Demon Accords 05.5: Executable (7 page)

The parking lot was almost empty when I got to school early the next morning.  Just Trey Johnson’s blue Mustang and Mike Oberton’s old Honda Accord.   I had completely forgotten my AP Bio lab results the night before and I had to get them rewritten in report form and handed in today if I wanted full credit.  And I wanted every credit, grade, and score I could get.  I really needed to blow the doors off my grades the first half of Senior year if I was going to have a shot at any college scholarships.

The
front door was unlocked and no one was in the immediate area of the lobby as I entered.  The halls were a bit creepy, being all silent and empty of kids. Mass bedlam and chaos were the standards I was used to.

My bio lab info was right where I forgot it, on the top shelf of my locker in its dedicated lab folder, so I grabbed it and shoved it into my book bag.  I could probably get it done before first bell if I hustled.  Just as I shut the locker door, I heard voices coming from the gym area and it sounded like an argument.

Curiosity got the best of me and I found my feet pulling me in the direction of the voices. Poking my head around the final corner brought an odd scene into view.  Trey Johnson and his pet gorilla, Kevin Otts, had someone backed up against the wall.  A female someone from the shape of the jean-clad legs I could just make out in the gap between the two beefy football players.

“What do you say, sweet stuff?  Gonna sit with us at lunch today?  A hardbody like you belongs with the right crowd, not with a bunch of geeks and freaks,” Trey said, moving closer and putting both hands on the girl’s shoulders.  His movement cleared enough space that I could now see that it was Sarah he had backed up almost to the wall.

“I already said I didn’t think so.  Now I’m certain—no,” she replied, her voice pitched low in anger.

“You don’t seem to understand how it works around here,” Trey said, his voice also getting angry.  “I speak, you listen.  I ask, and you do!  Get it?” He pushed her against the wall.

I started to move forward, but it was like he’d hit the firing button on a dynamite detonator.  The compact, brown-haired girl exploded into motion, both hands coming up inside his arms and slamming the edge of her palms hard against them.  She stepped close to him, wrapping one arm around the small of his back while shoving her palm up and under his chin, forcing his head back.  His lower body was trapped by her arm and his head bent backward, so Trey had nowhere to go but over and down on his back.

Her motions had been blindingly fast and the school quarterback was flat on the ground before his lineman buddy could figure out what happened.  When it finally dawned on the stupid bastard that his leader had been floored, he charged forward, both meaty paws out to grab the girl he outweighed by more than a hundred pounds.  She waited, relaxed, as he rushed her before moving at the last moment in a blur.  As best I can figure, she side-stepped him, spun around behind him, and kicked the back of his left knee with her right leg while simultaneously shoving the back of his crew-cut head toward the wall.  That’s what I think she did. It was so damned fast, I couldn’t be sure.

It’s probably lucky that the walls were all lockers and not regular concrete block, or he might have been brain damaged.  More brain damaged.  As it was, his own momentum had enough force to leave a good-sized dent in the metal locker where his forehead hit it.

Mr. Porter, our Physics teacher, could probably have calculated the impact energy by reflex, but all I knew was that it looked like a mini-moose hitting a car.

He slid sideways down the locker, stunned.  Trey was back on his feet, his face twisted with rage, and he swung a wild, right-handed haymaker at the girl, who simply crouched, blocked the punch, then delivered a sharp jab to his exposed throat.  She grabbed Trey’s hand and got a grip on his index and middle fingers.  Pulling her arm back toward her body and flexing her fist forward and down like a waitress pouring coffee, she gave Trey the option of dropping to his knees or having both fingers snapped at the joint where they met his palm. Trey chose to collapse to the floor, his look of rage replaced with one of excruciating pain.

“Come at me again and I’ll get serious about hurting you. Got it,
sweet stuff?
” she asked, giving his fingers a final jerk before letting go and stepping back two paces.

Both football players were slow to get to their feet, Trey cradling his right hand while his buddy leaned on the lockers and repeatedly shook his head to clear it.

“You fucking bitch.  I’ll have you up on charges.  My father is the best trial lawyer in Burlington.  You’ll be expelled by this afternoon,” he hissed.

I stepped forward, clearing my throat.  “Actually, Johnson, I don’t think you will,” I said, holding up my phone.  “Even your dad won’t be able to make a case with the footage I’ve got here, as well as my own testimony.  And I’m used to being questioned by your father on the witness stand, remember?  Not to mention how low your reputation will sink when I post this to YouTube.”

He had pulled up short at my sudden appearance, and his face reflected dismay and horror for a moment before collapsing back to its default setting of rage.

“Fuck you, O’Carroll!  You post that and I burn your shithole restaurant to the ground.”

“Still recording, dipshit,” I said, and this time I actually was.  The part about catching the fight on video was a big bluff of bullshit, but I
had
tripped the video button for our little exchange.  Despite knowing I had him by the balls, my anger still ballooned at the mention of burning my aunt’s restaurant.  The florescent bulbs over my head went suddenly dark.

Both Trey and Kevin glanced up at the overheads and, for the first time, Trey looked a little nervous. Grabbing his shaky buddy by the shirtsleeve, he pulled him in a wide arc around me.

“Stay the fuck away from us, freak,” he said to me, then shoved his shuffling minion further down the hall and stalked off.

Sarah, who hadn’t flinched or acted surprised when I had stepped around the corner, was staring at the lights overhead.

“I had the situation handled, Declan.  Your interference wasn’t needed,” she said, looking calmly at me.  Part of me noted it was the first time she had ever said my name.

“Sure. In fact, I think you could have easily broken bones if they’d continued,” I said, wondering where a teenage girl had gotten the skill and experience needed to piss pound almost five hundred pounds of muscle and bone.  “But even if they hadn’t, Trey would have pressed charges and you’d be facing the police and a stacked legal deck.  His dad is a kingshit lawyer around here.”

She shook her head.  “He was bluffing about filing charges.  It would have been a big loss of face to admit that I kicked their little bitch asses.”

“Ah, that would make sense if it were anyone but Trey.  He would have made up a story about you attacking him and Kevin with a lead pipe or something.  That idiot Otts would support any story he came up with.  Trey lives for revenge.  He’d stop at nothing to get even with you.  I know… we used to be best friends.”

I don’t know why I told her the last part; it wasn’t something I mentioned to anyone anymore, although it was the truth.

“What’s to keep him from seeking revenge anyway, if that’s true?” she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

“One, he believes that I would post the video on every type of social media known to man, and two, he knows there’s very little he can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”

Plus, he was basically terrified of me, deep down to his craven little core, but I left that off.

“What’s to keep you from posting it anyway?”

“Well, we have a kind of unspoken agreement. Each of us leaves the other mostly alone unless provoked. I won’t post anything if he leaves you alone, for the most part.  The other part of it is that I didn’t really catch the whole fight, just the last bit about him burning down Rowan West.”

“You bluffed him?  And what do you mean by
for the most part
?” she asked.  She was very calm, her posture relaxed, breathing even and normal and her poker face in place.  I’ve seen lots of kid fights, and no one was ever that calm three minutes later.

“Yeah, he hates me, but I have a certain amount of credibility with him. And
for the most part
means that he
will
trash your reputation on the school social scene.  Spread a campaign of lies.  Sorry, Sarah. You’ve only been here a day, and you’ve crossed the biggest douchebag in the school.  What were you doing here this early anyway?”

She studied me for a moment before answering.  “Not having gym clothes was a problem.  Mother and I bought some last night, and I wanted to put them in my locker and return Mrs. Bockman’s loaner clothes.  And I don’t really care about a reputation one way or another. I am just here to get through senior year.  But thank you for keeping him from pressing charges.  That would have been… less than ideal.”

I knew she was homeschooled, but her manner of speech was definitely weird.  Obviously, she hung out with too many adults, although she had not trouble sprinkling in a few choice curse words here or there.  But what kid says “less than ideal?” Other than Rory, that is.

“Why are
you
here so early?” she asked.

“I was going to type up my lab report, but now it might be too late,” I said, glancing at the time on my phone and mentally calculating my typing speed.

“I’ll do it for you.  I’m the fastest typist you’ll likely ever meet,” she said without sounding boastful.

“I’ll take you up on that,” I said although I didn’t think she could get it done.  I was wrong.

Watching her with my Apple laptop, I came to the conclusion that she was dead right… I’d never seen or heard of anyone who could type so fast that it sounded like one continuous click.  People were filtering into my homeroom by the time she was finishing up, but she still had plenty of time to complete it before giving me a nod and heading to her own homeroom, leaving me to add her ridiculous typing speed to a growing list of very odd traits.

Mike West absently scratched his leg where it met his prosthetic foot as he observed his quarry through a high-power monocular.  Machete had parked his rental Honda on the road across from Castlebury High School and was watching the entrance with a pair of military grade binoculars.  He had been studying the kids as they disembarked from buses and cars to start their day and still was watching two-and-half hours later.

West was parked in a service station parking lot about
one hundred and twenty or so yards from the AIR agent’s spot.  It was a much less conspicuous location than parking right on the main road and eyeballing the kids like a pedophile, which was going to attract attention.  West had seen quite a few parents notice the AIR operative, and he wondered how they might react.  His answer came when a Chittenden County Sheriff pulled up and rapped on Machete’s widow.  Machete looked annoyed but handled the big male deputy by simply showing his government ID, which was probably some form of Homeland Security credential.  The ID would be valid, the name on it not so much.

So AIR was apparently interested in a child
, and something had brought them to the top of Vermont to this out-of-the-way school—Castlebury High—home of the Fighting Knights.

Satisfied with the credentials, the deputy continued to talk to Machete
, who apparently was capable of some charm when he dug down deep.  It looked like the deputy was giving Machete some advice, which the young AIR agent took with impatience.  The sheriff cruiser pulled away, and Machete started his car and pulled away, heading back into town.  Mike West watched him for a moment, then checked the tracking program on his iPad to make sure the tiny GPS unit he had hidden on Machete’s car was working properly.  That done, he settled down to watch the school, his instincts telling him to stay where he was. 

A screech brought his head back up as Machete’s rental suddenly pulled a fast U-turn in the middle of the street and roared back up to the school bus loop.  Slamming to a stop, Machete paused and adjusted his aviator glasses before stepping out of the car and heading into the school.

West focused on the front door through the monocular, but couldn’t see any sign of the AIR agent inside.  After considering for a moment, he started his own car and eased up to the curb, his new position better for pursuit.  The cellphone conversation he had overheard had indicated surveillance only.  It looked like Machete had a case of the overeager new agent complex.  This could prove interesting.