“Greetings, Citizens. Your permit, please.” The checkpoint guard was deferential yet straightforward, eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses.
He was the consummate professional. He had a job to do, and he took it seriously. He was unwilling to hurry the process for any reason, even when faced with a group of Hoarders returning from an excursion in the countryside.
Citizens, not Hoarders. Amos kept his facial expression studiously neutral. They’re the privileged nobility, remember? We, the unwashed rabble, are the only ones who call them ‘Hoarders’. Watch what you say. A thoughtless word could ruin everything.
Sheila handed the guard their forged travel documents, affecting a bored demeanor and patient indulgence for those she considered inferior. Amos felt like every nerve in his body was on fire. It was easier to imitate Sheila’s studied superiority than trying to cover his trepidation with feigned innocence.
A friendly Hoarder might be a dead give-away. Amos’s eyes wandered from the guard at the open window, looking beyond the heavy barricade blocking their way. The guard would expect to be ignored, wouldn’t he?
“Step out of the vehicle, please.” The guard’s command was brusque, no-nonsense. He offered no explanation for his uncharacteristic request, stepping back from the truck with the casual self-confidence of someone who expected to be obeyed without question.
No one inside the truck flinched at his unexpected command. Each of them remained composed, in character. Don even had the sense to grumble under his breath at the inconvenience, as he grudgingly opened his door and stepped out.
The guard took an involuntary step back as Don towered over him, but recovered quickly, gesturing for them to stand by the front of their vehicle.
Amos seized the opportunity to step past the guard, shielding himself behind Don’s massive bulk. The jacket Don had given him was not an adequate cover for his disheveled clothing, a fact of which he was all too aware.
The four of them gathered around the front of the truck, feigning impatience as they kept a casual eye on their surroundings for targets, potential threats, escape routes.
I don’t see a Tracker. Amos continued his covert reconnaissance. Maybe they don’t want to waste one on this tiny excuse for a checkpoint in the middle of nowhere.
He was just beginning to relax when he spotted it, and his heart dropped. The Tracker was there, after all, skulking just inside the guardhouse doorway.
Spoke too soon, did we? His inner voice seized the opportunity to mock him. Amos didn’t bother to respond, forcing his eyes to look away, as nonchalant and dismissive as possible.
The Tracker was scanning each of them, one at a time. It knew what it was looking for. They were all well aware of what would happen if its search was rewarded.
More good people are going to die. Sweat broke out on Amos’s forehead. If it’s already in my blood …
His hands clenched. What if carrying the Implant around for so long left a mark on me? Something we aren’t aware of, but could still give us away to the Tracker?
“Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience, Citizens.” The guard’s stiff posture and formal speech was an obvious attempt to appear intimidating, official, and subservient at the same time. “There have been reports of a criminal incident in the City. We are conducting routine checks, as mandated by the Council. You are free to continue on your journey.”
Yeah, right. Amos remained suspicious of the stoic guard’s clarification. You just wanted us out in the open so your Tracker could get a clear scan.
“A criminal incident.” Don shot back, feigning indignation. “Yet you have the nerve to stop us because of it?”
He advanced on the guard, towering over him, using his physical presence to intimidate. “Give me one good reason—just one—I shouldn’t take your badge number and report you to the Council.”
Amos wanted to clap his hand over Don’s big mouth, and shove him back into the truck.
Hidden in plain sight, he reminded himself sternly. Don’s just staying in character. If we were real Hoarders—Citizens—we’d react the same way.
The guard stood his ground, his expression unchanged. “The Council’s orders were specific. I meant no offense, Citizen.”
Sheila uttered a loud and exasperated sigh as she climbed into the truck, not deigning to look at the guard. To all outward appearances, she was an angry and offended Hoarder.
Don remained where he was for a moment longer, glaring. Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked past the guard, opening the rear door of their vehicle with an imperious flourish.
Stephen and Amos, taking their cues from Don, favored the checkpoint guard with looks of contempt before slamming their doors shut. Tracker or no Tracker, they must remain in character, at least until they were out of sight.
No one spoke until they were several kilometers down the road, which was now wider but no less rough than the dirt road. The years had not been kind to uncared-for highways.
The Hoarders must have more important priorities elsewhere, Amos guessed.
“We need to ditch this truck before we get to town.” Stephen was the first to break the silence. “They didn’t suspect the fake permits, but the longer we keep using it …”
Don sighed again, but not with the sarcastic air he’d played so well at the checkpoint. “We can’t be sure the permits fooled them,” he observed as he watched the scenery rush by.
He glanced at Amos, sitting beside him in the rear seat. “For that matter, we can’t make the mistake of assuming Amos was successful in fooling the Tracker, either.”
Amos felt his heart skip a beat, despite Don’s nonchalance. Take it easy. Ice water in the veins, remember?
Don crossed his arms over his barrel chest as he continued in his slow drawl. “For all we know, they saw through the whole charade. They could be setting up surveillance in the town ahead, just waiting for us to step into their net.”
His baritone voice betrayed no any hint of anxiety, despite his dire warning. “Vigilance, my friends, always vigilance. It’s how they operate, and so we must also.”
Stephen was paler than before as he considered Don’s cautionary remark. He turned in his seat to look Don in the eye. “So, we still need to ditch the truck before we hit the town, right?”
Don smiled at him, nodding as if there was nothing to worry about. He could be remarkably unflappable. “Right you are, Steve-O. We forget this truck ever existed, for all the reasons you’ve already thought of. We’ll go into town on foot, but not until after dark. We’ve got friends waiting for us, and it’d be impolite to bring uninvited guests along. Even by accident.”
Sheila hadn’t spoken since before the checkpoint. Her state of mind was revealed by her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She raced along the uneven highway, maintaining her imitation of a Hoarder’s reckless driving habits. It was clear she had something disturbing on her mind.
“How did you fool the Tracker back there, Amos?” Her words shot out like she was spitting bullets. Sheila was a person of few words, and was normally soft-spoken when and if she did have anything to say. “You were scanned, I know you were. We were all scanned back there. How could the Tracker not sense your Implant?”
Her eyes met his in the rearview mirror. Sheila was not someone easily lied to. She’d make a better checkpoint guard than the guy back there, Amos thought without humor. He knew he couldn’t lie to her. To any of them. Not after the risks they’d taken to find him.
“I don’t have it anymore,” he said, reluctant to go into greater detail. He gestured to the forest hills fading into the distance behind them. “I found a hidey-hole, and I left it there. I’d rather not be more specific. Nothing personal. You can’t reveal what you don’t know, as we’ve all been reminded more than once.”
The only sound in the speeding truck was the tires spitting up rocks as they careened down the highway. If shock could be mixed with disbelief, and condensed into a sound, it would have been the void of stunned silence inside the truck.
“What do you mean, you don’t have it anymore?” Sheila asked at last, her voice sliding a note or two up the scale. “The only extractions we’ve ever performed were done as autopsies. Doc never mentioned anything about this to me.”
Stephen stared at him in shock, eyes wide. They don’t know all the details. They have no idea what it cost me to leave it behind.
Don didn’t react outwardly, but his measured gaze told Amos he was already formulating alternate strategies in response to this unexpected admission.
“How?” Don asked, his quiet inquiry a stark contrast to Sheila’s outburst. He hadn’t changed position in his seat, but his eyes demanded a response. “Sheila’s right—Doc Simon made it clear our Hub isn’t ready to perform extractions. We’re close, but it’s still risky. How’d you even know where your Implant was located? I didn’t think you had access to their technology.”
“You shouldn’t have left it anywhere.” Sheila’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight it looked as if her bones would poke through the skin.
She flung one hand over her shoulder, gesturing at the hills fading in the distance behind them. “You just left it out there, somewhere? What if they find it first?”
Amos bit his lip as he tried to formulate a convincing argument. He couldn’t. “That’s a risk I had to take. I know it sounds crazy, but if I kept it with me, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. The Tracker would’ve scanned it, and we’d all be fertilizing the fields back there.”
Don’s steady gaze never wavered. His question hung in the air between them, and Amos knew his friend wouldn’t allow him to dodge an answer.
“No, I don’t have access to their tech.” Amos was reluctant to divulge even that much. “It was an experiment I thought might work. Then the Mission was attacked and my timeline just, well, accelerated.”
Without planning it, his hand strayed to clasp the hilt of his hunting knife. Don glanced down, taking note of his unconscious action, but said nothing. The only betraying sign was his narrowed eyes. Don doesn’t miss a thing.
Sheila shook her head, still in shock. “You owe us a better explanation than that, Amos.” She could be just as tenacious as Don. “But it’ll have to wait, until we’ve taken care of this truck. We’re almost there, aren’t we, Stephen?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth. Just ahead … there.” Stephen scooted forward in his seat, pointing ahead and to the left. Sheila reduced her speed—skid marks were to be avoided.
Hidden in plain sight. Amos’s muscles tensed as the truck slowed. But none of us really know how good a Tracker’s sight is.