Saturday Morning: Yesterday
“South Station?” Kyle asks for the second time as we climb the escalator.
I adjust my backpack, allowing some guy who’s running up the moving stairs to pass. “Just for a minute. I need the bathroom.”
“Fine, but I need coffee.”
I consider suggesting he wait for a real place to get breakfast, then I stop myself. South Station is as good a place to do this as any. Maybe better than any. Once I’ve explained everything, we can hop on a train and get far away before anyone traces me here.
Yeah, Kyle is best off grabbing some coffee now. Get that caffeine into his blood system before I freak the shit out of him.
“Coffee sounds good,” I say as we get off the escalator. “Meet you out here in a minute.”
He heads off toward the food stalls while I head right toward the restrooms. It’s crowded in here. I wouldn’t have thought it would be this hopping on a Saturday morning, but there are lots of people with suitcases milling about and others who talk about Christmas shopping.
Oh, to be normal and free.
I grab an empty stall, lock the door and hang my backpack on the hook. Tempted as I was to do this next part in the dorm bathroom, in the end I decided it was too risky. If something went wrong or someone barged in, I’d have a lot of explaining to do. Here, I’m among strangers, and strangers take no notice of one college student in a city with more than its fair share of universities. Anonymity is a spy’s best friend.
I set my supplies on top of my backpack like a surgeon: two cotton balls, pre-soaked in alcohol; a utility knife; and a handful of bandages. Nurse, prep the patient.
I pull my ponytail higher, annoyed at the wisps of hair that cling to my neck. Then I wipe down the spot on the back of my neck with the cotton, and then wipe down the knife blade. With the handle between my lips, I toss the cotton and the baggie I brought into the trash. At last, I peel open one of the bandages so it’s ready, and take the knife handle.
And hesitate. There’s no going back after this.
That’s a good thing. So get on with it.
I feel out the tracker’s spot on the back of my neck, a tiny lump right under the skin. After three and a half months, I fear it’s going to be well-adhered to the tissue, but I can do this. Pain is nothing. I can block out pain.
So I slice into my skin. The pain registers—hot like the blood that flows down my neck, and sharp—but it passes by my awareness and goes directly into memory storage. My slick fingers fumble over the tiny metal chip, and finally it pops out.
My world blackens for a second, blinks into nothingness then reappears. Weird. Thinking nothing else of it, I stick the knife handle back in my mouth, wrap the tracker in toilet paper and drop it into the toilet. Done. Now I’m free too.
I blot up the blood, slap the bandage over my cut, and stick the knife and extra bandages in my pack.
Blink.
There I go with the blackening again, this time accompanied by a tingly sensation at the back of my head. Definitely weird. I grab my backpack. Time for the real unpleasant part—explaining everything to Kyle.
Blink.
No. Oh, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Blink. Longer this time.
Shit. They must have done something to me. RedZone must have put some kind of fail-safe on the tracker. A trap. I should have known.
Must get to Kyle. Must warn him. Nothing else matters now.
Blink. I fall forward, fumbling for the door latch. My forehead collides with the coat hook. All I see is the gray paint, then black. The blink lasts too long.
It lasts forever.
When I open my eyes, my forehead throbs. And I am lost.