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“CAN I ASK YOU A QUESTION, Amos?” Jane’s voice held a sharp edge, but Amos thought he detected something else below the surface. He continued cleaning his newest acquisition, not looking up.
We’re not trying to blend in anymore. He kept at his task, resenting her interruption. We’re still in enemy territory. Don’s doing recon. You should be, too, Jane.
“What’s on your mind, Jane?” It was Don who answered, not turning to look at her, eyes ranging back and forth on the street ahead of them.
They were parked less than a block from the dead Tracker. Don left the truck idling as they waited for Amos to finish, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
Amos sat sideways in his seat, door open, his feet resting on the running board as he worked. Jane stared out the back window, in part to keep watch and also to avoid seeing Amos’s bloody chore.
“It looks like you enjoy it.” The distaste in Jane’s voice was unmistakable. “Yeah, we could use another scanner—I get that—but I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve never seen that look on your face before.”
You didn’t see my brother Trey, either. Amos gritted his teeth, unable to compose a plausible response. You’ve never been shot at by Hoarders, just for sport.
“Just pretend it’s a Hoarder,” Don said, his offhand comment at odds with the stern look on his face. He continued his vigilant surveillance, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “They created the Implants. They created the Trackers. You can hate them for either reason. Or both, if you’d like.”
Amos finished cleaning the scanner, and with an air of morbid curiosity, activated it. The thin red circle glowed bright red, and his heart began to pound. Behind him, Jane gasped. She knows.
Amos held the metallic tube up, ignoring the bloodstains marring its polished surface.
“Even without one of the readers . . .” He inhaled a shaky breath, more disturbed than he wanted to let on. “It senses an Implant.”
Don peered at the gory tube, unperturbed as always.
“Close. We’re very close.” He extinguished the engine and stared at the scanner. He swung into action, opening his door and dropping to the uneven pavement. “We’re on foot now.”
Amos and Jane hurried to follow, joining him in front of the truck.
“We’ve stayed with this truck too long.” Don patted the hood of the truck like it was a trusted steed. “We don’t dare use it anymore. Not with so many Trackers around.”
Jane nodded, her hand straying to the prod at her belt. “Is that scanner any help, Amos?”
Amos held the tube higher, shielding its betraying glow from view with his other hand. “Don’s right. We’ve got to be close. We’re almost right on top of the signal.”
His voice trailed off as he frowned at the device. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
Jane nudged him from behind, the unintentional contact betraying her anxiety. “C’mon, Amos—we’re sitting ducks out here.” Her voice had recovered some of its usual rasp. “Give us some direction.”
Amos frowned, not looking her way. “Take it easy. Without the reader, I’m working with half a scanner, remember? The brighter red it is, the closer we are—I think. So why can’t we see . . .?”
“Amos?” Don’s voice sounded strained.
Amos moved to his right, consulting the glowing scanner. His eyes lit up as the explanation dawned on him.
“We are on top of the signal,” he said, excitement coloring his voice. His companions drew close as he pivoted to face them. “The Runner must’ve gone below street level.”
He backed away from the truck, peering in all directions. “We’re looking for access below street level. I think the Runner’s directly below us.”
“What about there?” Jane gestured down the street to the next intersection.
Amos followed her pointing finger, and he saw a metal railing encircling a dark rectangle in the sidewalk, about thirty meters away. A rusty sign was affixed to the railing, visible even in the fading light, dominated by a large arrow pointing underground.
Amos broke into a run. Don fell in beside him on his right, and Jane hurried to flank his left. He paused as they reached the intersection, pulling the scanner out of his pocket again.
“Subways, they used to be called,” Don said as he eyed the shadowy entryway.
“Just like the tunnels back home,” Jane quipped, not smiling. “How’s the signal, Amos?”
“It gets brighter, then fades, and then it’s brighter again,” Amos replied, puzzled. “It’s like they’re running in circles.” As the obvious explanation hit them, they threw caution to the wind, racing down the steps into the murky underground.
Don skidded to a stop as they rounded a sharp corner at the bottom of the stairs, his bulk blocking their way. Amos and Jane crowded up behind him, staring at the mangled body at Don’s feet.
“Another Tracker?” Jane’s breathless voice was full of disbelief. “How long has it been dead?”
Don crouched beside the corpse. “Got its head beaten in, I’d guess. I don’t know much about Tracker cadavers, but I’ll bet this didn’t happen long ago.”
“What could get close enough to a Tracker to kill it?” Amos wondered aloud.
“You won’t get a new scanner out of this one,” Jane said dryly, eyeing the gruesome extent of the Tracker’s head injuries.
Don straightened, moving a few steps further into the semi-darkness. “What’s the scanner saying, Amos?”
Pay attention. His inner voice shrilled, goading him to look into his pocket. Amos felt his heart sink. The red light had been extinguished. No telltale glow. No light at all.
“Signal’s gone dead,” he said numbly. “Maybe getting hit by our truck did more damage than we realized.” He didn’t voice the other possibility.
Jane swallowed with difficulty. “Or maybe we’re too late,” she said in a hollow voice, putting into words what Amos didn’t want to admit.
They stood in a tight little circle, ignoring the Tracker’s remains. Their brief respite ended as a strident cacophony of voices erupted further down the tunnel.
Indistinct shouting. More than one voice.
Don led the way, pounding toward the sound, the minimal light creating a menacing reflection on the long blade clutched in his fist.