Strike (23 page)

I find the strength to roll over and sit up and buckle myself in like a good girl. Because there's one thing I know for sure now: My mom was not in the house.

Which means there's a chance that Leon wasn't lying, that she's somewhere on the Crane compound, or at least somewhere safe. Saf
er
.

My house got blown up, and the demented old lady who was supposed to kill me is dead. And that means that Valor might not know what happened to me. Maybe they really think I'm dead too. I should've planted my sweatshirt behind, dammit, but it's too late to turn back. People will be creeping outside their houses to investigate now. They would notice.

Which means that my current problem, my real problem, is getting in good with the Cranes. According to their rules, Wyatt and I failed our last assignment. There are still three of those nut cans in my bag. Then again, do the Cranes have to know? It's not like I'm wearing a camera, like I did with Valor, not like there's a Crane following us around with a clipboard, checking off boxes. Surely they have no way of knowing that we planted only seventeen cans?

“What are you thinking?” Wyatt asks, and I exhale slowly.

He's seen me upset, plenty, but not like this. Before I was guilty, sad, filled with self-loathing. Now I'm angry. Valor tried to kill me. They used a sick, sad old woman, leveraging her debts against her. They killed her brutally. At least this time, as we drive away, I know that I'm not the one who killed Mrs. Hester. That was Valor, one hundred percent.

And I wish there were a better way to get back at them than
being just another Crane goon saying “How high?” every time Leon tells me to jump. So what's the one thing I haven't had since that black SUV rolled up outside my door?

“What I'm thinking about is leverage,” I say.

“Leverage,” Wyatt repeats. His dark eyes flash at me in the rearview mirror.

I nod and stare out the window as cars zoom by on the six-lane road we call a highway. It's funny how attuned I am to shiny black now. I never paid attention to cars before, but now I'm suddenly on the lookout for anything Valor, for anyone who looks too carefully or follows too closely. Suits, especially, catch my attention. If I can live long enough to get married, I'll have to find a guy who will promise never to wear a black suit, not even a tuxedo to the altar.

A shiny black sedan zooms around us, and I consider the license plate. I'm looking for government or Valor markings, but what I see is a limo plate. Is that how Valor does it—they pretend to be limos? Or is it an actual limo? There's no way to tell. The windows are tinted the same opaque black. Inside that car, there could be a movie star filming in Atlanta, a wealthy old woman, a state representative, or just another set of Valor suits, as stamped and rote as all the others. Hell, maybe the car is on its way to Château Tuscano.

Which gives me an idea. I know how to get leverage.

“Your gun is only missing one bullet, right?” I ask Wyatt.

His hand goes reflexively from the steering wheel to his hip.
“Yeah. So I guess that's fourteen? Jesus. I can't even remember. This shit messes with your mind.”

“And I'm fully loaded. What other weapons do we have?”

“Uh. That knife. The one I . . . used on you.” He takes an uncomfortable pause as we both think back to the rain on the roof of my mail van, to his knees pinning me down as he put a steak knife to my neck, on the cusp of killing me like I'd been on the edge of killing him. “In the glove box. I guess there's a tire iron or whatever in the trunk, whatever cars come with. And my lacrosse stick.”

I stifle a giggle, badly. “You brought your lacrosse stick to the apocalypse?”

He exhales and coughs on a laugh. “Yeah. You'll thank me when I catch a grenade in it and lob it back into a Valor tank.”

“My hero.”

“Why do you ask? Haven't you . . . ? I mean, has today not been violent enough for you?”

I can't help flinching at that.

“Look, the last week has totally worn me out on violence for the rest of my life. I probably won't even like spy movies after this. But I think I know how to get us in good with the Cranes and maybe find out where my mom is.”

Wyatt sighs and rubs his eyes. “Can't we just go home to our trailer and play with our dog?”

I have to hide the little thrill I feel at hearing him say “we” and
“our” again. Shooting that security guy hit Wyatt in a tender place, and I wasn't sure if he blamed me for it. But if we are still “we” and Matty is still “our” dog, then we're still us, and that means I can still be me.

Jesus, nothing makes sense anymore. Not even words.

“Just one more thing,” I say. “Take a left here.”

My heart is racing as I leap out of the parked car and frantically wave my arms, trying to look desperate and helpless. Wyatt kneels by the back tire, struggling with the jack. Clearly, rich boys who drive Lexus sedans do not change their own tires. I know how to do it, but we agreed that I have to look like a damsel. To that end, I left my huge hoodie in the car, and goose bumps sprout around my thin tee, the November wind rattling my teeth.

The black SUV has to stop anyway, as we're blocking a four-way stop, which just so happens to be the four-way stop just outside of Château Tuscano. The denuded forest behind it shows neat rows of shiny black vehicles, which means I was right: It's perfect for a Valor compound, and that means that suits will be coming and going, and that's why we've been sitting here for two hours, pantomiming a broken-down car whenever the approaching vehicle is black. The last one was an old man who couldn't help. But this one . . . Maybe this is the one.

The SUV rolls to a stop about twenty feet behind us, and I run
toward it like your average moron who knows nothing about the bank's hostile takeover.

“Please help!” I shout. “Can you please help us?”

The windshield is tinted dark and shiny—a good sign. A flash inside might be sunglasses. The SUV either has to do a U-turn on a narrow road with no shoulder, pull around us, where Wyatt's tools are sprawled and ready to pop tires, or do the decent thing and help.

A window rolls down, and a guy calls, “We can't help you. Government business. Please clear the road.”

I run up closer, waving my arms, holding up the flip phone Wyatt lifted off his Crane goon. “What? No. We need help. Like, my dad's not answering. We can't get the tire off. Please?” I'm not quite in front of him but not quite to the side. I'm right where he would have a harder time shooting me, thanks to the lines of the car.

Inside, voices whisper in argument. “We're going around. Get out of the way.” The window closes, and the SUV's tires twist left.

“What? No. Come on, please!” I have to play this like someone who has no idea that these guys are heavily armed, like someone who still thinks the government is here to serve and protect. I run right up to the window and tap on it.

I can barely breathe as the window rolls down, the shiny black revealing two pissed-off guys in matching black suits with the typical Valor earpieces.

“Look, kid—” the driver starts, and the passenger puts his hand on the driver's arm and leans in to whisper something.

The second the driver turns his head, I whip the gun out of my waistband and shoot the passenger. Not in the face—in the chest. And then my gun is trained on the driver.

“Nope. Hands up,” I say as his hand edges toward his jacket.

“Kid, you have no idea who you're pissing off,” the guy says.

“I know exactly who I'm pissing off.” Keeping the gun trained on him, I add, “Put the car in park.”

“Last chance, kid. Drop the gun and hit the ground, or shit will rain down on you—”

Wyatt's behind me now, his gun likewise pointed at the driver. “Put it in park,” he snarls.

The driver's pissed, breathing hard through his nose. I can't see past his sunglasses, but I imagine him checking each mirror for help, for more Valor guys.

He mutters, “Charlie Tango, this is Delta-Three-Five—”

And then I remember that he's wearing an earpiece, and I don't know if that means they can always hear him or he can always hear them. Before he can finish, I reach up, rip it off, and throw it past him, into the backseat. He takes a deep breath and puts the car in park. Soon Wyatt has him in his own handcuffs and forces him to climb into the trunk of the Lexus.

“What if he kicks out the lights?” I say.

“Oh, crap. You're right.” Wyatt pulls off this bracelet he wears, messes with it, and suddenly, it's a long roll of paracord, which he uses to bind the suit's feet together and tie that to the guy's handcuffs. I hold my gun to the suit's temple to remind him not to fight so much.

“You kids have no fucking idea. You have no—”

Wyatt slams the trunk, and the sound cuts off.

“See you at the trailer,” he says, pecking me on the cheek.

He tosses the tools, jack, and tire iron into the backseat of the Lexus and takes off, just like we planned. As much as he didn't want to let me out of his sight, it would be suspicious if we drove together. I climb up into the SUV and arrange the front seat and mirrors so that I can reach the pedals and see what's behind me. The dead man in the passenger seat is sticking up more than I'd like, and seeing him makes me want to throw up, so I shove him down until he's all below the tinted black window. He leaves a red smear behind on the black fabric.

God help me, when I look at him, I feel guilty. Even though he's a bad guy, even though it didn't hurt to pull the trigger when I was all jacked up, now all I can see are the place he nicked his jaw shaving and the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes. A dead Valor suit seems more human than a living one, somehow. I've tried so hard not to change, not to lose who I was, but perhaps this is the first moment that I accept what I've become: a killer. Because this time? This is war. And as much as I hate to admit it, no matter what
family this guy had, the world is better off without him, whoever he was. Without well-armed suits, Valor is just a bunch of computers, like Leon said.

Soon I'm driving to the Crane compound, taking back roads and following the speed limit. When I notice another black vehicle in a parking lot, idling, I snatch the sunglasses off the dead man's face and slide them on, making my face a mask. Does Valor even hire women as suits? Does the car in the lot belong to Valor? There's just so much I don't know. But maybe, now that we have a hostage, we'll find out.

But then I realize—are they tracking the car right now? To Crane Hollow?

What the hell have I just done?

I hit the gas to zoom past Crane Road, turn down the next little street, and pick a dirt road with ragged construction forms flapping against an old barn. The car bumps over the gravel and skids to a stop in a bend, where it can't be seen from the road. I can't believe I almost delivered a Valor SUV to the Citizens for Freedom without checking to see if it was bugged, tagged, or being tracked. My brain treats me to a vision of helicopters descending and shooting up the tent city, of the house on fire and Kevin trapped, alone, in his bed upstairs. All those deaths, on my head just as much as Robert and Sherry and Ken.

And then I pull myself together and pull out the flip phone. At least the goons are predictable—Leon is the last contact who called, three times, probably leaving furious messages about how the missing kid should've already reported back from driving Wyatt on the Wiper mission. I press the call button and pace in the gravel as it rings.

“Alex is right here, so who the hell is this?” Crane's voice is low and deadly, a soft chorus of men gabbling behind him.

“I've got a present for you, Mr. Crane,” I say.

He exhales like he hates surprises. “I repeat: Who the hell is this?”

“This is Zooey Goddamn Hemsworth, and I just stole a Valor SUV. You want to tell me how to disable whatever tracking system they've got on it?”