Revive (22 page)

The driver yells something at him or me, but I can't understand the words. All I hear is Kyle's voice, over and over. He struggles against the man, but he's outnumbered by security as well.

“No! Kyle, wait!” I charge, and the two guards who came toward me are suddenly there again. They grab me, and I'm screaming Kyle's name, demanding to know what happened, what he meant.

Focus! Are you a soldier, or are you a hysterical little girl?
I hear Fitzpatrick in my head, and hate her though I do, her training isn't useless. My wits return, and I concentrate on the right-side guard, pulling my arm downward and leveling a kick to his knees. He lets go, and I turn my attention to the left one.

“Sev, stop!” My unit members are a chorus behind me. Walkie-talkies cackle. Someone mentions a “situation”. I attacked two security officers. Malone is being summoned.

“Sev!” Strong hands grab me by the upper arms and expertly force me to the ground. Cole. He pins my legs and holds me in place until I quit my useless struggle. “You need to calm down right now, or you're going to have big problems, and there'll be nothing I can do about it. Listen to me, damn it.”

He talks sense, I know it. Cole always talks sense. His voice is soothing, and I focus on it until I'm back in control.

But I'm not calm. Far from it. Because either I've finished rebooting, or seeing a bloodied Kyle is the ultimate memory trigger. All at once, everything returns.

All at once, I know who the bad people are.

Part Three

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

~William Shakespeare~

Chapter Twenty-Four

Five Weeks Ago

Across the room, Audrey rolls over in her sleep. Nervously, I angle my laptop's screen so it more closely faces the wall. Audrey's one of those people who can sleep with the TV on, but I still dread the possibility of her waking up while I'm doing my extracurricular homework. Late-night studying isn't unusual at RTC. Late-night studying that involves plugging a cable from your arm into your computer, on the other hand… Yeah, I've got nothing to explain that.

Luckily, Audrey stays asleep. Must be nice. Yawning, I turn my attention back to the files I just finished downloading. A lot of the information is deadly boring—details of financial transactions spanning three continents. I could wade through it all and try to make sense of it, but that's something probably best done at an hour other than two in the morning. I put it aside in case I'm ever suffering from insomnia.

The next file I examine is less than promising. Too much of the information was deleted or suppressed before being released. I'm sure it's on a CIA server somewhere, but cracking the layers of protection around it is an ongoing project. Dr. Wilson might have been a good, though evil, instructor, but I'm not dealing with amateurs here either. So onto the last.

These are photos, supposedly taken of some of The Fours biggest baddies. I go through each one, taking notes on names so I can refine my searches later. Then one photo wakes me from my middle-of-the-night, half-asleep stupor.

I jerk upright, pulling the cable in my arm taut. Pain shoots through me as wire brushes against muscles and nerves. Clenching my teeth, I grasp my open cut with my free hand, yank the cable from my laptop and hold everything in place to quell the throbbing. But my reaction is a reflex, nothing more. The pain can't distract me. Right now, The Four could drop a bomb on Boston and it wouldn't distract me.

The man in the photo I'm looking at has coppery hair, a pinched face and a warm smile. His eyes are hidden beneath his sunglasses, but his tie is bright and cheery and familiar. The photo identifies him as Reid Harris, one of the four people after whom the so-called group of Four is named, but that's not what I call him.

To me, he's George Malone.

I fall against my pillow, letting my head hit the wall and hoping that might knock some of the stupid out of me. Then I shut the laptop.

My shock lasts for a second. I open the laptop again and study the photo. Yes, it's really Malone. But no, I refuse to believe this.

So I shut the laptop.

And open it.

Oh, to be a CY and able to process this without my stupid emotions screaming and yanking my thoughts in a million directions. I breathe deeply, once and twice. Then I put the laptop on my desk. Wrap up my arm. Crawl into bed.

Don't sleep.

Malone or Harris or whoever he is has trained me too well. My brain won't shut up. By dawn, I've reviewed every telling detail that I've read or lived, and the details all add up as neatly as two plus two equaling four. Only one question remains.

What do I do about it?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Friday Night: Two Days Ago

My shoes clack across the tiles as I pace in the bathroom. Calm. I have to be calm and rational so I can plan. This is what I was trained for.

It's so hard, though, when the stakes have gotten personal. Damn it, why can't I turn these emotions off? I can shut down most of my conscious awareness in order to survive torture, but there's no middle setting. No partial shutdown.

I kick a trash can in frustration, which is not the best move in open-toed dress shoes. Wincing, I quit pacing and smooth down my dress. Back in the hotel ballroom, the music changes. They're playing “Purgatory” by Gutterfly, one of my favorites. What I wouldn't give to be normal and out there dancing like everyone else.

On that thought, I can't stay in here much longer before someone comes looking for me or before Kyle starts asking questions. So I have to focus.

Realistically, I only have one option. It's not a great one, either, but time is getting short. The Four are powerful, and Malone-Harris-whoever is getting impatient. I'm no pushover, but I'm only one person and they're many. Plus, I have an innocent life to protect, a guy who might not even realize he's in danger.

Or does he? Is that the meaning of everything I found on his computer? Was Kyle keeping track of people he thought might have it in for him? I'll have to ask.

And that brings me to my next problem: can I go through with it? Can I destroy, well, pretty much everything I've lived for my entire life?

I sniff the corsage Kyle got me, a single peach rose that matches my dress, and my stomach rolls. Bad idea. Lowering my wrist, I stare at my reflection. The lights give my skin a greenish cast, but I meet my eyes.

I asked myself the wrong question. It's not: can I go through with it? It's: who am I—Seven or Sophia?

My reflection stares back, hard and unyielding. I am both, it tells me. I am a soldier. I am a spy. I am one of the good guys. I am the girl who can go through with it because the alternative means I'm not the girl I want to be. So be it. Tomorrow I do what I was created to do, no matter how unpleasant and difficult it is.

“Soph, you in here?” Audrey peeks her head in the doorway.

I run my trembling fingers through the tendrils of hair curled around my face. “I'm coming.”

“You all right?” she asks as I meet her in the lobby.

“Yeah. I started not feeling well, but I'm okay now. Where's Kyle?” His blood is drying to a rusty brown on the floor. Audrey and I step around it.

“Chase found him a bandage.” Audrey opens the door to the dance, and the sudden change in volume assaults my ears. “Can you believe he bled that much for such a little cut?”

Little cut, my ass. Given the amount of blood, I'd bet Kyle broke his thumb and smashed the nail off good and proper. Not that there'd be any evidence of it now.

“Seriously, it's amazing how much little cuts can bleed sometimes.”

Kyle's hanging out at an empty table with Chase. I need to get him away so we can talk privately.

He takes my hand. “What happened? You ran out of there so fast.”

I pull him up and drag him to a deserted area along the wall. With the music so loud, no one nearby should hear us. “It's not that. I don't like blood, and it caught up to me all at once. At first, I was worried about you, so it didn't hit me. Then suddenly it was whoa—I got kind of woozy and needed to get out of there. Sorry.”

Kyle laughs, then bites his lip trying to hide it. “Wouldn't have expected that from you.”

“Shut up.” I pinch his arm. “So, I was thinking about what else happened back in the bathroom.”

“Yeah?” His grip on my hand tightens, and I don't think he's aware of it. It's not the grip of someone who's injured, but I won't point that out.

My stomach twists. This is my best plan—my only feasible plan. Kyle has to go for it. I don't dare tell him the truth here because I don't know how he'll react. Besides, whatever his reaction, I need to be ready for it, and I'm not. Not yet.

I rub my thumb across his hand, hoping to cover my true intentions with something flirtatious except I've never felt less flirtatious in my life. “We need to get away from campus. Just the two of us for a weekend.”

Kyle shifts against the wall, pulling me closer so my body presses against him. I can feel every rise and fall of his chest and the hard planes of his stomach. “Away, huh? So staying here tonight isn't going to be enough for you?” He smiles mischievously.

If only I'd figured everything out sooner, it would have been. But Kyle's been drinking, which makes this not the ideal time to tell him the truth. Plus my supplies are hidden on campus, and he should have at least one change of clothes with him when we run. We can pick up what we need tomorrow morning. Time is running out, but not so quickly that I need to panic.

I slide my hands around his waist, and my body enjoys his immediate reaction, though my brain refuses to be distracted. “With all the alcohol you guys snuck into the rooms, I doubt I'm going to be getting the quality alone time I want.” I reach up and kiss his chin.

Kyle stiffens, and I know I have him. “Okay, I'm in. So are you talking another night out or—?”

“Starting with a whole day. We'll leave the hotel early, go back to campus, pack an overnight bag and just get the hell out. We'll go wherever the mood strikes us. Wild and free, right?”

“And totally crazy, but why not? It's not like I'd rather spend the weekend cramming for finals.” He bends over to kiss me, and I sink into him, relief and longing finally purging my brain of some of my anxiety.

The heat spreading through my body is so intense I want to burn up, and for a moment I consider telling Kyle the truth now. The need to protect him is so fierce it's as painful as the way my body longs for his touch. But I shake off the thought for all the reasons I already decided it was bad.

He runs his uninjured thumb down my throat and slips under the bodice of my dress, and I catch my breath. “If we go up to the room now, we might have it to ourselves for a little while.”

I close my eyes because despite my worrying—or possibly because of it—I'm ready to slide out of my dress right here. After tomorrow, everything between us will change. Saving Kyle might mean losing him, and though I have to risk it, I dread the outcome. So even if it's for just one more time, I want to feel my skin against his, I want to wrap my legs around him, and I want to breathe in his scent.

Even if all we have is a little while, I have to make it count. We have to be wild and free, because tomorrow I have to convince him to fly away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Saturday Morning: Yesterday

“South Station?” Kyle asks for the second time as we climb the escalator.

I adjust my backpack, allowing some guy who's running up the moving stairs to pass. “Just for a minute. I need the bathroom.”

“Fine, but I need coffee.”

I consider suggesting he wait for a real place to get breakfast, then I stop myself. South Station is as good a place to do this as any. Maybe better than any. Once I've explained everything, we can hop on a train and get far away before anyone traces me here.

Yeah, Kyle is best off grabbing some coffee now. Get that caffeine into his blood system before I freak the shit out of him.

“Coffee sounds good,” I say as we get off the escalator. “Meet you out here in a minute.”

He heads off toward the food stalls while I head right toward the restrooms. It's crowded in here. I wouldn't have thought it would be this hopping on a Saturday morning, but there are lots of people with suitcases milling about and others who talk about Christmas shopping.

Oh, to be normal and free.

I grab an empty stall, lock the door and hang my backpack on the hook. Tempted as I was to do this next part in the dorm bathroom, in the end I decided it was too risky. If something went wrong or someone barged in, I'd have a lot of explaining to do. Here, I'm among strangers, and strangers take no notice of one college student in a city with more than its fair share of universities. Anonymity is a spy's best friend.

I set my supplies on top of my backpack like a surgeon: two cotton balls, pre-soaked in alcohol; a utility knife; and a handful of bandages. Nurse, prep the patient.

I pull my ponytail higher, annoyed at the wisps of hair that cling to my neck. Then I wipe down the spot on the back of my neck with the cotton, and then wipe down the knife blade. With the handle between my lips, I toss the cotton and the baggie I brought into the trash. At last, I peel open one of the bandages so it's ready, and take the knife handle.

And hesitate. There's no going back after this.

That's a good thing. So get on with it.

I feel out the tracker's spot on the back of my neck, a tiny lump right under the skin. After three and a half months, I fear it's going to be well-adhered to the tissue, but I can do this. Pain is nothing. I can block out pain.

So I slice into my skin. The pain registers—hot like the blood that flows down my neck, and sharp—but it passes by my awareness and goes directly into memory storage. My slick fingers fumble over the tiny metal chip, and finally it pops out.

My world blackens for a second, blinks into nothingness then reappears. Weird. Thinking nothing else of it, I stick the knife handle back in my mouth, wrap the tracker in toilet paper and drop it into the toilet. Done. Now I'm free too.

I blot up the blood, slap the bandage over my cut, and stick the knife and extra bandages in my pack.

Blink.

There I go with the blackening again, this time accompanied by a tingly sensation at the back of my head. Definitely weird. I grab my backpack. Time for the real unpleasant part—explaining everything to Kyle.

Blink.

No. Oh, no. You've got to be kidding me.

Blink. Longer this time.

Shit. They must have done something to me. RedZone must have put some kind of fail-safe on the tracker. A trap. I should have known.

Must get to Kyle. Must warn him. Nothing else matters now.

Blink. I fall forward, fumbling for the door latch. My forehead collides with the coat hook. All I see is the gray paint, then black. The blink lasts too long.

It lasts forever.

When I open my eyes, my forehead throbs. And I am lost.