Freefly (2 page)

“Thanks.”  I head toward the window. 

“Wait!”

I whirl around.  Ronnie’s eyes are huge with fear.  He leans on his desk with one hand, like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing. 

“You’re not going to tell your boss I tried to, you know, knife ya?” he says. 

I smile, turn back to the window, and promptly jump out of it. 

I rocket upwards, zooming close to the exterior of Ronnie’s townhouse, till I’m clear past the roof and soaring in the open air.  May has brought warmth to this part of the country, and for that I’m thankful:  I can wear jeans and a T-shirt without feeling like my limbs are going to freeze off.  The city shrinks beneath me, the roads like thin lines on a map, the roofs of buildings like postage stamps.  Only the skyscrapers remain intimidating, their slim upper stories jutting into the atmosphere. 

Ronnie’s made me late, so I tilt my body in a northeasternly direction
—
the watch strapped to my wrist doubles as a compass (how bout that?)
—
and power forward.  Slung through one of my belt loops, a pair of sunglasses dangles.  I grab them and slide them over my eyes.  (This prevents my eyes from getting all watery from the rushing air.  The “might have been crying” look isn’t good for a girl with a job like mine.)  I put my hand on my back pocket to make sure the envelope full of money is still there.  When I feel its bulge, I let out a long breath.  The boss would’ve had my head on a plate if I didn’t get the money from Ronnie this time.  Apparently, I’ve been too “lenient” with giving the guy extensions.

I leave the city far behind, sailing over fields of corn, purple quarries, and a tree-covered mountain range (the Appalachians?).  I spoke too soon when I said it was warm:  the air’s gone crisp, and goosebumps have popped up all over my skin.  Shivering, I glance at my watch.  It’s 4:32 pm, and I was supposed to be back at 4.  The boss is going to skin me alive. 

A brown cloud of smoke billows from a factory, and I swerve to avoid it.  (If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you don’t fly through air the color of crap.)  I’m getting close to my destination.  Sure enough, the flat, complicated landscape of Reading, Pennsylvania, looms.  The city of Reading has no towering skyscrapers, but is an intricate maze of squat, square buildings, rectangular apartment houses, and the occasional church with its cross sticking up. 

The Tower, a structure the color of red clay, sits on top of a green hill just outside the city, so that you can see it from almost anywhere in Reading’s streets.  (You can always tell people who’ve never been to the city before, because their eyes catch on the Tower every few seconds.)  I can’t blame them.  Constructed in the early 1900s, the Tower is supposed to look like a battle castle of the Shogun Dynasty of Japan.  It looks like a bunch of log cabins stacked on top of each other, each cabin smaller than the first, creating a pyramid effect.  The roof of each cabin flares outward, and a single chimney slices through all of the roofs to leak smoke into the atmosphere.  Because the Tower basically screams, “Look at me!” to anyone within a ten mile radius, you’d think this would be a bad place for a bunch of criminals to gather and do business.  But the people I work for seem to think that breaking the law in a highly visible Japanese battle castle is the best way to avoid getting caught.

Stretching my body into a straight line, I zip over the streets of Reading, the hum of traffic just touching my ears.  When I reach the Tower, I tilt my head downward and plunge like an arrow.  These sorts of nosedives are my favorite thing to do while flying.  The air crashes against my face.  My T-shirt billows around me.  I feel like every ounce of gravity holding the Earth together is pouring into me, and the clenching of my stomach and roaring in my ears are symptoms of having more power inside me than any human being ever before.  It lasts only a few seconds, before the arrival of the ground forces me to pull up.  I lift a little and drop to my feet.

“I hate it when you do that, Sammie.  I hate it, I hate it, I hate it,” mutters Jiminy, from where he’s leaning against the white picket fence that surrounds the Tower.  Jiminy is a 260-pound, bald, muscle-bound guy who looks like he would joyfully beat the crap out of your grandpa but really isn’t so bad.  In fact, the boss likes him because he looks like a rabid dog but acts “civil.”  (That’s not to say Jiminy couldn’t tear a guy in half if the situation called for it.  I’ve seen him take out seven other guys with no other weapon than a mechanical pencil.)  He lumbers toward me.  “Get over here!  Hug me before I smack you!”

I walk across the grass and let him wrap his arms around me.  Tightly.  “Jiminy, you’re gonna kill me.”
“Damn right I am.”  He pulls away from me and shakes his head.  “You’re 45 minutes late.  The boss is livid.”

I cringe.  “He is?”

“Of course he is.  You’re lucky he had to fly to Sweden or you’d be getting an earful.  Or worse.”

“Wait, he’s in Sweden?”  My mood lifts.

“Get inside.  Come on.”

I follow Jiminy through the wide oak doors of the Tower and into the lobby.  Because the Tower was constructed to be a luxury hotel, the lobby is, well, luxurious.  A thick maroon rug swirling with gold embroidery covers the floor, while the walls rise in rich, red mahogany panels.  In the center of the room, a golden elevator glimmers.  A polished wooden counter sits at the far end of the room, behind which a man with slicked black hair shuffles cards.  

“Third level, Sammie,” calls the card shuffler.  His name’s Evan.

I press the number three for the elevator.  “Thanks.” 

“You’re late, Sammie,” says Evan.

“I’m aware.” 

Jiminy crosses his arms while we wait.  “Why are you late, anyway?”

“Ronnie held me up.  You know I have to choke the money out of that guy.” 
He raises an eyebrow.  “You’re not having any problems like before, are you?”

I feel my eyes darken.  Before I have to say anything, the elevator doors lurch open.  Jiminy and I get inside and remain silent as the elevator climbs. 

The doors open into a wide, airy room with hardwood floors and lots of windows, so that it’s almost like the room is walled with blue sky.  Each window reveals another breathtaking view of Reading, bathed in the deep yellow light that comes just before sunset.  Two brown, leather couches face each other in the center of the room, with a glossy antique coffee table between them.  On one of the couches sits a man in a crisp black suit.

“You may go, Jiminy.  I won’t be needing you,” says the man in a smooth voice. 

Jiminy gives me an encouraging smile and pats me on the shoulder.  I step out of the elevator, and the doors slide shut behind me. 

“You’re late,” says the man. 

His name is Lederman.  (He’s one of those criminals that goes by his last name only, as if he’s way too cool to have people him calling him the same name his mama did.)  I happen to hate Lederman.  He has a way of talking to you that makes you feel like something disgusting he stepped in. 

“Sorry,” I say.

“Sit.”

I walk to the leather couch across from Lederman and sit.  The corners of his mouth droop as he scrutinizes my face, my T-shirt, my dirty sneakers.  I find myself smoothing my jeans with my palms. 

“Still 17, I see,” he says with distaste.

“Yeah, aging.  It takes time.” 

“You have blood on your neck.”

I touch my neck and a feel long, thin cut, crusted over with blood.  Darn.  Ronnie got me.

“It’s nothing.”

“I hope not.  If you can’t handle your assignments
—

“I can handle
it.”

He frowns at me, his eyes dull with impatience.  “Excellent.  I have another assignment for you.” 

I take a deep breath.  “What is it?”

“Code Black.  145 17th Street, Philadelphia.”

“But
that’s where Ronnie lives
—

“If you can’t
handle
it.”  He doesn’t finish his sentence, because he doesn’t have to:  he knows as well as I do that I have no other option but handling it.

“You can count on me,” I murmur.

“Great.”  He smiles.  “Give me the money from today.” 

I lean forward and pull the envelope out of my back pocket, then toss it on the coffee table.  Lederman snatches it and whips out the cash, counting it bill by bill. 

“You may go,” he says.  “The boss expects you back at the Tower by tomorrow at 4. 
Be
on
time.
” 

I get into the elevator, my stomach sinking.  When the doors open back into the lobby, Jiminy’s waiting for me. 

“What’s wrong?” he blurts.

I blow by him and exit the Tower, glad to feel cool air against my face.

Jiminy grabs my shoulder and spins me around.  “Hey, don’t ignore me, kid.  I’m on your side.”

I take in his face, which is lined with concern.  I sigh.  “It’s a Code Black.”

“Aww, kid.”  He pats me on the back.  “It’ll be alright.  Come on, let me buy you a pizza.”

“I think I just wanna take off.”

“You sure?”

I nod.

“Alright, then.  Hey, don’t you dare get yourself killed up there!”

I’ve already leaped from the grassy hill and am shooting toward the sunset, my eyes set on the bright point of light that marks Venus. 

This could be the last sunset I’ll ever see. 

CHAPTER 2

Damien

I’ve just finished the last of my homework when the flying girl shoots through the window.

“Hey, Sammie.”

She lands on top of my desk, straddling my biology textbook and crinkling my papers with her dirty sneakers. 

“And by hey, I mean get the heck off my homework.”

Giving me a mischievous smile, she leaps over my head and lands behind me with a thud.  I twist in my chair.  Sammie is easily the strangest person I have ever known.  I estimate she is five-foot-two, with hair the color of cornsilk spilling roughly two inches past her shoulders.  She tucks some of it behind her ear and drops her knapsack onto the floor.

“Dude, I am
starving
.”  She rips open the knapsack and pulls out a large bag of Fritos, a Coke, and a packet of Pop Tarts.  She tears open the bag of Fritos and shoves a handful into her mouth before collapsing on my bed. 

I rise from my desk.  “How was your day?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You look upset.  There’s blood on your neck!”

I rush closer.  Sure enough, a thin line of blood slits her throat.  It’s crusted dry, but scary looking:  there are dry globs where the blood dripped down. 

“It’s fine,” she says.

“Did someone try to cut your throat?”

“It’s
fine
.”

I signal for her to follow me into the bathroom, where I make her sit on the counter while I get the rubbing alcohol out of the cabinet.  This is not unusual.  In all the time that I’ve known her, Sammie has more often shown up with some kind of injury than without.  Bruises the shape of hands on her arms, cuts on her face, a broken finger
—
but never before a cut across her neck, as if someone tried to murder her.  I take the damp cloth and dab it against the cut, smudging off the blood.