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THUNDER RUMBLED, ADDING its ominous soundtrack to the scene. The gray clouds contributed their part, brooding over the weathered buildings next to the Mission. A chilly breeze gusted now and then, warning of the impending storm.
Despite the threatening weather, the market area was filled with people, wandering in and out of the variety of shops. Amos waited with as much patience as he could muster next to the open door of a clothing merchant.
Jane was buying something. He could hear her haggling over the price.
Hurry up, Jane. Amos fidgeted, unsettled. If a storm hits now, everyone will scatter, and “hidden in plain sight” won’t mean a thing. Even now, protocol demanded they not stand out from the crowd.
Moments later, she rejoined him on the sidewalk. She held up the cap she’d purchased, looking pleased.
“It was your idea to get myself one of these,” she reminded him, molding the cap in her hands before donning it. “This, combined with my hoodie, and I’ll be practically unrecognizable.”
“The Enclave has security cameras everywhere,” Amos replied as they resumed their roundabout route to the drop-box. “The cap and hoodie will help, but you can’t rely on that. You’ll still need to be extra-vigilant.”
“This isn’t my first time in the field.” Some of Jane’s old fire flared. She nodded in the direction of an alley—just ahead and to their right. “Follow my lead. There’s something I want to check out before the drop-box.”
Amos navigated the turn with her, curious in spite of his unease. His inner voice fought to make itself heard, but he stifled it. His mouth felt dry, and he kept a diligent eye on their surroundings.
The narrow alley was almost indistinguishable to the one where the drop-box was hidden. The aging bricks crumbled at the edges, and the few doors and windows were boarded up or nailed shut.
A corroded garbage dumpster squatted in an intersection between backstreet alleys. Jane ducked behind it, shielding herself behind its rusty bulk as she peered around the corner. Amos followed suit, dropping to one knee to look over her shoulder, wondering what had piqued her curiosity.
Rancid odors stung his nostrils. Regular garbage collection had ceased in the Old City not long after the Enclaves were built. Despite the intervening years of disuse, the dumpster had managed to retain its foul aura.
It took him less than a second to spot the anomaly—a Hoarder truck parked in the alley. No, two trucks—Amos spied a second vehicle further down the backstreet.
He felt for the knife under his jacket. This won’t be much use against Hoarder weapons.
“I saw something black and shiny through the back door of the shop,” Jane whispered, taking stock of the scene. “And my guess was right. Hoarders—but what are they up to? They usually avoid this part of the City. They certainly don’t park in the back alleys.”
Amos opened his jacket, revealing the binoculars he’d slung around his neck before leaving the Hub. He focused on the rear of the nearest truck. The tailgate was open, and there was something odd about the cargo area . . .
“They’re coming out.” Jane elbowed him. Two Hoarders exited the nondescript back entrance opposite their position. They braced an unconscious woman between them, her limp arms slung over their shoulders.
They lifted her flaccid body into the rear of the truck, shoved her further in, and closed the tailgate. One of the Hoarders wiped his palms on his breeches and they shared a laugh.
Amos lowered his binoculars, sickened. He stuffed the lenses inside the front of his jacket and zipped it up.
Jane watched him through narrowed eyes. “See anyone you know?”
Amos shook his head. “Looks like Darcy’s not the only Hoarder collecting ‘cannon fodder.’ They’ve got three prisoners stowed in that truck.”
Jane’s face hardened, and she spat on the ground.
The Hoarder trucks slipped into motion, creeping down the back street with minimal speed—and noise—until they reached the next side alley. Bumper-to-bumper, the vehicles executed the turn and disappeared from view.
Amos counted under his breath. Three seconds elapsed before they heard the roaring engines and squealing tires that marked the return of typical Hoarder driving habits.
Jane turned her head, eyes wide. “Maybe it’s the Givers.”
Amos pictured the crude sketch Megan had drawn, their first clue to the Givers’ alien origin. “What makes you think that? Darcy probably has a team of Hoarders.”
Jane shook her head, an emphatic no. “This may have nothing to do with Darcy. These Hoarders . . . what if the Givers sent them? They lost a lot of Trackers during the attack. What if the Hoarders were here to collect replacements?”
Amos remembered the Hoarder convoy Aubrey had told them about. “If you’re right, the Hoarders stepping things up. Collecting raw material for the Trackers in broad daylight . . . that’s risky. They must be getting desperate.”
Jane rose to her feet, dusting her hands on her pants. “The drop-box.” She glared daggers after the Hoarders. “And then back to the Hub. Garr needs to hear about this.”
They made their way back to the street, blending in with the pedestrian traffic. Another low rumble of thunder underlined their need to hurry. Amos glanced at the clouds, trying to estimate how much time remained before another downpour.
“Watch where you’re going.” Jane’s brusque warning coincided with his near-collision with an elderly couple as they exited a grocer shop. Amos mumbled an apology and skirted around the nervous couple.
He glanced ahead and spotted a glint of red light. It winked out a fraction of a second later, restoring its owner’s benign, human appearance. He was about the same height and build as Amos, perhaps within a year or two of his age.
He was heading straight for them.
Amos felt Jane’s wiry fingers close in a punishing grip on his hand. She’d seen it, too. His heart raced, and adrenaline spiked as his flight-or-fight instincts took hold.
He clutched Jane’s hand with equal fierceness, guiding her subtly closer to the curb. He kept his breathing normal, his steps unhurried and steady. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
My Implant’s long gone. Jane’s never had an Implant. It’s not scanning for us. It’s not scanning for us . . .
The Tracker passed by without a glance in their direction, weaving his way through the human traffic. Amos didn’t dare turn to see where the creature went.
He maintained the same pace, and Jane matched his steps.
The drop-box will have to wait.