlikely targets, as Darren suggested, this will take a really long while. I didn’t anticipate this many people being here.”

“It’s not like we’re getting older or missing any appointments, with the time stopped and all,” Eugene says.

“True, but this can be very tedious,” I say. “We might need to get more selective in our choices. Rather than just younger, buffer men, why don’t we focus on ones that have a criminal look to them also?”

“That’s even worse profiling,” Hillary says unhappily. “And it can lead to a lot more mobsters walking away. I’m not comfortable with that.”

“I have an idea that can at least take care of the second problem,” Thomas says. “We can add a compulsion for anyone remotely suspicious to give up their gun to the next police officer they see.”

“That’s clever,” Hillary says, looking relieved. “People without guns simply won’t comply. They won’t have the context for the induction. So only the guilty will be impacted.”

“Of course, some mobsters might not have a gun,” I say. “And some innocent people might have a permit to carry a concealed weapon.”

“What kind of criminals would they be without guns? But if they are, I say it’s their lucky day—they get away free,” Eugene says. “And the people who lawfully carry a concealed gun will end up showing their permit to the cops, get a breathalyzer test for doing something so wacky, and get let go. No harm, no foul.”

“I agree,” Mira says. “If we miss a few, it’s not going to be that big of a deal.”

“We still need a good number of mobsters to deal with the Guide. He might not be here alone,” Thomas reminds us.

The plan is to have a bunch of Russian mobsters prohibit the Guide from leaving the bridge. Because Hillary is going to command them, in theory at least, the Guide we’re targeting won’t be able to override her because of her longer Reach. That’s why she’s so critical for this plan—and why I’m supposed to give any real mobster I find to her.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Mira says. “Most likely, the men we saw at that table in the banya are all here in one large group, and there will be plenty for that part of the plan.”

“Okay, then that settles it,” says Thomas. “I’ll also take part in the evacuation now that we have a better way of doing it.”

“Just mark up the people as you finish with them, like these guys have been doing, so we don’t duplicate our efforts,” Hillary says.

“Does anyone have anything to write with?” Thomas says.

“Here, use my eye shadow pencil,” Mira says, handing him the strange writing instrument.

She uses way too much makeup, I decide. Especially since I know for a fact she looks amazing without it. I saw her first thing in the morning the other day, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. Unless she sleeps with makeup on. Can that be done?

“Put an X on the foreheads of everyone you Guided to evacuate,” I remind Thomas as he takes Mira’s pencil.

He walks off, saying nothing about the indignity of this marking. He had a problem with this part when we were talking about Hillary’s plan. Indeed, he had an even bigger problem with my original idea for this—taking people’s pants off, or just pushing them to the ground, like logs. This current system is actually a compromise.

I choose two new potentials. Both end up being civilians, and both get instructions to get off the bridge and give their concealed guns to the next police officer they see. Both get marked.

I fleetingly wonder how many non-mobster people who happen to have illegally concealed guns will end up getting into trouble today because of us. Oh well, that’s their problem for carrying a gun without a permit.

I’m approaching my next target when I feel a delicate hand on my shoulder. “Darren, I wanted to speak to you,” Mira says quietly when I turn to face her.

“What’s up?” I ask, matching her volume.

“When we find the Pusher, the one responsible for my parents’ death, I’m not going to follow the plan,” she says, standing up on tiptoes to speak almost directly into my ear.

“Mira, please, this is a good plan. Don’t do anything rash,” I say, my heart beating faster—and not just because of her soft lips brushing sensually against my ear.

“I’m not an idiot,” she whispers. “I’m going to wait until he’s trapped first. But once he’s trapped, instead of handing him over to the rest of the Pushers like Hillary wants, I’m going to kill him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, confused as to why she’s even telling me this. I’d wondered why Mira took that portion of the plan so calmly, given her desire for vengeance. Now I know. She never intended to go along with it. She wanted to double cross Hillary and Thomas.

“I’ll need your help,” she says. “I’ll need you to lock the car after I run out, and slow them down in any way possible.”

“No, Mira, I don’t think I can do that,” I say. “But how about this? As soon as we get back to reality, I’ll Split and pull you in. Then we can talk about this. Okay? Promise you won’t act until we talk?”

“Fine, we’ll talk,” she whispers. “But with or without your help, Arkady and the Pusher are not leaving this bridge alive.”

And before I get a chance to respond, she walks away.

Thomas was right; we should’ve come without her. It’s too late now, though. Maybe I can do something to stop her, like locking the car
before
she runs out. I can also phase out and warn Thomas and Hillary. But Mira trusted me, and I’m having a hard time picturing myself betraying her trust like that. Plus, there’s a tiny part of me that agrees with her. My aunt is much too peaceful. Arkady’s men repeatedly tried to kill me and my friends, and it was the Pusher who was pulling their strings. If those two die, I won’t cry over them at all.

I walk further, avoiding a few people Thomas had marked, and head toward a small clearing in the crowd. Thanks to the clearing, I see Thomas in the distance.

And that’s when I register the sight in front of me.

It’s as Mira suspected.

All the Russian goons from the banya are standing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge. Only they’re dressed now and very likely armed.

There’s a clearing around them, probably because people were instinctively giving this group a wide berth. I don’t blame the prudent pedestrians. I would’ve avoided these Russians myself.

Approaching them, I put circles on each forehead with an X underneath. A sort of skull and bones mark I came up with to signify the mobsters. None of them were otherwise marked, which means that Thomas isn’t insane in his profiling. He rightfully realized these aren’t innocent bystanders.

Now we need Hillary.

“Hillary,” I yell, looking back. “Best come take a look at this. I think we’re pretty much done with one part of the plan.”

I see a tiny hand wave above the crowd for a moment. Did my aunt have to jump to make that happen? Or did Eugene lift her?

I decide to follow Thomas and tell him the news, because it doesn’t seem like he heard me yell for Hillary.

As I head in his direction, I see Thomas.

He’s touching someone.

Someone I recognize.

“Thomas, no! Stop!” I yell, hoping it’s not too late.

But it is.

In a moment, we’re going to have a new presence in the Quiet—someone who shouldn’t be here at all.

I rudely push aside the people in my way, trying to get closer. As if getting closer is going to change anything.

Thomas’s hand is resting on Jacob’s shoulder, his fingers almost brushing against the man’s neck.

Yes, Jacob—the leader of the Reader community. The man who gave me that ‘no disclosure of powers’ lecture the other day and mentioned the name of my father.

The last person I expected to see on this bridge.

I look closer and get another surprise. Next to Jacob is Sam, the guy Caleb mentioned as potentially helping us. A man Caleb called a machine. That Jacob is with Sam makes sense. Sam is security, like Caleb. But the fact they’re
here
makes no sense at all.

The world seems to slow, even in the Quiet—or maybe it’s just my thoughts that speed up.

Did Caleb call in Sam despite my being against it? No, that wouldn’t explain anything. I never told Caleb any details about this meeting. It has to be something else.

Did Eugene talk to Julia after all, and did she tell everything to her father? Eugene never left my sight, but maybe he did it in the Quiet? Would Eugene be so stupid? I can’t imagine that he would be. There must be another explanation.

Then I wonder if the Readers might be after the same Pusher as us, for their own reasons, and they’re here trying to get him too. This is a more plausible guess, but the coincidence of it would be too great. And why only Jacob and Sam? Why wouldn’t they bring Caleb’s whole team, plus the man himself?

And then I notice a briefcase in Jacob’s hand.

A briefcase. The man on the phone was supposed to bring money for Arkady, and a briefcase seems like a good way to transport bundles of cash.

Can it be?

Is it possible that instead of a powerful Pusher, it had been Jacob—a Reader
—
on the phone?

That would explain why the mysterious puppet-master used the phone in the first place. True, it’s easier to call people than walk over and touch them in the Quiet, but phone calls are easier to trace, and the mastermind in all this always seemed to be extra paranoid. And why waste money on a convoluted hit list if you can just make Arkady kill whomever you want for free?

If Jacob is the man on the phone, everything changes.

Thomas is within an inch of touching Jacob. I take out my gun, confused thoughts still buzzing in my head.

Could it have been Jacob who ordered me to be shot? Maybe he saw my resemblance to my father? He did mention on Skype that I looked familiar. If he knew whom my father married, it’s not a big leap to assume that I’m a hybrid. And what could be worse than a hybrid to a Purist like Jacob? Not much, I imagine. Is it possible that Jacob had Caleb bring me to him in order to observe my reaction to the name
Mark Robinson
? With hindsight, it does make sense. There was no reason for Jacob to personally warn me against revealing my powers; Caleb or any other Reader could’ve done that.

As I think these thoughts, the fear that overtakes me is so intense, I half-expect to phase into the Quiet—except I’m already there. So I don’t phase; I just feel odd as the feeling intensifies. Phasing must provide me some relief in tense moments like these because I’ve never felt so much like jumping out of my skin before.

And then I see a second, not-frozen Jacob show up behind Thomas. This Jacob looks around him in confusion for only a moment. When he sees Thomas touching his frozen body, he seems to realize what happened. I can tell what he’s thinking: someone pulled him into the Quiet.

Someone he doesn’t recognize.

If Jacob’s here for the reason I suspect, then he’ll be scared now. He’ll be feeling cornered.

For my part, the feeling is one of stunned immobility. I watch, in a trance-like state, as Jacob jumps back. He throws the briefcase he’s been holding to the side, and begins to reach with the freed hand into the back of his pants.

When the briefcase hits the ground, it breaks open. Bundles of hundred-dollar bills spill onto the pavement.

There’s no longer any doubt.

Jacob
is
the man on the phone—the paymaster for whom we laid this trap.

And that means Thomas is in danger, I realize instantly. We all are.

Metal flashes as Jacob removes his hand from the back of his pants. He’s holding a gun now.

Why hasn’t Thomas turned around already?
I think in mute terror. Couldn’t he hear the sound of the briefcase landing and splitting open? Or is he so focused on the Guiding that he’s oblivious to his surroundings?

I raise my own gun and fire, aiming upwards.

It would’ve been better to shoot at Jacob perhaps, but I don’t trust my marksmanship skills. Not with him so close to Thomas. Besides, I’d rather wound Jacob than kill him. That, unlike death, is reversible upon phasing out and would allow us to ask Jacob several pertinent questions.

The noise of my gun is deafening. It’s like a roar of thunder, made stronger by the fact that my ears had adjusted to the almost absolute silence of the Quiet.

Thomas instantly turns around—which, of course, was my intent. There’s no way he could’ve missed
that
terrible noise.

Everything that follows happens with astonishing speed.

Thomas turns and sees the man he just tried to Guide standing behind him, holding a gun. I would’ve expected Thomas to be confused, but instead, his reaction is lightning-fast.

With one swift motion, Thomas kicks the gun out of Jacob’s hand. I wonder if my gunshot disoriented Jacob, causing him to become an easy target for that kick. Some Caleb-and-Haim-forged part of my mind also registers an extra detail about Thomas’s maneuver.

It was a kickboxing move.

Almost immediately, Thomas punches the now-disarmed Jacob in the face.

That’s a traditional boxing uppercut, the same fight-attuned part of my brain informs me.

Jacob staggers backwards. His movements seem to slow. That hit must’ve really taken his brain for a spin.

Thomas closes the distance between them in one powerful lunge and executes another punch. Boxing again, but this time mixed with something I can’t even place.

Jacob staggers back again and falls. He looks drunk, like boxers do when they get that final knockout punch. Only he doesn’t stay down. Instead, he begins crawling on the ground a little to the left of Thomas.

I see Thomas watching him. It’s hard for me to tell if the expression on Thomas’s face is disgust or pity, but what’s clear is that he’s not hurting Jacob for the moment. Maybe, like me, he wants him alive for questioning. Otherwise, it would be an easy thing for him to end the fight with just a single shot, or even a few well-placed kicks.

But then I understand what Jacob is trying to do.

“Kick him!” I try to scream at Thomas, but my voice is hoarse. Seeing that Thomas doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t understand what I’m saying, I raise my gun and point it at Jacob. At the last moment, I hesitate. I still don’t trust my aim, and they’re way too close to each other. So instead of shooting, I clear my throat, preparing to let out the loudest scream of my life. At the same time, Jacob speeds up his crawl, and his hand is by Sam’s pant leg.

Jacob is about to pull Sam into the Quiet.

“Fucking shoot him, Thomas!” I scream, this time loudly. “Now!”

Thomas looks at me instead. I point at Jacob with an exaggerated gesture and slice the edge of my palm across my throat in the universal ‘kill him’ signal. Nodding, Thomas turns toward Jacob and raises his gun.

Only it’s too late. Jacob rolls up Sam’s jeans and grabs the big man’s ankle.

“Watch out!” I yell at Thomas again. I also ready my own gun, determined to risk taking that shot if I have to. If Caleb is to be believed, Sam’s a much more dangerous opponent than Jacob. He’s on par with Caleb himself—and I’ve seen what Caleb can do. It’s ironic that the man we almost asked for help is the very one we need help from.

I try to focus. I can’t miss the moment Sam materializes in the Quiet. When he does, I’m taking my chances with my aim. There’s no other choice.

Meanwhile, Thomas, after a brief hesitation, shoots Jacob in the chest. I’m startled by the noise, and also shocked by this turn, even though I was the one who suggested it. I hope that Thomas knows what Jacob just did, that he pulled in reinforcements. Is that why Thomas made that shot? Did he make a decision to keep his enemy’s numbers controllable?

I’m still looking around for Sam, and so is Thomas.

And then another gunshot threatens to damage my eardrums. I look around and see, in absolute horror, that Thomas is clutching his chest. There is a circle of red spreading there.

No. This can’t be happening.
That’s the only thought in my mind as Thomas makes a whimpering sound and slowly falls to his knees.

“No!” I hear a high-pitched voice echoing my thought from a foot away from me. It must be Hillary and the others, catching up with us. I have no time to check, however.

Now that Thomas is on his knees, I see where Sam materialized in the Quiet. He was directly behind Thomas from my vantage point. That’s why I heard the shot, but didn’t see the shooter.

The shooter who’s now looking in my general direction and carefully aiming his gun.

I fire. The good news is that I at least don’t shoot Thomas. He’s still clutching his chest, but the fact that he’s still upright, albeit on his knees, fills me with a sliver of hope. Maybe Sam’s bullet went through his body without damaging any vital organs? Maybe it’s just a flesh wound?

The bad news is that I clearly missed Sam, because he’s standing unharmed.

Standing unharmed and firing his own gun—which is pointed at me.

Sam’s gunshot is the scariest sound I have ever heard in my life. It seems to vibrate and fill my very being with dread. But as the feeling that my ears might bleed fades, I realize that I’m intact.

And then I see why.

Sam wasn’t aiming at me. He was aiming at Thomas. I’m numb with disbelief as I watch Thomas falling to the ground, a pool of blood forming around his head.

The enormity of this loss is worsened by the knowledge that Thomas was the only one of us who would’ve stood a chance against Sam. And now Thomas is dead.

And we’re fucked.

As I stand there, dazed, I see a gun appear from behind me. I recognize the slender long-fingered hands holding the weapon.

It’s Mira’s hands.

As I register this fact, she pulls the trigger.

At the same time, Sam does some military maneuver, where he rolls on the floor. I’ve seen this in movies, but never in the real life. Mira’s shot must’ve missed him because I see Sam roll up to Thomas’s dead body and turn it sideways, using our dead friend’s body as a makeshift shield.

Sick with dread, I aim and take another shot. At the same time, two more shots get fired. It must be Eugene and Mira shooting at the same time, I realize vaguely.

“Darren, run!” Hillary yells, and I hear her acting on her suggestion.

“We should follow her.” It’s Eugene, sounding frantic.

I hear the sound of his departing feet, and then Mira yells, “We should cover them!” and fires another shot at Sam.

I glance back to see Mira backing away. I follow her example, shooting in the general direction of Sam as I begin to back away myself.

Sam peeks from his hiding place and fires another shot. I brace for the pain, but instead I hear an agonized shriek behind me.

From where Eugene and Hillary are.

Forgetting about creating the cover fire, I rush toward my friends. Mira does the same.

We see Eugene standing over Hillary, who’s on the ground.

“She’s alive,” Eugene says quickly. “It’s her leg. She’s been shot in the knee.”

He must be babbling in shock because it’s obvious my aunt is alive. She’s wailing like a banshee and clutching her leg.

In shock myself, I realize that I’ve kept my eyes off Sam for too long. I turn around—and see Sam standing much closer to us. Having abandoned his makeshift human shield, he’s now in a half-kneeling position, using his knee to stabilize his gun while aiming at us.

Both Mira and I raise our guns in unison and fire. Sam’s own shot echoes ours.

I brace for pain, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I hear a thumping sound nearby. I again feel like I’m about to phase into the Quiet, only this time the feeling of frustration at it not happening is even more intense. Filled with terror, I look back. The pavement behind me is covered with blood.

And then I see its source.

It’s Eugene. He’s on the ground, convulsing, blood and brain matter seeping out from what’s left of his head.

I feel sick, but I can’t vomit. My brain feels woolen, my thoughts slow with stunned disbelief. Surely this is just a nightmare that I’ll wake up screaming from. Eugene can’t be dead. He can’t be. It’s only now that I realize how much I liked him. How I had begun to think of him as a friend. He can’t be gone.

But I don’t wake up in bed screaming. Instead, I turn and shoot again, over and over, trying to channel my hatred for Sam into every bullet.

The fucker seems unharmed, however. He’s impossible to hit, with all the stupid rolling maneuvers that he does. I shoot again, but he rolls forward, doing something that looks almost like a somersault.

When he lands, I squeeze the trigger again, but my gun makes an empty clicking sound.

“Run, Darren!” Mira yells, taking a step forward. “You need to get out. Before he gets you too.”

She takes careful aim and shoots. I hear a grunt and see Sam clutching his hand. Mira managed to hit his gun hand. I feel a wave of relief.

Emboldened by her success, Mira shoots again, but this time she misses. Sam does another one of those cursed rolls.

“Run, I said!” Mira screams, but I can’t bring myself to move. Does she really expect me to leave her to fight Sam on her own? No fucking way.

And then it hits me. Maybe I do have to do what Mira says. If I get out in time, get back to my frozen self in the car, and phase us all out of the Quiet, I can at least save Hillary. No matter what damage Hillary received here in the Quiet, once she’s pulled out of it, she’ll be whole again. But what about Mira? If I leave her behind, she might be dead before I can get us all out.