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Blare looks up from a crouching position on the floor, her backpack’s contents scattered in a semicircle in front of her. She offers me a quick, contemptuous glance and continues her work. I stare at her hands as they deftly prepare what looks like enough explosives to blow up Mount Rushmore. And for the first time, I wonder if Blare is a nickname. I remember Elliot calling her Veronica at the party. Is that her real name?
James walks up to me and places a hand on my shoulder. His eyes look both proud and sad at the same time. “Great job getting in, Marci.”
I nod and give him a faint smile.
“All right, here’s the deal. There’s little chance we’ll undo both locks exactly at the same time. We’ll be lucky if we can do it at all. But if we manage, I’m certain the alarm will go off.” James’s words spill out one after another. “We won’t have time for anything else besides setting the charges on the cryo freezers. Blare, are they ready?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Good. As soon as the explosives are in place, we run out of this damn building. Marci, you’ll go last. Oso and I will go first.” James takes a moment to look everyone in the eye, then says, “Try not to get shot.”
“I’ll go upstairs and stand guard by the door,” Oso says. “Just in case.” He leaves without waiting for an answer.
I swallow. James is making me go last to protect me, and I’m reminded again that, to him, I’m just a child who needs to be safeguarded. Still, what sense does it make to protect me above everyone else? He’s far more important than me. I’m just a foot soldier. He’s the commander-in-chief.
James extends a hand toward the first lock. I approach it as if it was a deadly insect.
“Take your sweet time. We have all night,” Blare says sarcastically.
James gives her cold, scolding eyes and puts a finger to his lips. “Shhh, she’s our only hope of rescuing this mission.”
Rheema steps quietly to one side and gives me two thumbs-up. Her eyes tell me she trusts I can do this. I hope I don’t disappoint her.
Kneeling by the lock on the left, James encourages me to get by the one on the right. I take a knee in front of the door. As I take deep breaths and examine the set of small lock-picking tools, Blare’s expletives—it’s like she has freakin’ Tourette’s syndrome or something—become a faint buzz.
Inhale.
Ketchup stain on my shirt.
Exhale.
I pick two of the tools and insert them one by one into the keyhole. My lungs expand and collapse, moving more rapidly than I intend them to. One of the small tools slips from my grip and makes a clinking sound as it hits the concrete floor.
“Relax, Marci. If you can’t open it, it’s okay. Just give it your best shot,” James says as he slowly works on his lock with steady hands.
I pick up the tool and try to ignore Blare who has started pacing up and down like a caged lioness ... or maybe a hyena. Wiping my hands on my black cargo pants, I twist my neck from side to side. I can do this, if only to shut Blare up.
Putting the tools back inside the lock, I set to work, letting instincts and memories steer me. I move the pick in my right hand up and down. Eyes closed, I listen to the small clicks to guide me. Sweat drips down my forehead and becomes lodged in one eyebrow. I ignore it even as it begins to itch and makes me want to scream.
“How’s it going?” James asks. “I think I’m almost done.”
“I—I’m doing okay.”
But it’s a lie. Panic is welling up and I’m starting to feel as if I’ll drown in it. On the outside, this lock looks like the one in Dad’s desk. But on the inside, I can’t make heads nor tails out of its mechanism. My chest feels tight, and I’m afraid I might start sobbing like the kid everyone figures me for.
Squeezing my eyes shut in an effort to quell my rising despair, I try to clear my mind of all thoughts. It may be a terrible idea at this moment, but something tells me that’s what I need to do. Far away, I can hear an annoying yap, yap, yap. I think it’s Blare running her motor mouth. I dismiss her, shove her deep down in the not-at-all-important mental drop box. Every fear and every doubt that enters my mind gets stuffed into nowhere-land with Blare.
A sudden peace sweeps through me and, without preamble, the lock’s complex mechanism materializes in front of my eyes like a 3D image. The clear-as-daylight picture in my mind should freak me out. Yet the image of the small, interlocking disks and bars that can only be arranged in the right order by a special key seems like the most natural thing.
I should be panicking, losing my mind. This isn’t right. This isn’t me. I never asked to change, to be able to do inhuman things. But instead, it feels right. It’s just what we need right now to avoid failure. It’s what may save us all. So I take a deep breath and accept it.
When my mind is settled, I become keenly aware of the fact that James is almost done picking his lock. If I hurry and catch up, the door will open without activating the alarm. I work frantically, using the picture in my mind to move the pick in the right direction. I want to tell James to slow down, to give me a few seconds to catch up to him, but I know if I speak my trance will break and I’ll lose the lock’s image.
A grinding sound distracts me for a second, but I realize it’s just my teeth. I ignore it.
“You can do it, Marci.” James’s soothing voice echoes in the depths of my spell. “Just breathe.” Precious air fills my lungs. I didn’t know I had stopped breathing.
Seconds pound like hammers inside my ears. James is a couple of steps away from finishing.
Hurry!
My heart seems to explode time and time again. My fingers feel like lead sausages, too clumsy and heavy to succeed, to get us out of here without being noticed. Suddenly, my thoughts jump ahead. They don’t just show me the motion my fingers should perform now, but the next, and next and next.
Of their own accord, my hands stop. Yet the insides of the lock continue clicking, aligning themselves in the right position. Things fall into place at a staggering speed. James is almost there. I have to hurry. I have to catch up and prevent the alarm from going off. I can’t let the Eklyptors trap us in here.
Anger builds up. I urge it to climb higher and higher. I hate this pathetic obstacle. I hate what lays behind it. This small thing in my hand is nothing. My heart beats faster. The lock clicks and clicks, turning, whirling. I’m only five steps away from James, four now, three, two ...
Something sharp cuts through my throat and eardrums. I open my eyes to see my arms flailing. I’m screaming so loud my voice is hoarse, my larynx burns. A strident, intermittent noise drills inside my skull. The alarm is blaring.
James helps me to my feet. “You did it, Marci.”
I look at the door. It looks the same.
Noticing my confusion, James explains, “The bolt clicked, then the alarm went off. Here.” He shoves a piece of chocolate in my mouth. It’s bitter, not sweet at all.
I give him a nasty look. “Yuk,” I say, holding my head between shaky hands, worried that I blacked out again, and mad about not being able to prevent the alarm from going off.
James ushers me out of the way toward Rheema. She wraps an arm around me and rubs my shoulder. “Good job, girl.”
“We only have precious seconds,” James says. As soon as the last word leaves his mouth, Aydan’s voice bursts through my earpiece.
“Guards headed your way. Hurry!”
James pulls on the door. It opens with the moan of heavy metal to reveal an expansive area as big as a tennis court, full of state-of-the-art medical equipment. I press closer to Rheema, my jaw slack in awe.
Suddenly, shots erupt upstairs. James’s attention flickers toward the exit for a split second, then back to Blare. His intense gray eyes say it all. I imagine the guards rushing in, shooting at Oso, peppering his thick chest with a thousand bullets. The thought of that mellow, cheerful guy being shot makes my mouth go dry.
We’re trapped, and it’s my fault.