Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (21 page)

“Fear is a powerful motivator,” Benson says.

Harrison shoves his knuckle in his mouth and bites down on it, growling in frustration from the back of his throat. When he withdraws his hand, his eyes are sad. “I lived your life,” he says, his voice a whisper.

“From the sounds of it, I didn’t miss much,” Benson says, attempting a joke.

Harrison shakes his head. “You missed everything. You missed out on childhood. You were living on the streets, Bense.”

“Hey, our crash pad was nicer than you might think.”

“You had to steal to survive.”

“But I did. I survived. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay. It’s not,” Benson agrees. He marvels at the twistiness of life. One split-second decision, in the heat of the moment, can send the lives of dozens of people spiraling off in completely different directions. “But neither would it be okay if you had to survive on the streets while I went to school and was forced to live without a real mom or dad. So what does it mean if there wasn’t a ‘right’ path either way?”

Harrison raises his eyebrows, and for the first time in their conversation he genuinely smiles. “It means this world is a screwed up place, I think.”

“You said it. Then let’s change it. Let’s not dwell on the past, and let’s do something about it. Mom and I can’t do it without you.”

“Obviously,” Harrison says. Benson feels a swirl of exhilaration in his chest, because that’s the brother he prefers. The witty, charming, somewhat cocky and enormously noble brother who will go to any lengths to protect the ones he loves.

D
estiny awakes with a start, the dream fading into the early light of a pale white morning. No, not a dream, she realizes. A memory. A ghost of a thought, haunting her. A truth, appearing and then disappearing, as if wanting to be seen and wanting to hide all at the same time.

The Destroyer on a slab. The doctor holding a gun to his own head. Scared of…

The president, the president, the president…

The moment she peels herself away from Harrison’s sleeping form, she feels colder, as if stripping away a warm blanket. He’s like a space heater; she could get used to sleeping next to him.

Pulling on socks, she pads downstairs, anxious to see if anyone else is awake. She needs to talk to someone, anyone.

Minda is sitting at Michael’s bedside, speaking in hushed tones. Simon is cross-legged on the floor, his hands at his sides, his eyes closed. He appears to be meditating. Lola is near his feet, just sitting there staring up at him, as if trying to figure out a puzzle with no solution. But when she sees Destiny, she races over, leaping up on her legs, her tail moving as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. She scoops her up and presses her cheek against her soft fur. It’s so strange to her that a machine can be so loving, and so easily loved. She puts Lola down and the dog returns to her watchful position at Simon’s feet.

Janice and Benson apparently haven’t come down yet, as exhausted as Harrison.

Tiptoeing past Simon so as not to disturb him, Destiny makes her way to Michael and Minda. Their conversation seems private, and she doesn’t want to intrude, so she stops a few meters away and clears her throat.

Minda turns and sees her, and though she tries to smile, there’s a grimness belying her easygoing expression. “Good morning,” she says.

Although she knows she’s being rude, Destiny has too much on her mind for pleasantries. “Did Michael tell you what the Destroyer’s doctor told us about the president?”

Minda nods.

“What do you think it all means?”

“I wish I knew. We feel like we have all the clues, but they’re for three or four different puzzles. But the truth will come out in the end. It always does.”

Destiny knows she’s right, but that doesn’t mean they can’t do something to speed it along. “Can I borrow your holo?” she asks.

Minda shrugs. “Sure. Why?”

“Research.”

She hands her the holo and Destiny carries it to the couch. An hour later, when Harrison stumbles down the steps, she’s so immersed in old news articles and holo-blogs that she’s barely aware of the kiss he plants on her forehead or the distance he seems to keep from his father.

~~~

Harrison dumps Lola in Simon’s lap and his eyes fly open. He blinks a few times, shaking his head. “Oh. Hey,” he says.

“Were you asleep sitting up?” Harrison asks.

“Uh, no. No.”

“You were somewhere.”

“Yeah. Somewhere.”

“Let me guess, you were concentrating on growing your brain as big as your biceps? I’m right, aren’t I?” All Harrison wants to do is joke around so he doesn’t have to look at his father or feel the tension that seems to coat everything and everyone—except Lola—in the safe house.

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Simon says, flexing his enormous arm. The fuzzy, uncertain look is gone, replaced by his usual French-Canadian confidence and flare.

“Seriously though,” Harrison says. “You meditate often?” He doesn’t think he could ever sit still for that long. Nor would he want to be lost in his own thoughts for more than a minute or two.

“No,” Simon says. “Just once a year.”

“And it happens to be today?”

“It’s always today.”

“Why?” Simon looks away, and Harrison says, “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to pry.” He’s never seen him look so hesitant. Like Harrison, Simon is a man of action.

“No, it’s okay. Today’s the anniversary of my wife’s death.”

“Oh, bots, I’m sorry man, I didn’t know.”

“I don’t talk about her much.”

Harrison is stunned. He’d never really thought about Simon’s past. Everything he’d ever heard about him started with his miraculous crossing beneath the Border Wall via a tunnel, fighting his way through dozens of guards at the end of the line, the only survivor in a large party of illegals trying to sneak in. The story has become a major part of Digger lore. But of course Simon existed before—had a life before. And, apparently, a wife. A wife who died.

“What was her name?” he asks, wondering if he should just shut his mouth.

Simon seems startled by the question, as if he expected Harrison’s inquiries to be of a much darker nature. A smile creeps onto his lips. “Hattie,” he says.

Harrison laughs. “Simon and Hattie. Sounds like one of those comedy duos that perform late-night on the holo.”

“She had a good sense of humor,” he says, pursing his lips. “She was a good woman. I was lucky to have found her.”

“Yes. You were,” Harrison says, smirking. “And even luckier she didn’t run away from you screaming.”

“Don’t I know it,” Simon says. “Don’t you want to know how she died? That’s usually the first question I get.”

“Morbid curiosity is part of human nature, I think,” Harrison says. “But no, that’s your story to tell or your secret to keep.”

Simon nods thoughtfully. “You want to know something really stupid?”

“Sure, I’ll add it to the collection I recently started.” He can’t help glancing at his father, who’s listening to their conversation. His gaze drops to his hands, and Harrison feels bad right away. Michael Kelly could’ve taken his secret to the grave, but he didn’t. He wanted to start fresh and let his sons come inside the wall he’s had up around himself for so long.

“I was well off in Canada,” Simon says, and it’s the last thing Harrison expected to hear.

“Like, rich?”

“Filthy,” Simon says. “I was in the army for ten years and then switched over to the private sector, doing security work. Everyone was scared and my company made a killing. When Hattie passed though, I lost myself. I couldn’t live in the same walls, so I moved. It didn’t help. So I turned to thrill-seeking. Jumping out of planes, hover-climbing, train riding—I tried it all. I took tons of stupid chances but survived every fall, every broken bone. I became addicted to the rush, because for those few seconds where all I could feel was the line between life and death growing thinner and thinner, I forgot what I’d lost. It was like a drug for me. The highs got lower and the lows were like being buried alive. Finally, I ran out of thrills, so I took the greatest risk of all and crossed the border.

“The others in my group thought I was like them—poor, desperate, willing to risk everything for the idea of a better life—but I was just in it for the rush of danger, for the moment of forgetfulness. And yet I was the one that survived.”

“You deserved to survive,” Harrison says, and is surprised at how genuinely he means it.

“They did, too. They were just people trying to live, and they were mowed down like wild beasts.”

“Then how did you…”

“I was shot four times,” Simon says. “I think my anger was the only thing that kept my heart from stopping. I killed a dozen guards that day. And then I slipped away. It was more luck than skill that led me to the Lifers. They patched me up and put me to work. Even if I don’t exactly agree with their methods anymore, I’ll always owe them. They gave me a new lease on life.”

Harrison doesn’t know exactly why, but the story seems to haunt him, pooling like shadows around his feet. Maybe because Simon seems so capable of protecting himself that it seems weird to think of him seeking out danger. Or maybe it makes complete sense. He’s not sure which.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “I guess we should call this place The House of Sucky Lives.”

“Hey, at least we all made a few friends out of it.”

“At least,” Harrison says, turning away, silently thanking Simon for giving him the strength he needs to face his father.

~~~

“I thought there might be answers in the rain,” Janice says when Benson approaches her. She’s sitting by the rain-streaked window, staring out at the gray and dreary neighborhood.

“Are there?” Benson asks, somewhat hopefully. On a day as monumental as today, they all need answers to questions that seem bigger than the universe.

She shakes her head. “It’s just rain.”

He gives her a half-hug and plods down to the first floor. Everyone’s already up. Destiny is poring over Minda’s holo-screen. Simon has the full extent of their weaponry—six guns, eight knives, and something that appears to be a grenade, although Benson’s not sure where he got that—lined up on a counter. He’s cleaning each item meticulously, probably because of the way Harrison’s gun had misfired during the fight with the Destroyer. Minda is writing on the wall with a thick black marker, diagramming the full plan that she and Benson have been over a hundred times, including backups.

And Harrison, to Benson’s utter shock, is sitting with their father, Lola sitting under his chair. They’re not laughing, like they were the night before, prior to hearing their parent’s revelation, but Harrison also doesn’t look like he wants to kill Michael. Benson counts it as a win.

He makes his way over to Minda, acutely aware of how thick the tension is. They’re all on edge, for good reason. “Are you ready for tonight?” she asks, not looking away from her work.

“Prepared? Yeah. But I’m not sure it’s possible to be ready for something like this.”

Minda nods and writes
Destiny
next to Harrison’s name. It seems to fit perfectly next to his, like they were made to be written in tandem.
Harrison’s Destiny
. It certainly sounds better than “Destiny’s Harrison.”

Benson drops his voice to a whisper. “So she’s going with us?”

“I’m pretty sure we can’t keep her away, although I bet Harrison will try.”

“My dad will be all alone then?”

“He’s a big boy. He can handle it. Plus he’ll have Lola to keep him company.”

“I think the hardest part for him is not being able to help,” Benson says. In that way, he feels the Kellys all have something in common. They aren’t sideline sitters.

“He just knows what I know: That it’s very unlikely we’ll all make it through tonight—or even any of us. The most we can hope for is that Janice will complete the mission. Everything else is sprinkles on the sundae.”

The conflicting messages—death and destruction versus ice cream and sprinkles—seem so at odds with each other. Which will it be for them?
Somewhere in the middle
, is the logical answer, but he’s tired of being logical, is tired of using the rationalities in his well-organized mind to come to painful conclusions that usually turn out to be right. Today he wants to be optimistic.

“We’re all going to make it through,” he says. “And if not, we’ll honor the fallen by surviving and winning.”

Minda doesn’t seem to have the heart to respond, as if unwilling to give into hope even when she desperately needs it. Benson watches as she goes back to diagramming. A few minutes later, he picks up a pen and helps her.

C
heck has to go all the way to the topmost corner of the building and hang his arm out the window to get the borrowed holo to connect to the broader network. The Lifers have some kind of signal jammer set up, probably to protect the security of their own information and communication, but Check isn’t about to let that stop him. Not after he woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat. Although he can’t remember exactly what his dream was about, he can distinctly remember Benson’s voice in his head.
Check
, he’d said, like a ghost from the past. Benson’s not dead, he chides himself. Not a ghost. A living friend, regardless of the distance or politics or agendas that separate them. The voice came three times in the dream, saying nothing more than “Check” in each instance. For some reason, he knows his friend wasn’t saying his name.

All he wants to do is log on to his old anonymous account, the one he’d told Benson to use a long time ago, if they ever got separated. Not that Benson would remember it. Not that he has anything left to say to him.

And yet when he logs on, the messages are there, bursting from the screen with bold green headers:

Hello?

Are you there?

Last try

Each message under the headers is short, just basic stuff—everyone’s okay so far, I’m so sorry about Gonzo, we’re all shattered over here, stay safe, etc.—until the last one. The one titled “Last try.” The final message is a warning and a plea, Benson asking him to keep his eyes open, to be vigilant, to not trust Jarrod under any circumstances. And finally, to keep Geoffrey safe.

While Check’s pretty sure it’s just Benson being Benson—overprotective and cautious—the message also raises goose bumps on the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because of the last part, about Geoffrey. The last couple of days have felt odd, and he’s noticed Geoffrey disappearing at the strangest times, only to reappear with some excuse for his absence that no one can seem to corroborate.

The kid’s been through a lot, he knows. Maybe he’s just mourning in his own way, seeking solitude to deal with his recent losses. Hell, Check doesn’t particularly like being around people right now, talking to them about stupid stuff like hover-sports and the weather, things that don’t seem to matter nearly as much as they used to. But that doesn’t mean Geoffrey’s okay. He vows to keep a closer watch on the kid after tonight’s mission.

And as for the part about not trusting Jarrod, that’s easy because Check already doesn’t. Not after what he tried to do to Benson. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t have a mutual agreement about what actions need to be taken to push the rebellion forward in Saint Louis. Now more than ever, Check has to believe that Jarrod and the Lifers can help him avenge the lives of those he’s lost.

He won’t follow blindly, but he will follow. At least until Jarrod gives him a reason not to. He wants to say all that to Benson, to reassure him that they’re still on the same side in all the ways that matter, but try as he might, he can’t get a strong enough signal to send the message. After tonight, he’ll try again. He wants his friend back, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen.

~~~

Geoffrey is ready. Although he’s been saying he’s ready for a long time, he realizes it was never true until now. This single moment in time, when Jarrod helps him strap on the vest and hide it under a baggy over-shirt. When he looks in the mirror, even he can’t notice a difference. He never realized explosives were so small these days. And yet able to level entire buildings; and with them, the people who don’t deserve to exist.

Like him. Small but unexpectedly powerful.

The look of pride Jarrod gives him fills him with warmth from head to toe. “You are so much more than I’d thought you would be. And I had very high expectations for you to begin with. You’re so brave. Luce would’ve been so proud.”

The words are like music, and he lets them float on a loop through his mind, until he’ll remember them exactly as they were spoken. He wants to have them at the end.

“You know, tonight will be the crowning achievement of the Lifer organization,” Jarrod says. “And you’ll be the face of it. That bastard who calls himself the leader of the RUSA will fall to his knees and weep when he sees it. If he survives it, that is.”

The image makes Geoffrey laugh. President Ford crying? That’s something he wishes he could see. But he’ll have to settle for knowing that it’s his actions that will lead to the fall of the government that killed his sister and friend.

“I won’t fail you,” Geoffrey says. “I swear I won’t.”

“I know,” Jarrod says, patting him on the shoulder. “You are the least of my worries tonight.” While Jarrod leaves to attend to business, Geoffrey practices with the disconnected detonator, amazed at how simple it is. Flick off the cover. Picture his sister’s face. Mash his thumb against the button. Boom.

Simple and effective. All he has to do is get to the spot on the blueprint where Jarrod has decided will maximize the destruction.

Pop Con won’t know what hit them.

~~~

The old picture is like a slap to the face. Destiny stares at it, her eyes bugging out of her head. “What the bots?” she murmurs.

“What?” Harrison says, looking up from his hand of cards.

“Hey, it’s your bet,” Simon says.

When Destiny looks up from Minda’s holo-screen, she realizes the entire room is watching her. Well, except for Simon, who’s intensely studying his own cards. “I found something,” she says, spinning the screen and pushing the holo button. The photo magnifies and bursts into midair.

“President Ford,” Harrison says. “So what?” The moment the question leaves his lips, he leans forward, raising a hand to the holo image, as if he can touch the light. His hand passes through one of the people. Not the president, but a young boy. Six or seven years old, perhaps.

“Where did you get that?” The question comes not from Harrison, but from his father, who’s craning his neck from his cot, peering across the room.

Maybe it’s just her imagination, but a deep, dark feeling of dread seems to creep into the room. “From an obscure holo-news site,” she says. “The people in the image—other than the president—were blurred, but I managed to clarify them.”

“The president knew the Destroyer,” Harrison says. “That bastard.”

Benson is up and out of his seat, staring intently at the photo. “Wait, wait. You’re saying that kid is the Destroyer?”

“Yeah,” Harrison says. “Domino Destovan. Apparently he went to my school, although I don’t remember him. STL Elementary is a big school.”

Destiny practically wants to scream the next part, but she manages to control herself, announcing it loudly instead. “Did anyone read the caption?”

“Oh crap,” Harrison says, scanning the words below the picture. Destiny knows exactly how he feels. Like he’s just jumped into a pool of freezing cold water.

Sandra Ford, Domino Ford, Jeremy Ford, Terrence Ford.

Silence infiltrates the room like a poisonous gas. Michael finally breaks it, his voice gruff. “Maybe I can shed some light on things.”

Harrison’s eyes dart to the corner. “More secrets, Dad?”

“No. I mean, I didn’t think it was important. It was so long ago and I never realized there was a connection.”

“Tell us,” Benson urges. “Why is Domino Destovan labelled as Domino Ford?”

“Because he’s the president’s nephew,” he says.

Destiny’s mouth falls closed. Her mind whirls. She waits for more.

“Dammit,” Michael curses, under his breath. “I don’t know how we missed this. He looked so…different.”

“Dad,” Harrison says. “We don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Destiny was thinking the same thing.

“You remember the Slip before…”

“Before me,” Benson says, nodding encouragingly.

“Hannah Destovan,” Minda interjects. “Sister of the Destroyer.”

“Yes,” Michael says.

“The little girl your Hunters mowed down in cold blood,” Harrison says.

Destiny gives him a sharp look. “What?” he says, throwing up his hands. “It’s true. We all saw it on the holo-news for three weeks straight.”

“And yet not helping,” she says.

Duly chastised, Harrison says, “Sorry. Go on.”

It’s as if Michael’s aged ten years, his face riddled with deep lines of pain. “I hated myself for it,” he says.

“He did,” Janice agrees, rubbing Lola under the chin.

“But the Slip’s father was killed, too, and that’s most definitely not him in the photo,” Minda points out. “That’s the president’s brother, Terrence. If I remember correctly, he was killed in a freak aut-car accident before the president was elected.”

“Correct,” Michael says. “Or so they say. The explosion was fiery. There wasn’t much left of the body.”

“What are you saying?” Harrison asks, frowning. Destiny feels like all the time she spent scanning holo-articles and photos was a ball of string, unravelling to this point, where it’s on the verge of coming completely apart. She notices Benson’s eyes on her.

“The president knew his brother had an illegal child after Domino,” Benson says. A chill runs down her spine. “He tried to cover it up—
did
cover it up—changing their names to Destovan. He even changed their faces.”

The moment Harrison’s twin says it, she knows he’s right, his mind clamping down hard on the conclusion that was eluding her, because it was too impossible or simply too wild.

“Dad?” Harrison says, needing confirmation.

“It was what I was thinking,” he admits. “But if the president used the full extent of his resources, it’s possible. Plastic surgery, doctored legal records, the whole shebang. I certainly didn’t recognize him as Terrence Ford when we…”
Terminated him.
The words don’t have to be spoken, pounding in each of their hearts. Destiny knows the story well. Everyone does. Sandra Ford was also killed, during her interrogation. The president let his brother and his whole family die. That’s the secret. The cover up of the century. He only forgot one thing.

“They didn’t change Domino’s face,” Destiny says. “Why?”

Michael shakes his head. “Maybe he thought it was unnecessary. He was just a kid. He could easily be controlled. He had him shipped off to the military academy. I think President Ford purposely pushed through that law that allowed sixteen-year-olds to enlist. I think he was trying to kill off his last loose end. His nephew.”

“But he didn’t come back in a body bag,” Minda continues. “He came back badly injured. Why didn’t he have him killed then? He could’ve refused medical care—let him slip away into the night.”

Destiny watches Michael carefully. Something flashes across his face. Pain? Or something else? “Nostalgia would be my guess. Terrence was his only sibling, and Domino was his only family left. Maybe he decided the kid was no longer a threat. Maybe he wanted to protect him.”

Minda nods. “That makes sense. He got him the best care possible, made him a cyborg to save his life, and secretly kept in touch.”

“And in his greatest time of need, provided a doctor and a robotics specialist to try to repair him,” Michael finishes.

“This is all very fascinating and exceptionally disturbing,” Harrison says, “but it doesn’t change anything. We already knew after taking down Pop Con that we’d have to deal with President Ford, right? I mean, nobody said it, but he’s as much to blame for the way things are as anyone.”

“Yes,” Minda says. “Politically.”

“Politically?” Harrison scoffs, looking to his father for confirmation. “President Ford is an evil piece of crap and we’re going to take him down…
politically
?”

“Yes. I agree. Politically,” Michael says, his face flat and devoid of expression. Harrison gets up and stomps upstairs without another word. Minda and Benson return to their diagram of the plan for tonight. Janice continues playing with Lola. Destiny switches off the holo-screen, suddenly wishing she’d never started digging into the past in the first place. Knowing President Ford aided the Destroyer in everything he did to her, Michael, and Harrison makes her feel sick.

And Simon slaps his cards face up on the table in victory.

Four aces and a random two of clubs.

Destiny can only hope a little of his luck rubs off on the rest of them.