MILA 2.0: Redemption (11 page)

Lucas nodded grudgingly, and pulled a ski mask out of his pocket. I did the same. We planned to immobilize the video cameras while we were here, but these masks were an added precaution. The last thing we needed was an APB out on Lucas, too. I chewed my lip. His extended absence from SMART Ops was probably raising suspicions by now. Holland would catch on. It was only a matter of time.

“Mila? The video cameras?” Lucas said, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Right.

Signals from surrounding buildings hovered in my head.

IndustMax Wi-Fi.

JenningsCorp Wi-Fi.

RCHoldings security.

PPD security.

PPD—Philadelphia Police Department. There it was.

The connection streamed between me and their network. Within a few seconds, I located the video-camera server and in a few more seconds, had the server down. Then, I overrode the security alarm in much the same way I had the gate.

I pulled my own knit mask over my head while he grabbed the passenger-door handle. “Remember, we shouldn’t stay too long. Fifteen minutes tops.”

I nodded, stuffing the gun in the back waistband of my pants, and opened my own door. Walking as quietly as possible, we headed over to the building’s side entrance. The alarm was down, but the door was also hand locked by key. I considered shooting at the lock, but the sound would reverberate and signal an intrusion to whomever might be guarding the interior.

I closed my eyes. Then my sensors whirred as they analyzed the properties of the door, providing me with a readout on the thickness, type of hinge, and force necessary to dislodge it.

There wasn’t any other choice. Lucas stood back, giving me space. My shoulder hit the wood with a fluid, swift
motion.
Crack!
We froze in place when the noise rang out in the still air. Sharp, but not loud enough to draw any attention.

At least, that was what I hoped.

We sidled inside the door and pulled it shut behind us, even though the lock no longer engaged. A small reception area greeted us, with an oversize desk located behind a wall and a barred window. The room was tiny and utilitarian, with paint peeling off the walls and a stained cement floor. Directly through the secured desk area was another door.

After another crunch of snapping metal, we were inside the warehouse itself.

My heart plummeted as soon as we eased open the door. The space was bigger than I’d hoped. Rows upon rows of shelves greeted us, housing objects of all different shapes and sizes. In fact, at first I almost thought we’d made some kind of mistake. I’d been expecting a mass of bland-looking evidence boxes, but instead there was a rainbow of colors here.

“Need a skateboard?” I whispered. They were neatly arranged in little cubbies, their brightly hued wheels and decals cheering the warehouse workers, I imagined.

Lucas spun a wheel with one gloved hand. “Let’s try this way,” he said, jerking his head to the next row over.

“You take right, I go left?” I said, eying the masses of
evidence with trepidation.

Lucas nodded, and we split up. He went in search of Sarah’s actual case file, 4220, while I searched for the one in Blythe’s letter: 2440.

I wandered through the first row, which was crammed with items from floor to ceiling. Boxes, all boxes. I was only at 3500, so I kept moving. I rounded the corner and hurried through the next row. And the next.

I was six rows in before the numbers started to get close. 3900, 4100, and there, on the middle shelf. 2440.

With an unsteady hand, I reached for the box, set it on the floor, and removed the lid. Dust flew up, clouding my eyes. On top was a layer of papers all marked with the case number, involving a pyromaniac and property damage.

Wrong fire. I set them aside, barely daring to hope. What if this was a wild-goose chase?

My hands sifted through more papers, my fingers digging downward. My breath hitched when at first, I felt nothing. Just more papers, and cardboard.

No.

But before the first whispers of defeat could take hold, I grazed something slick. Plastic.

The first bag contained a piece of a timer, its wires frayed like an old hem. The second bag held a red bottle, quart-sized. Butane. A popular accelerant. The tags on the evidence marked them as belonging to case 4220. Sarah’s case.

My fists closed around the items while the warehouse receded, replaced by a wall of blazing orange. The musty smell of old paper turned into the acrid sear of smoke.

The flames blocked me from going forward. So suffocatingly hot. No air.

My throat constricted in response.

“Sarah?” I staggered to the ground, too weak to stand. Was that Dad’s voice, calling out to me . . . or was it a hallucination? Because I suddenly felt so drowsy, my limbs like rubber. If I could rest my head . . . just nap, just for a little while . . .

The memory faded, leaving something hard and cold beneath my head. I opened my eyes and blinked at the barren surroundings from my supine position on the floor. I bolted upright, my synthetic heartbeat in a frenzied state. The girl I’d been—or rather, who I’d been made to re-create—had been murdered. With every minute, I was sure of it. Her fear, her suffering, it was all mine. We were one and the same. I still didn’t know why he’d done it, but the man behind the crime was still at large.

I opened the third bag with fingers that still shook. At first, I thought it was empty. Then I caught a glint of something, in the far corner. I pinched the bit of metal between my fingers. Just a fragment; what looked like the remains of a pin. Like something you’d put on your shirt, or your coat, for a bit of bling. The metal was misshapen, and only a hint of color was left on the front. Green, yellow, and
blue. I didn’t know what the design was supposed to be, but I knew one thing for sure: if Edgar Blythe had hidden it, then he had identified the fragment and determined it was significant.

I returned the timer piece and accelerant to the shelves once I took pictures of them, but I shoved the pin in my pocket. I hurried down the row until I found Lucas, and filled him in with a hushed whisper. Then we quickly made our way toward the door to the reception office, where my exit plan came to a screeching halt.

I threw my arm in front of Lucas to stop him

Human threat detected: 45 ft.

Subject armed.

Weapons scan: .45-caliber pistol.

“Security guard. Turn off the flashlight,” I whispered.

Lucas fumbled with the button. The light went off at the same time I heard footsteps on the other side of the door. I spun and pulled Lucas behind me, aware of the
thwack
of my shoes on the concrete as I tried to balance speed with stealth. I veered us down a row of boxes. Lucas stumble-hopped behind me, but didn’t complain, even though his human eyes couldn’t possibly pick out much in the pitch dark.

Target advancing.

35 ft.

Another metallic clink sounded. My pulse leapt, while the weapon in my waistband grew heavy. We needed to clear
the end of the row before the guard entered, or it would all be over. He’d hear us, and I’d be forced to take aim.

Maybe even fire.

I upped our speed, and we reached the row’s end just as the door creaked open. I pulled Lucas by the wrist until his back was against the far end of the shelves. We stood there, barely daring to breathe. Something snapped, and then a glow from above the shelves near the entrance.

“Hello? Anyone here? This is security,” a deep voice said.

The light moved in time with a heavy set of footsteps, slapping concrete. I cringed. From the way the beam swung, the guard was walking along the wall and peering down aisles.

His current trajectory would lead him directly to us.

My sensors broadcast information as my heart pounded, plying me with information that was preparing me for a fight.

Target statistics:

Gender: Male.

Height: 6 ft., 1 in.

Weight: 205 lbs.

Heart rate: 95 bpm, slightly accelerated.

Footsteps: Slower than average based on weight/height. Indicates caution.

Weapon: Loaded.

I listened as the measured, even footsteps closed in. Then
the beam of light shot out from the far end of our aisle, just to the left of our heads. I waited, searching for any pause in the guard’s gait, any rustle of clothing to hint that he was reaching for a walkie-talkie or weapon. He kept on walking. The beam of light popped out on our right next, then the footsteps continued, away from us, as he peered into each row.

My fingers tightened around Lucas’s wrist. In another thirty-three feet, the guard would come to a dead end. That was the moment of truth. My fervent hope was that he would turn around, retrace his steps until he repeated the process on the far side, and retreat back into the office when nothing turned up.

Android sensors counted down the approximate remaining distance, but with only one foot remaining from where my sensors had detected the corner, the footsteps paused.

Silently, I urged the guard to turn and head back toward the door.

One second passed. Then three. The next footstep finally fell, but didn’t retreat in the direction the guard had come from. My gaze tracked left, down to the end of the final aisle. To the open area that would reveal us.

The beam of light grew brighter. He was coming.

I brought my mouth near Lucas’s ear. “Move.”

He grabbed my hand and allowed me to guide him around the corner of the shelves we’d backed up against,
one tiptoed step at a time. Praying the guard’s footsteps would mask our own.

We took another quiet step, and another. Trapped in a treacherous game of hide-and-seek, one with potentially fatal consequences. All the while, the footsteps behind us grew louder. Raspy breaths caught in my throat. If we were too noisy, we’d be discovered. But if we weren’t fast enough, we’d be caught anyway.

I increased my pace, Lucas following, his fingers entwined with mine. Halfway to the exit, then a little past halfway. Hope swelled within me. We were going make it, just barely.

Without warning, Lucas missed a step, his hand yanking my arm downward. I twisted and reached back to steady him, but it was too late. His free arm swung wildly and caught the edge of the shelves.

The thud that rang out sounded deafening. The footsteps on the far end froze. “Hello? Who’s there?”

Then the room echoed with the slap of shoes hitting the concrete floor at a run.

Without saying a word, Lucas and I broke into a sprint and raced for the end of the aisle. The flashlight beam hit us way too soon—we still had another fifteen feet to go.

Any second now, the guard would reach for his radio and call for backup. At that point, we’d be seriously screwed. I pushed Lucas ahead of me, urging him to continue running.

When he was two steps ahead, I whirled. I launched myself in the guard’s direction. The gun pressed a cold, metallic reminder against my back, and I issued a silent plea to the universe.

Please don’t make me use it.

Sure enough, the guard had reached for the radio strapped to his belt. His eyes widened when he spotted me hurtling at him. He fumbled and dropped the device, his hand diving for the pistol holstered around his waist instead.

“Don’t move,” he said, fingers grabbing the handle and ripping the barrel free.

Target: Located.

Indecision froze me in place. I should draw my weapon. Now, when I could still shoot him in the shoulder, incapacitate him without killing. But shame crashed through me like a tidal wave. An image of Hunter’s faded blue eyes flashed in my memory, begging me to hold back. Hunter, who was alive and maybe even on his way somewhere to start the new life he deserved. Without Peyton.

So I ignored the cold pressure in my waistband. Instead my hand whipped out, catching the guard’s gun just as he put his finger on the safety. No time for anything else, I utilized my momentum and ducked my head. My skull struck his throat while his gun-free hand dropped the flashlight and snagged my shirt. We flew backward together.

His back hit the concrete floor and I slammed into his
chest. The
oomph
of air forced from his lungs gave me the advantage. I grabbed his gun hand and smashed his wrist hard against the floor. His grip slackened; the gun fell. I slid the gun behind me and out of his range. With a quick punch, his radio was rendered useless.

The guard remained motionless for a moment, clearly dazed. Then he started to struggle. With one hand, I pinned him by the throat.

“Stop fighting me,” I snarled, altering my voice until it was deeper than Lucas’s.

At the sound, he went completely still, but his heart rate accelerated.

110 bpm, 120 bpm.

Probably terrified I was going to shoot him with his own gun. With my free hand, I dug into my pocket and foraged until my fingers closed around a few thin plastic strips.

Maybe some girls were taught to always carry an emergency lipstick or hair band, but me? Mom taught me never to leave home without zip ties.

The security guard glanced at the ties. His eyes widened, and his right arm swung. His clenched fist struck my jaw. My head whipped left from the force, and I lost my grip on his throat. As I scrambled to regain my balance, Lucas’s shoes appeared to my right. He stooped and retrieved the discarded gun, letting the barrel point in the vicinity of the floor near the guard’s shoulder.

“Stay down,” he said. “Or I’ll make you wish you had.”

Vocal analysis: Faster speech rate, slight increase in pitch. Probable indicator of fear.

As if to corroborate my sensors, Lucas swiped his damp palm against his thigh. But his gun hand remained steady, giving no hint of the chaos that was surely erupting inside him. Now, if only the guard would cooperate.

After a few seconds that felt like a millennium, the guard slowly raised his hand. “Okay. Take it easy.”

I made short work of incapacitating him with the zip ties, binding both his hands and ankles as Lucas kept the gun steady. Once I finished, I didn’t waste time. I motioned for Lucas to follow and together, we jogged toward the door.