Fugitive Six

  “Yes, hello, Ran, Kopano,” the woman said, inclining her head to each of them individually. “I’m Karen Walker.”

  “Hi,” Kopano replied, feeling more than a little bewildered.

  “You are an FBI agent,” Ran said flatly. “We are not Americans. We do not answer to you.”

  “I was an FBI agent,” Walker corrected. “And I’m sorry about this next part; it’s going to be unpleasant. But I’m supposed to demonstrate who is in control. Let’s continue this conversation in about thirty minutes.”

  Walker hit a button on her cell phone—it was just sitting there innocuously, on the table—like she was checking a text. Instantly, before Kopano could respond or do anything whatsoever, a white-hot light exploded behind his eyes. His whole body convulsed and he toppled over. Unconscious.

  So much for escaping.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ISABELA SILVA

  SOMEWHERE IN WESTERN CANADA

  SOMEONE WAS TOUCHING HER.

  That was the first thing she became aware of. A sweaty hand gripped her wrist, almost like someone was taking her pulse. But that wasn’t it; there was something more happening in that touch. She felt an odd sensation, a tickle—it reminded her of this dumb game she used to play with her sister where they’d prick each other with their fingernails and then pull an imaginary thread up from the skin. It felt like that.

  It all came back to Isabela in a rush. She’d been attacked by that psycho Einar and a couple of unidentified minions. She kept her eyes closed, trying to get a feel for her surroundings. She was on a bed of some kind, not a comfortable one, probably a cot. Wherever they’d taken her, it stunk—like body odor, fast food, and gasoline. Or maybe that was just the guy touching her.

  Seriously, someone was touching her. And laughing quietly, like an amused child.

  Isabela knew that the right move would be to play possum. Wait for this creep to go away before she opened her eyes.

  But he was touching her.

  She opened her eyes. A large young man stood over her, gripping her wrist in his meaty paw. He was chunky and pale, his head shaved, his eyes glistening with tears. By the size of him, Isabela figured this was the guy that she’d crashed into. He wore a sweat suit and a weird headband—or wait, that wasn’t a headband, it was an eye patch that he’d flipped up. What kind of weirdo brute was she dealing with?

  The hand that wasn’t holding on to Isabela gripped a hand mirror, which he’d just been peering into. He looked down when Isabela stirred, but didn’t seem alarmed or particularly menacing. In fact, he looked almost giddy.

  “I . . . I didn’t think it would work,” he stammered. “It’s, uh, your skin—”

  Her skin. Merda, she’d almost forgotten. He’d seen her true form and even though that didn’t seem to matter much, considering she was among killers and crazies, Isabela still didn’t hesitate to shape-shift into her preferred shape—skin perfect and restored, beautiful again.

  When she shape-shifted, the guy’s skin shimmered. For a moment he became tan like Isabela, before fading back to his creamy whiteness. He giggled. Actually, giggled.

  “It’s amazing!” he babbled. “You’re amazing, I’m—I’m whole again.”

  Enough of this madness. Time to bail.

  “Get off me!” Isabela shouted.

  The guy’s grip was tight, but not tight enough to hold Isabela. Especially not when she kicked him in the chest while simultaneously shoving him with her telekinesis. He staggered backwards against the metal wall of the tiny, featureless room.

  The transformation was immediate. As soon as he lost contact with Isabela, the guy changed. One of his eyes turned into a ghastly hollow. Some weight melted off him—he was still big, but now his body sagged. Worst of all was his skin. He was covered in patches of blackened, dead flesh, like a patchwork of tumors. Isabela couldn’t help but scream.

  “Stop! I don’t want to hurt you—!”

  “Stay away, you freak!”

  And then, she bolted.

  Isabela sprinted out the only door, leaving behind the cot and fleeing into a deserted hallway. Dim lighting, steel walls, narrow, dusty. She darted by a panel covered in glowing symbols in a language she couldn’t understand but that looked like something in Dr. Goode’s lab. Where was she? Didn’t matter. She needed to find people. She knew the stories—Garde were always being kidnapped and brought to top secret facilities, and top secret facilities were staffed with prison guards and science dorks. If she could find some, she could blend in, steal an identity, and get clear of this mess.

  She hurdled over a pile of blankets and dirty laundry—was that where someone slept? What the hell was this place? It didn’t exactly seem populated. Was this some abandoned complex where these weirdos were squatting?

  Find a door. Get outside. Disappear.

  Footsteps echoed behind her, the freak shouting at her. “There’s nowhere to go!”

  If there was nowhere to go, then why was he chasing her? Idiot. That meant there was somewhere to go.

  Isabela turned a corner, sprinting down another claustrophobic hallway. There was a door up ahead. Heavy-duty, bolted in place with thick bars that would normally require two people to lift—an emergency exit. She ran towards it, using her telekinesis to rip away the constraints as she went.

  “Don’t—!”

  She shoved against the door as hard as she could with her telekinesis. It flew outward.

  Night. Sky. Rushing air.

  They were flying. She was on some kind of aircraft.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Isabela had time to say before the freezing wind sucked her outside.

  And then she was falling.

  Spinning and out of control, the wind buffeting her. Above, she caught a glimpse of the vessel—silver and bug-like and soon out of sight—now nothing to see but the ground below. Darkness, treetops, snow. She couldn’t even die looking at some pretty lights.

  She screamed, because what else could she do?

  “Got you.”

  An arm around her waist, gripping her tight. Floating. She was floating.

  The monster had her. He could fly. He’d saved her. And, apparently, he had also grabbed the emergency exit door that she had knocked loose—it floated nearby, held by his telekinesis. But that meant . . .

  “You’re Garde,” she said, breathless from the screaming and the wind.

  “I am Number Five,” he replied.

  “Merda.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  KOPANO OKEKE

  TOP SECRET WATCHTOWER FACILITY—LOCATION UNKNOWN

  KOPANO CAME AWAKE SLOWLY. HIS EARS RANG AND his head pounded, a vague coppery taste bitter on his tongue. When he opened his eyes he expected to find himself back in his cell, but he was still on the cold floor of the control room. Karen Walker still sat at the table as before, although now she was reading a newspaper.

  “How . . . what . . . ?” he mumbled, unable to form a coherent thought as he propped himself up on his elbows. Next to him, Ran moaned. She too had been taken down.

  “Good, you’re awake,” Walker said, folding up her newspaper.

  “What did you do to us?”

  She tapped the side of her head where Kopano’s and Ran’s bandages were. “An Inhibitor chip has been surgically implanted into your skulls,” she said matter-of-factly. “If I hit the panic button on my phone, a temporarily debilitating shock will be administered to your nervous system. If—”

  Kopano was still rubbing the side of his head in disbelief when Ran reached out with her telekinesis and yanked the phone away from Walker. She was on the floor, half leaning against the wall, yet even in that compromised position her glare was pure murder.

  “Let us out of here,” Ran growled.

  The device in her hand let out a series of shrill beeps. Walker cringed sympathetically.

  “I wish you’d have let me finish talking,” she said.

  Another explosion of white light. This time, Kopano managed to how
l before he passed out.

  Thirty minutes went by. When Kopano woke up again he was still on the floor, but his head felt even worse than before, like it had been wedged in a vise and then dropped to the bottom of the ocean. Ran was next to him, awake first this time, dark circles around her eyes. Walker had her phone back.

  “As I was trying to say,” Walker continued patiently, “the Inhibitors will also issue a shock if the controller ever leaves my immediate radius. There’s also an electric fence setting where they will shock you for going too far away from me. I’d rather not have to use that one, but will if you run. My controller here is not unique, there are others. Destroying it will get you nowhere.”

  This was not what Kopano had pictured when he dreamed of being in Earth Garde. He sniffed loudly, then covered his face with his hands so this evil woman couldn’t see how close to tears he was.

  “You’re torturing us,” he murmured.

  “No, I was against this part,” Walker replied. Kopano was surprised at the tenderness in her voice. “Now that you understand your situation, I hope to never use the Inhibitors again. Really.”

  “So long as we do what you say,” Ran said darkly.

  Walker met Ran’s gaze briefly, then looked away. “No. You have an option. If you decide you’d rather not work with me, you can return to your cell. You’ll be taken care of until such a time that Earth Garde decides you’re no longer dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Kopano exclaimed. “How are we dangerous?”

  “To humans. To your classmates. To the public image of Earth Garde. Take your pick.” Walker pointed out the door. “That’s the choice. A detainment of indeterminate length or you work for me and Operation Watchtower.”

  Ran simply glowered, but Kopano took the bait. “What’s—what’s that?”

  “Watchtower is a joint venture among a number of the world’s covert intelligence agencies—the CIA, Mossad, MI6, others—that operates on a need-to-know basis within Earth Garde. You would be among our first recruits.”

  “This is not a recruitment,” Ran said. “This is coercion.”

  Kopano shot her a look. Obviously their situation beyond sucked—he didn’t even want to think about how someone had drilled a microchip into his head—but there was no way he would go back in that cell. Not when this spy lady was offering them a way out.

  “Why us?” he asked, his voice hitching higher than he would’ve liked. “What did we do wrong? Is this because of the Harvesters?”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Walker replied, softening her voice. “Your reports from the Academy are all glowing. I know it might not seem like it, but being selected for Watchtower shows the confidence that Earth Garde has in you. As for the Harvesters, everyone that matters knows that what happened was a matter of self-defense.”

  “Then why don’t they say something?” Kopano asked, his eyes widening. “Defend us. The news, they call us monsters . . .”

  “Unfortunately, taking a public stand would require Earth Garde to admit certain uncomfortable truths. I hate to say it, but image matters with you people. The Academy’s reputation is already tarnished by your actions—justified or not. The whole Earth Garde program would take a hit if the public knew you were out there fighting a rogue Garde mind controller. It would be chaos.”

  Ran and Kopano exchanged a look.

  “You know about him,” Ran stated.

  “Then . . . do you know about his bosses?” Kopano asked.

  “We don’t think he has a boss anymore,” Walker replied. “You’ve seen the way the public has reacted to the footage of you two. Imagine the terror if they knew there were threats out there beyond Earth Garde’s control. We can’t afford for the world to lose faith in Earth Garde.”

  Kopano nodded slowly in reluctant agreement, but Ran spoke up again, her voice sharp.

  “What about our faith in Earth Garde? Does what we think not matter?”

  “I know this hasn’t been the best introduction, Ran, but what we’re doing here is for your own good. This way, Earth Garde can tell the world that you’ve been disciplined and transferred somewhere secure. And, in the meantime, you can do good work for Watchtower, an organization that prefers its operatives stay out of the public eye. Once you complete your first mission, show my bosses that you’re not a risk to world security, I’ll get those Inhibitors out of you.”

  “What’s the missi—?” Kopano asked.

  “No,” Ran interrupted. “I have been very clear with Greger. I will not let my Legacy be militarized. I choose the cell.”

  Kopano stared at her. “Ran, you don’t mean it!”

  “I thought you might be a hard sell,” Walker said. She hit a button on her phone and Kopano cringed, expecting a shock. Instead, the security monitors all switched over to a grainy photograph of a young man that made Kopano wince yet again. “But this mission is truly for the greater good, Ran. We are going to bring him to justice. Make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

  Einar. On every screen.

  “Does that change your mind?” Walker asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ISABELA SILVA

  SOMEWHERE OVER BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

  NUMBER FIVE. THE ONE ALL THE OTHER LORIC hated. Isabela had heard the stories about him. He betrayed his own people to the Mogadorians, then changed his mind and tried to fight with the good guys once the invasion started. She’d watched YouTube videos of his fight with Professor Nine, the two of them brawling through the heart of New York City like a pair of superpowered moron jocks.

  Five was supposed to be dead. That’s what Nine had told everyone, anyway. But he clearly wasn’t dead. He was just severely messed up.

  Isabela tried not to let any fear or awe show as Five flung her back onboard their little aircraft. Isabela recognized the vessel, too. It was a Skimmer. One of the smaller ships piloted by the Mogadorians. Where had Einar gotten ahold of that? How had he hooked up with Number Five?

  Thanks to Isabela’s escape attempt, the wind still rushed around them. She clutched a nearby railing so she wouldn’t get sucked out again. Meanwhile, Five wedged the Skimmer’s door back into place using a combination of telekinesis and brute strength. When he was finished, the door rattled like crazy but at least it kept the wind out.

  “That was stupid,” Five said, rounding on Isabela. She had a hard time looking him in the face but managed to stand her ground.

  “You were groping me,” Isabela replied.

  “I was not groping you,” Five snarled. “I saved your life.”

  Isabela tossed her hair theatrically. “My friend Taylor got rescued by John Smith,” she said. “She gets John Smith and I get the ugly one.”

  Five’s mouth tightened. “You aren’t so pretty yourself.”

  To that, Isabela had no comeback.

  An impressively tall girl poked her shaved head out of an adjoining room, eyeing both Five and Isabela with skepticism. That was the one who’d shocked her back in California.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “She tried to escape,” Five grunted.

  “Does this pervert touch you when you sleep?” Isabela asked.

  The girl raised an eyebrow, then looked at Five for clarification. “You were supposed to be watching her.”

  “I was watching her!” Five shouted. A short temper on that one, Isabela realized. He grabbed Isabela by the arm roughly enough that she’d have bruises. “Go back to sleep, Duanphen, before I break your other goddamn leg.”

  Duanphen gazed evenly at Five, holding her ground for long enough that she wouldn’t look like a total pushover. But Isabela could see it—she was afraid. Five was not someone to take lightly.

  “You are okay?” Duanphen asked Isabela, pointedly ignoring Five.

  “No, I’m not okay, you silly bitch,” Isabela answered. “You nearly killed me and now I’ve been kidnapped.”

  “Mm,” Duanphen replied, simply. “Sorry about that. We thought you were someone
else.”

  With that, Duanphen turned and limped back into her room.

  Breathing heavily through his nose in a way that made the air whistle, Five dragged Isabela down the hallway. She soon realized how small the ship was. No more than three rooms with bare cots and tables, all of them cluttered with junk—food wrappers, dirty plates, clothes, and weapons. A lot of weapons, everything from traditional guns to Mogadorian blasters to some of the high-tech Sydal Corp stuff Isabela had seen the Peacekeepers use during their training exercises.

  And then there was the massive pile of money spread out in banded stacks on a vacant cot. Some of that had been blown over, presumably when Isabela broke the door.

  So they were living on this ship, they were heavily armed, and they were rich as hell.

  They reached the cockpit—a glittering panel of instruments, a windshield with a complicated display, and two bucket seats. Einar sat in one of them, one leg propped up on the console, steering laconically.

  “She’s awake,” Five announced.

  “I figured,” Einar replied. He hit a couple of buttons on the console, turning on some kind of autopilot, and stood up. Einar looked more put together than his companions, his preppy clothes clean and his hair meticulously gelled to one side. “Hello, Isabela. My name is—”

  “I know who you are, pinto,” Isabela interrupted. “You’re the mind controller.”

  “That’s not technically accurate.”

  Isabela tried to jerk away from Five, to get closer to Einar. “Are you controlling this sack of shit right now?”

  Five’s grip tightened. “No one controls me.”

  “I don’t want to manipulate you,” Einar said, his hands open. He drew nearer. “I won’t use my Legacies against you, Isabela. Not unless you force me—”

  He was close enough. Isabela lunged forward and kicked Einar between the legs.

  “Coma merda! That is for Nige—!”