Chapter 38

I’m glad I didn’t underestimate the task and started as soon as I could because it takes me the whole two days to plant all the pieces of information needed to create the biggest distraction in the history of distractions.

Elliot may not be keeping much about his whereabouts and personal plans on the network, but some of his captains are still making use of it, and that certainly made my job a lot easier to accomplish.

Surreptitiously, I sneak out of the corner office from which I’ve performed most of my hacking tasks. I worked from the terminal by my bed a few times, but I kept that to a minimum for fear of raising more suspicions in an already-suspicious Lamia. For the most part, I played Space Invaders, making crazy shooting sounds, cursing at the screen and threatening to blow it up. She watched me from a distance, her eyes full of hate and ill intent, but mostly frustration.

I take the elevator down to the mess hall, thinking it’s just a matter of time before one of Elliot’s captains puts two and two together. And once they do, they’ll be so eager to please their leader that they won’t hesitate to jump into action.

Things in the mess hall are already in full swing by the time I get there. I get a small lunch, trying not to feel guilty I get to eat this way. As I chew, I think of chicken Parmesan as the fuel I need to do a job no one else can do, a job that may, if everything goes as planned, be the snowflake that will cause the avalanche.

I’m halfway through my meal when Lyra, accompanied by two of Elliot’s higher-ups, comes in the mess hall and starts calling names. This is nothing new. When there are impromptu raids that less-elite Whitehouse soldiers can’t handle, teams are assembled in this fashion to go lend a hand. But—when I notice they’re calling the best fighters they’ve got—my ears really perk up.

When she’s done calling names, there is a group of about thirty of their meanest, best-trained soldiers, Lamia included. Hunched over my plate, I watch the proceedings from under my eyebrows, willing Lyra to look my way. She doesn’t.

C’mon, c’mon, Lyra! She’s in now, aware of our plan, and she’s supposed to raise a flag. The group starts filing out the double doors. Lyra turns her back on me. I bite my knuckles to hold back a string of curses. Lyra is the last one to leave. She holds the door open and takes a step out of the room.

I exhale in frustration. I really thought this was it. I send one last, frustrated look at Lyra’s retreating figure. The door begins to swing close behind her and, just as I’ve become convinced it’s not time yet, she looks over her shoulder, her round green eyes flashing with such intensity that she leaves me no doubt the first stage of our plan is in motion.

Knees bouncing out of control, I force myself to remain in my seat until I finish the food on my plate. When I’m done, I dispose of my tray and leave the mess hall at a leisurely pace. With Lamia gone, no one really cares about me, but I keep up the act. In my mind, I’m running toward my computer terminal, flying down the corridors, my loose hair flying behind me. In reality, every slow step hurts and feels like a wasted lifetime. I must warn Aydan, and this play-pretend calmness seems reckless in the face of his safety. But when I step out of the elevator into my floor, all caution dies, and I run. I run so fast my heart hammers out of control, and I arrive at my desk in a matter of seconds.

I sit, pull out the keyboard and can hardly type. Aydan knows everything is in place on my end. I let him known as soon as I finished. Now, he’s just waiting for my signal that it has begun.

I’m supposed to send him an encoded message, one he can check whenever he has a chance to log in, so I do that first. We’ve been messaging this way for the last couple of days, using a custom tool I developed. Me from here. Aydan from SeaTac where, to my surprise, Luke remains. The tokens Aydan and I send back and forth are ultra-secure and authenticated to a private key that only we know. Our communications are, therefore, safer than text messages, emails, or phone calls, especially when all of those means of communication are now controlled by Eklyptors.

After sending the message, I crack my fingers. Uncertainty fills me. There’s no reason for it. He’ll get my message. Still, I’d like confirmation. I’d like to know he’s okay.

Whitehouse is deploying his elite forces to attack Hailstone. This was step one of my mission: inserting a few clever reports into Elliot’s military intelligence machine to help his captains figure out Hailstone’s location. I carefully altered several documents to contain suggestive hints about their enemy faction, inserting information on supply runs, attack patterns, electricity usage and anything that would cause those who review the documents to look more closely at SeaTac. But more importantly, I planted enough information that makes it look as if Hailstone is planning an attack on Whitehouse.

Now, it’s Aydan’s turn to put his hacker skills to the test. His job is to deactivate Hailstone’s security and leave them exposed to the attack. Intentionally letting Whitehouse grow his faction is risky, but we need them distracted. Besides, we plan to hit them hard before they have a chance to reorganize.

Again, my thoughts turn in Luke’s direction of their own accord. They’ve been doing that ever since we got our orders from James. I shake my head. I don’t want to think about Luke. Lyra has been instructed to take care of him, and there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not the leader of this rebellion, and even if I was, making decisions about Luke’s fate could hardly be left up to me. This is for the best, I tell myself. Lyra is in the dark about my real relationship with Luke. James thought it would be better that way, for my safety, and I agree with him.

$Dr. V> Everything’s ready on my end

$Warrior> Really?! That’s great!

$Dr. V> Just need to hit a button when they get close

$Warrior> Get out of there as soon as you can, k?

$Dr. V> I will

$Warrior> Don’t play the hero. Just get out

$Dr. V> Already said I would. What? Worried about me?

$Warrior> Of course, I’m worried. Duh!

$Dr. V> Why?

$Warrior> Why?! What do you mean why?

$Dr. V> Why are you worried about me?

$Warrior> Because Whitehouse’s sending his best and they’ll be armed to the teeth. That’s why

$Dr. V> Is that all?

I’m about to curse him for being dense when I realize I’m the one who’s not getting it.

There is a right time for everything, and this is the right time for this question, isn’t it? Maybe it’s also the right time for an answer, even an honest one.

I don’t type for a long time. Words tumble inside my mind, trying to align themselves into the correct sentence. I don’t want to say too much. I don’t want to say too little. I just want to . . .

It’s not “I love you” by any means because I don’t know if I’m capable of ever allowing myself to fall in love again, but it’s the truth. I care about him. He’s my friend, and it’s not hard to imagine him becoming more than that—not now that I know him, that I understand him. I just don’t know if I’ll ever get there. If it’ll ever feel right to push Xave aside to fill the space he occupies with someone else.

Aydan knows hope isn’t fit for this reality anymore, so why doesn’t he see promises aren’t either? I’ve been mad at Xave for his promise, for saying he would be fine, then leaving me behind. And it’s stupid to hold that against him when the only thing his promise represented was his desire to be fine, to come back and be with me once more, the way we were that night. He didn’t betray me or break a real promise. He simply used the wrong words, and it was my job to realize that.

$Dr. V> Yep. So, how about you argue with this: I *promise* I will be thinking of you

I stare at the word for what feels like hours. Time stands still, so still, I feel I’ve turned to stone. At some point, I lock my computer and turn away from it. My eyes dart around the room, stopping at each perfectly made bed. I’m the only one here.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The air conditioning blows its constantly frigid air. I shiver, hug myself, realizing I don’t want to be here. I want to be headed to that battle with Lyra and the others—not because my presence there would make any difference, but because I wouldn’t have to sit here wondering if Aydan is all right.

I see them on the feed from the security cameras which I pulled up on my computer and have been watching for eight hours, nonstop.

The black and white images show me only one van pulling up to the delivery area in the back of the building. Where is everyone else? Did Luke beat them? Is this all that’s left of them?

The van’s back doors open and a couple of Whitehouse’s soldiers jump out. Even in the grainy footage, I sense their self-satisfaction, their smugness. It’s in the way they step so lightly, the way they hold their heads high.

I push to the edge of my desk chair, my thoughts flying to Luke once more, wondering about his fate. Did Lyra kill him as she was supposed to? I don’t have to wonder for long because she soon steps out of the van, pushing someone ahead of her. The prisoner’s hands are tied at the back. His head is low, blond hair obscuring his eyes.

An odd wave of relief passes over me, surprising me and angering me at the same time. I shouldn’t care what happens to him. I shouldn’t.

I watch Lyra’s lithe figure as she pushes Luke along. What are you up to, Lyra? Why didn’t you follow James’s orders?

Tauro gets out next, manhandled by one of the twin dwarfs who usually guards Elliot’s floor. I shake my head at the odd sight. I’m about to walk away from the computer to go downstairs when someone flies out of the van, lands on the ground, and flops helplessly like a fish. Something is wrapped all around his torso, pinning his arms to the sides.

My heart freezes and drops to my stomach. The crumpled shape struggles to his feet. He has the darkest mass of hair out of anyone out there.