Since I ride this motorbike more often than Marcus, he should just give it up. With its newly added tech and raw design, it’s more my type of machine anyway. The engine vibrates against my thighs, barely making a sound. And that’s what I like best of all, the soothing silence, which makes it easy to lose myself in the ride. Regardless of ownership, Marcus was happy enough to let it go for however long I’m gone, which suited me. If I had ported, the coordinates would have been traceable.
With this baby there’s no risk of anyone following, of me dragging anyone else into this fight with my brother and my asshole of a father. This battle is mine alone. If Mae had known my intentions, she would have come too and there’s no way that’s happening. I have to keep her safe, well away from both of them. I flick on the new tech Marcus fitted to the machine, and a shiver moves over me, similar to the feel of activating Mae’s cover-up. Works the same too. The entire motorbike should now be invisible with absolutely no chance of being followed. Lucky there’s not a lot of traffic in the middle of the night. Marcus couldn’t have thought about the dangers of an invisible vehicle cruising along the highway. I flick it back off quickly; wouldn’t want to alert the Collective or anyone else to my whereabouts. They’d be continually scanning for tech use.
Even though it was hard to do, it’s good I left. Now Mae will have time to think. The night stretches before me, the ride dragging on. By the time I reach my destination, the sun hangs well above the horizon and the need for sleep makes my eyes feel gritty.
A hide-all shimmering ever-so-slightly around the parking lot means I’m in the right place. I ride right through the barrier, designed to cloak tech use, and into the lot that holds only two other vehicles—a white van and a blue pickup—although there is room for hundreds more. An empty crisp packet tumbles through the open space, spurred on by the cool wind. I shove my hands into my jacket and pull it closed.
A billion cracks cutting through the lot show just how much it’s used: never. I stomp down the weeds growing between the fractured tar as I cross to the old warehouse, complete with broken windows and graffiti scrawled over its walls. Homing in on the only door, its green paint peeling to show a metal base, I stare for a few minutes, unsure how to gain entry. A solid metal bar spans from one side to the other, shot home into the frame. I take a step back and look up. Every second window on the next floor is broken, frosted glass shards surround the edges of the smaller frames inside the larger windows. Down here on the ground everything’s boarded up, but looking closely, there are signs of use; little things that make it obvious people live here. An unbroken window with dust smeared over the pane, leaving a convenient peephole right in the center. On the third window to the left of the door, there is a semicircular groove in a board and a dark stain at its side, as if touched in the same place over and over. That’s got to be the entry point.
Before I’m even at the board, I spot the sign of resistance: a small green symbol in the top left-hand corner of the door. The overlapping arrows sit snugly inside the circle, their points touching the edge, symbolic of the equality for which we fight the Collective. No one body of people is worth more than another. Within the circle, we’re all equal, or at least that’s how it should be.
I’ve definitely come to the right place. Having only been here by road once, ages ago, I wasn’t certain that I’d find it.
I grab the wooden board, my hand covering the grimy, well-used spot. It swings no more than an inch before the click of a bullet entering a chamber stops me cold.
What’s the code word? I never thought to ask Beau before leaving. Coming and going on the farm is so simple. Out there, pretty much the only way people arrive is by porting, and the hide-all means Collective can’t find us. If you port in, you’re resistance. I drum my fingers against the board.
“Beau will have your ass if you take out his best man.” I aim for confidence, letting the board drop and turn around making strong eye contact with the kid taking aim at my chest. His eyes dart from left to right and his fingers fidget on the trigger.
“Beau who?” he says.
A shadow of crazy clouds his eye. I’ve got to play this right. I half-shrug, an attempt to cover my twitching nerves. This kid could put a bullet right through me if he thinks I’m Collective, maybe even if he thinks I’m just an innocent trespasser.
He darts a glance over his shoulder, then back to the left before returning to look at me.
“Fairsmith.”
He stabs my chest with the barrel. “Get inside.”
I swing the makeshift door aside and step through the window. Darkness clouds my vision for a few seconds before my eyes adjust to the dim light.
“Get the gun off of him, Johnny. That’s Beau’s boy.”
A man walks out of the shadows, older—maybe around Beau’s age, or a little younger. He looks tired, worn. His long gray hair is tied back at the nape of his neck and a thick mustache lines his upper lip. Frank.
The kid drops his weapon and I roll my shoulders back.
“Told ya,” I say to Johnny. “The best.”
He grunts and spits on the concrete floor then walks away. Once he’s out of earshot, I say, “That one leans toward crazy. Might want to watch him.”
“That’s not your concern.” Frank hooks a thumb in his belt. “What are you doing here? Have you got a message?”
“If I had a message would I’ve rode in?”
“Cut the smart mouth attitude, boy. What’s going on?”
I suck back a breath. Looks like it’ll be a long month—or however long I stay. “Congratulations, the cavalry’s here.”
Frank shakes his head. “You’re it? Just . . . one lousy teenager?”
I smile.
“Great,” he says, “we’ve got Collective attacks every two minutes and refugees coming out the wazoo and you’re all they can spare from down south. Just frickin’ great.”
“Well . . .” I turn away. “I guess I’ll go home if you don’t want me.”
“No.” Frank holds up a hand. “No, I don’t mean that. It’s just . . .” He sighs. “I need twenty men, not one.”
I shrug. “I’ll try.”
“I could use you right now . . .” He nods toward a corner of the huge warehouse where two men sit on upturned crates. “We work on a shift system and this one’s a little light. Jump in over there now.”
I give a curt nod and walk over to the port equipment, which looks pretty ancient. The computer’s not only a block, but covered in grime. There is a tall, skinny guy who looks like he should be in the shop with Marcus—probably got something to do with his evolution of man T-shirt. Another man, Spinner as he introduces himself, has huge knuckles and gray hair, and drops his knife every second spin as he tries to flip it around his aged fingers. It’s no wonder Frank called for backup.
I take a seat and try not to stare at either one of them. Despite what Frank said, the attacks aren’t every two minutes and no more frequent than the ones back home, it seems since nothing happens for the next hour.
My head pounds with fatigue.
The clatter of Spinner’s knife on the cement floor jars me back into wakefulness.
Probably a good thing.
“Hoi, new kid,” Spinner says, “You won’t last long if you can’t stay awake on the job.”
My glare catches his tight smile. I had a long night, but he doesn’t need to know that. These people don’t need to know a damn thing about me. If I could, I would have disappeared someplace alone. But I can’t beat Nik to the keys without tech at my fingertips. Couldn’t beat him in the stupid games without it when we were kids, so I sure as hell won’t now. Back then, our father would hide an object somewhere within the walls of the Collective Agoge then set us to find it. The only rule was that the winner got to beat the crap out of the loser. Not really a prize, but more of a punishment. Besides, Spinner’s got a point. Right now innocent lives are being lost at the hands of the Collective. I can’t just stand by and let that play out. I should be more alert.
After a solid hour of nothing happening, a couple of chicks come to relieve us, thankfully. I need sleep. I barely dozed when lying on the roof with Mae. No way I could have, not with her back pressed against me as her breathing slowed. She slept, but the feel of her body so close to mine was distracting, and soaking the moment in before I left, was a better choice. An ache rises inside me and I push it aside.
Then start walking away.
“Hey,” the skinny guy yells after me, “I’m Harris.”
For a split second, I think about giving a false name, but Frank knows me, so I can’t even pretend to be someone else. Let’s hope knowledge of my blood ties haven’t preceded me.
“Jax.” If he knows, it doesn’t show in his face. He doesn’t even blink.
“Well, Jax, you’ve got to be hungry and you look tired. How about something to eat and then we’ll find you a bed?”
This guy is a godsend. Shouldn’t have judged him by that evolution shirt.
“Thanks. That’d be great.”
Harris shows me to a small room out the back that holds a tiny kitchen. It doesn’t have the luxuries of a full-sized food prep area, just a fridge, microwave and sink. A portable gas burner sits in the corner and he whips out a box of mac and cheese which he proceeds to heat up.
“Where are you from?” Harris hands me a steaming pot.
I take it and start feeding my face. “South.”
“Where in the south?”
I point to my full mouth—which is so hot my tongue stings—while he waits for an answer I don’t intend to give. When I’ve swallowed the pasta, I ask the question that will help me figure out a plan of attack. “So, are you guys on shifts around the clock?”
“Nah.” He stuffs food into his mouth. “Night attacks are rare. Frank takes watch alone from eleven to six ’cause nothing ever happens.”
Perfect. Only one person to get past.
He glances at the empty camping pot in my hand. “You want more?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
He stands, carrying his meal with him. “Let’s find you a bed then.”
Harris points me toward a room, which is huge and more like another part of the warehouse floor than a separate space. The building isn’t as big as I’d first thought, and has no staircase in sight. The high-pitched roof has windows up the walls, probably to provide direct sunlight in its former life. So, no second floor like I’d first thought. Sleeping gear covers on the floor. Not beds, just piles of blankets set apart from one another.
“Grab some bedding—” Harris points toward a huge freestanding cupboard. “—and claim a space.”
I do just that, settling myself down in a spot up against the wall closest to the door. A spot with a wide, empty ring of floor around it. As I drift off to sleep the beginnings of a plan brew in my mind.