Renegade (6 page)

“But I didn’t,” I said. Because I felt like I had to say something. I hoped he’d leave it at that. I also hoped he couldn’t hear the thump-thump-thump pounding in my ears.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head. “That’s the thing. How? How did you not kill us?”

It was a good question, really. One that deserved an equally good answer.

Under the unrelenting weight of his stare, my hands tightened on the wheel. The interior of the car suddenly felt way too small.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good answer to give him. But as the clouds eased away from the moon, providing a little bit of illumination, I gave it my best shot. “I have really good vision, and my eyes must have adjusted as the darkness crept in.”

What an understatement.

“I might buy that if you were some sort of supernatural being, but there are no streetlights out here. None at all.”

“There’s the moon and stars . . . and it’s just not all that dark. I was distracted, thinking about meeting my father. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

“I’m not looking for an apology.” He opened the door, got out, and trudged around to my door. When he tried to open it, he discovered it was locked.

Considering the tension undulating off him in waves, I hesitated, which was a totally human reaction. It was like I was scared we were about to have our first real fight. But I opened the door anyway. He reached in, closed a hand firmly around my wrist, and pulled me up. Then his arms were around me and I was pressed to his solid chest. I could feel the tiniest of trembles, the fading adrenaline rush.

“When the car started careening,” he began, his voice raspy, “I was so afraid you were going to get hurt . . . or worse.”

Holding him close, I sank against him. “We’re okay. And I won’t let myself get distracted again.”

More promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.

“No, it was my fault. I guess I didn’t realize how upset you are. I should’ve sucked it up and driven a few more hours.” He drew back and held my gaze. “You know, no matter what you learn about him, it doesn’t change a thing about who you are.”

I wanted to believe him, but knowing my history, it was probably going to change everything—on so many different levels.

“Hopefully the next town has a place to grab a real tire,” he said, as he left our embrace and walked to the trunk of the car. As he pulled out some emergency flares and a spare, he said, “Let’s try to keep the lights on from here on out, okay?”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Nope,” he said, smirking. “Can you do me a favor and find something good on the radio? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure,” I said, getting back into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “Any requests?”

“Yeah, something with a lot of drums and no Auto-Tune.”

“You got it.” I reached over and started scanning through channels, finding nothing but static. Then, without any command from me, my mind opened, and the red words blinked.

As bits and pieces of audio began ripping through my brain, I started trying to pinpoint a local classic rock station. But instead another fragmented image floated before my eyes. Guitar chords accompanying a woman singing; the smell of oatmeal cookies in the air. Small feet standing upon two men’s tennis shoes; legs swaying back and forth, back and forth.

Within a few seconds, the song sped up in my mind, the pitch reaching such high levels, I instinctually covered my ears. But that did nothing to stop the music, which was now just an insanely loud screeching sound that was splitting my head in two.

As the vision faded, I sat there in the car, unable to hear anything but this awful, excruciating noise. My hands began to tremble, so badly that I feared the shuddering would overtake my entire body. Then suddenly I couldn’t move an inch—legs, arms, neck. Nothing was moving. Luckily, Hunter was still rummaging around in the trunk and noticed nothing. Whatever this was had better wear off or I would find myself having to explain to Hunter why I was paralyzed.

If it wasn’t so alarming, it actually might have been funny. All this time, I’d been worried about the threats in the outside world. Holland. The V.O. Three. The cops. But it wasn’t until now that I let this realization sink in.

There was something strange happening inside me that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

What could be a bigger threat than that?

W
e arrived in Knoxville well into the early evening. Hunter couldn’t push the Jeep over forty-five miles per hour due to the spare, so it took a little longer than expected. I was quiet for a good part of the drive. I spent an hour or two with my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep while my internal clock counted down the minutes of this one day I had promised him, and praying that these increasingly debilitating false flashbacks would stop.

But when we finally found this Richard Grady’s house, I blocked everything out and focused, instructing Hunter to park across the street. House was a pretty tame word, though, given the size of the place. From where we sat in the car, I had a slightly obstructed view of graceful arched columns and beautiful brick construction, broken up by the bars of a fancy, wrought iron gate that led to the horseshoe driveway. Pristine green lawn peeked through, and with the window cracked, I caught a mix of sweet grass smell, chemicals, and the perfume of roses.

I froze.

I heard the clicking near my eyes, felt them narrow. Then my visual field changed, nearby objects racing past while the tree flanking the gate grew larger.

There. A tiny black video camera, nestled in branches that flanked the front gate. Just what I didn’t need—someone with CIA ties getting a good shot of my face for posterity.

I blinked, and with an almost inaudible whir, my visual field returned to normal. Only seven cars visible on the street—it was a weekday, after all—all of them newer, pricey foreign models, with the exception of one slightly older but impeccably washed Honda Accord, five houses down on the left at 15432. Five with Tennessee plates, one with Oklahoma, and one Georgia. No rentals.

The prompt tempted me, but no. Doubtful anyone knew we were here, and if they did—well, they’d know to cover their tracks.

“We don’t have to do this,” Hunter said, drumming his fingers on his jeans while he stared toward the gate. Even though I was acting like I’d rather be anywhere but here, I was surprised he could read me so well.

The problem was, my emotions tugged me in two opposing directions. One part was all tingly with excitement over the idea that, at long last, here was someone who might be able to answer the five thousand and one questions I’d been left with when Mom died. Someone who might allow me to finally let her rest in peace. But the other part writhed with nerves. What if this was the wrong Grady, and we’d traveled all this way for nothing? Or the right Grady, but he refused to talk?

Or worse—this guy was ex-CIA. What if I said or did something that landed Hunter and me back into Holland’s hands?

A virtual avalanche of bad outcomes, just waiting to topple down on our heads.

I scanned the sprawling yard beyond the gate and the quiet, tree-lined street in a panoramic sweep, taking in every tiny detail.

But the guns were scattered among the houses. Surely not Holland’s men, who’d be armed to the teeth?

Yet what about the V.O.? With all that technology at their disposal, maybe they had weapons that were undetectable.

Just a couple of early morning joggers, clad in well-worn, appropriate-looking athletic attire, chatting as their sneakers hit the pavement. Nothing suspicious.

“Let’s do it,” I finally answered. No point in further delaying the inevitable.

“Remember, I’ve got your back,” he said, creaking open the passenger door. “Like Batman and Robin. Tarzan and Jane. Michael Knight and Kit.”

I paused with one hand on the handle. “Who?”

He laughed. “Never mind. Just this stupid old show about a guy and his car. They play reruns on TNT.”

I climbed out and put my hands on my hips. “And who’s the car in this scenario?” Though tension still plucked my android nerves like harp strings, I was thankful for Hunter’s interjection. The way he made me laugh was one of the many reasons why the thought of setting him free was tearing me apart inside. But I had to do it, and I would. Tonight. Once we were back on the road and our day together was officially over.

He loped around to my side of the car and stood in front of me, gently easing a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teased. “Seriously, though, I’m here for you.”

My smile wobbled, and I averted my eyes. He was here for me, but only because I’d been hiding things. Holding him close might feel like a dream come true, but in reality, I was exposing him to a nightmare.

The perfumed scent grew stronger as we approached the gate, and just inside, there was a burst of color in reds, peaches, and yellows blooming along the wall—wild and beautiful. Rosebushes, all full of flowers—well, except for that one bush nearest the street—it looked a little picked over compared to the rest.

At five steps out, I realized the gate was electronic. Grady probably had a remote button he could push from inside the house. Troublesome, because I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to turn us away before we’d even had a chance to meet.

As I stepped forward, I opened my mind to the networks buzzing all around us. I was intentionally seeking out a thread of communication with the system I knew must be lurking out there, the one that controlled the gate. I found the gleaming silvery strand right away.

The briefest of pauses, followed by a tiny burst of power. And then—

Under my
command, the gate whirred to life, hissing open with a slow glide to reveal the path to the house. So simple. Barely more trouble than walking. For a tiny, ecstatic moment, I felt like I could accomplish anything.

“Wow, guess someone knew we were coming, huh?” Hunter said.

I watched the gate slide across the track with a small smile, that same thrill of power tingling beneath my skin. Yes, someone did know. Me.

The thrill dimmed when I noted the camera again, watching us from up in the tree like a giant eye. I tilted my head away. When we passed directly under it, I lifted my left hand and pretended to scratch my forehead, using it as a shield. Twenty more steps, then fifteen.

My legs tensed under me and my head whipped toward the door. The elaborate wooden structure swung inward with a heavy groan, making Hunter stop short and me jump back, curbing the urge to shift into a defensive stance.

What? No! I ignored the glowing red query as a middle-aged man whirled into the doorway like a ninja, sun glinting off an object in his right hand.

Gun? My human mind formed the thought, at the same time my android brain responded:

With a warrior-like yell and the slip-smack of slippers hitting concrete, the man leaped onto the porch. “Caught you!” And despite the android reassurance, I reared back, my hand shooting out to block Hunter from harm. A split second later, I realized two things: the object in his hand was a water gun, and there was no way he would pass for my biological father. Besides being short and scrawny-thin, and having a receding hairline and a few days’ worth of stubble, this Richard Grady was black.

As I digested all of this and felt Hunter grab my hand in sympathy, water streamed from the gun and splashed Hunter in the face.

“H-Hey!” Hunter sputtered, flinging up his hands and ducking.

The man’s nose wrinkled. “Now, wait a second. You’re not that little fiend from down the street!”

He had a thick drawl—Southern—and the sound sent ice prickling across my skin. The effect might be soothing and inviting for some people, but I didn’t trust the friendly cadence.

Holland had taught me that.

Grady’s gaze shifted from Hunter to me. His gun hand jerked. But if that was a reaction to my appearance, he recovered quickly. No trace of recognition showed on his craggy face. Almost like he was
trying
to look unfazed.

Hunter swiped water from his eyes while drops dribbled down his chin. To his credit, he managed a smile—albeit a slightly damp one. “Uh, no.”

The man’s eyes slid from Hunter to me. “Did the fiend send you? To sneak up and pick more of my flowers? Damned kid, climbing my fence all the time, nabbing my prize roses, all for that hair-flipping girlfriend of his.” He hoisted the water pistol again and took aim.

I held my hands palms-out in front of my face, in case he got trigger-happy again. “No, I promise! We’re not, uh, flower thieves.”

Hunter snorted and made a noise deep in his throat, one that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. I shot him an evil look, but in reality, I was groping for a way to make this work, since direct questions were out. It wasn’t like Hunter was ever going to buy that this guy was my biological father.

I stared at his unfamiliar face, at the water gun he held aloft. His antics weren’t doing anything to keep my wariness at bay. If anything, his unpredictable behavior made him a wild card. I didn’t trust it, or him.

“We’re not even from around here,” Hunter added.

“That so? You just happen to stumble across my house? Well, I don’t need any solicitors, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, we’re not selling anything,” Hunter said hastily. “We tracked you down on purpose.”

I winced, and watched as Grady zeroed in on that notion. Such a tiny bit of information, but still, more than I wanted this man to know. Yet. I’d hoped to feel him out a little more first.

He crossed his arms and scowled, all pretenses of playfulness falling away. “And why the hell would you do that?”

I focused on his face to catch even the most minute change in expression. “I was trying to track down a . . . relative of mine.”

Grady gave an incredulous snort. “What, you need glasses or something? Because if this here is some kind of joke, it sure ain’t funny.”

Hunter shook his head and shot me an encouraging look, raising a brow as if to say,
tell him, already
. I sighed. “No, no joke. My mom told me to look for a man with the last name of Grady, so that’s why we’re here.”

Silence. His left eyelid twitched, almost imperceptibly, but for five long seconds, he scratched his chin. “What’d you say your mom’s name was?”

I hadn’t, and I had a feeling he knew that as well as I did. I hesitated a beat, then said, “Daily.” No way could I use Laurent in front of Hunter. Anyway, if this were the right Grady, he would know Mom’s pseudonym.

Right?

I watched Grady watch me, my stomach fluttering with a growing collection of worries. Worries that he did know my mom and therefore, knew what I was. Worries that he didn’t know either of us. Worries that he’d somehow seen the wanted sketch of me floating around the internet and was, at this precise moment, plotting to turn us in.

When Hunter finally started scuffing his foot on the walkway, Grady grunted, but didn’t deign to respond. “Don’t know her,” he finally said.

“Sorry we bothered you. We’ll be on our way,” I said.

“Wait.” As he scratched his salt-and-pepper stubbled chin, he dissected our rumpled, less-than-daisy-fresh clothing, and the way Hunter was bouncing up and down, trying to keep warm in the gathering night air. Grady hesitated, chewing his cheek. Obviously debating something. From inside, I heard a noise.

He turned at the same time I shifted to the side, trying to get a better view. Then, a head popped through the doorway.

“Grandpa, who is it?”

For a moment, Grady’s scowl disappeared. “Nothing I can’t handle, Ashleigh. I thought you were getting dinner started.” With emphatic hand gestures, he tried to usher her back into the house, but she ducked away to smile at us.

She must have been a year or so older than me, with beautiful glowing skin and shiny dark hair bunched on top of her head. Her left ear sported two tiny silver hoops, her right, a ruby stud—one that matched the one in her nose exactly. Her slim figure was wispy-thin, encased in shredded skinny jeans, a simple blue Star Trek tee, and black boots that laced up the front. Super put together and tidy, in an edgy, so-not-Clearwater sort of way. Except for the splashes of color on her fingers. Red and olive green and a hint of turquoise, dried and creasing in spots where it pulled away from her skin.

“Don’t mind him,” she said, ignoring his disgruntled snort. “He’s always this grumpy. Did I hear that you two aren’t from around here?”

I nodded without providing any additional details, but Hunter had no reason to be suspicious so he was a fountain of information. “No, we’re from Minnesota . . . but we drove over from Virginia Beach.”

My jaw tightened. The dangers of not being totally honest with him were coming back to bite me, and I only had myself to blame.

Ashleigh’s lips parted into a round
oh.
“Wow, that’s a long way. I’m sure Grandpa would love for you to come in and eat with us—wouldn’t you, Gramps?” she said. When he just stared at us, she nudged his bare ankle with her toe. She had an easy, graceful way about her. The carefree, confident air of someone comfortable in her own skin.

What must that be like?

Grady studied us with that inscrutable stare, then grunted. “I suppose they could stay for dinner. That is, if they’re hungry.”

“Dinner sounds great. Don’t you think, Mila?”

Uneasiness had me rocking onto my heels. No, I didn’t think. This man watched me a little too closely for comfort, and if he wasn’t the right Grady—or worse, was the Grady who Mom had referenced but had somehow had a change of heart—then getting out of here ASAP was the safest course of action. But I had no choice. I had to try to pry more information out of him, get him to open up. Because the reality was, this grumpy, hippo-slippered man with a water gun might be the one person who could give me whatever information Mom had thought I needed. This was my chance to fulfill one of her dying wishes and learn something about my past, and I couldn’t just bail on that now.