Strike

  “This is a panic attack, Patsy. Once you understand that, it loses its power. It’s just your body sending the wrong signals. Nothing is wrong. You’re safe. Breathe with me. In-two-three, hold-two-three, out-two-three-four. Good. Now let’s keep doing that. Just think about breathing, okay? Think about your lungs expanding like balloons.”

  It’s stupid. Breathing is one of those things you should just do automatically, and thinking this much about it feels like a complete waste. It’s hard to inhale in that long and hold it and then exhale so long. But he’s right. After a few minutes, I feel calm and relieved, and my heart stops beating in my ears.

  “You good now?” he asks. He’s been rubbing my back all this time.

  I pull away a little. “Yeah. Thanks. How’d you know what to do?”

  “Uh.” He looks away, blushing. “Pot makes me paranoid. Some strain Mikey found made me have panic attacks. I thought I was having a heart attack, but I couldn’t go to the hospital, so I looked it up online. Turns out it’s just easier to quit smoking up than it is to feel like helicopters are going to bust into your garage at any moment, you know?”

  I can’t help thinking back to Alistair’s trailer in the old orchard and the sound of helicopters rushing to where we were. “I wish I could quit this feeling that easily.”

  “Soon,” he says. “Soon. We just need to get Matty and hit the road, and we’ll be cool.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I’m a liar.”

  That gets my first laugh, even if it’s a sad, weak one.

  “But to go back to your original question, I think we all know who’s the brains of this operation, Patsy. You’ve been calling the shots, and you’re really good at it. So I figure you’ll find the best way to get our dog back, and then I’ll do whatever you ask.” He rubs my back, and I grin into his neck.

  To think—me! I’m the brains. I’ve never been the brains before.

  But he’s kind of right. After everything I’ve been through in the past week, I should’ve died twenty times. Valor tried like hell to kill me, and then the CFF sent me into all sorts of impossible situations with Leon’s passive-aggressive attempts to screw me over. And I paid them back by blowing up their house.

  “I think we need to talk to my dad,” I say.

  Wyatt pulls back with a frown. “Yeah, I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’m getting to like being a rebel.”

  Upstairs, my mom is in the empty kitchen, sorting through more of those stupid MRE things as if she’s trying to put together an actual feast. All the cabinet fronts have been removed, like maybe the old owner sold them, along with the faucets and doorknobs conspicuously missing from every room. Even the outlet covers are gone, and I imagine them made of solid gold, a middle-aged woman with a French manicure flicking the lights off with a discontented sigh. Kevin and Gabriela and Heather are playing cards on the floor of what used to be the dining room, Rex is sitting outside in the dry fountain, reading a book, and Chance is shooting hoops with a beat-up basketball and a backboard that looks completely unused. I slip out of my sneakers, line them up by the front door, and go hunting upstairs to find my dad.

  As I would expect, I find him high up in a wood-paneled study hemmed in by empty bookshelves. He’s so invested in whatever he’s typing on his new laptop that he doesn’t even notice me standing at the door.

  “Dad?”

  He looks up and stares through me, slightly lost. “Huh?”

  “Earth to Dad.”

  “I’m here. Just trying to figure out . . .” He looks down, types for a minute, then rubs his eyes. “Everything. I’m not seeing any reports about coincidences like yours among Valor mercs.”

  “Among what?”

  “That’s what everyone’s calling you kids—mercs. Short for mercenaries. Most of the first wave didn’t live, according to the forums. The ones who did had nothing to go home to. Most of them have been absorbed into CFF cells. You guys are like war orphans.” I give him a dead stare, and he adds, “Well, not you, I’m glad to say. Did you need something, honey?”

  His eyes are on his screen, and I sit down facing him and wait a few beats until he looks up again.

  “Will you close your laptop and actually listen?”

  He sighs like this is a huge pain in the ass and gently closes the laptop, setting it aside. He folds his hands in his lap and stares at me as if to say, This had better be good, young lady.

  Not that I care.

  “Do you know what’s happening in Crane Hollow?”

  He gives me a sly smile. “Nope. Radio silence. You guys must’ve taken down all their laptops, or at least their Wi-Fi. There’s nothing since five thirty this morning. Why?” He puts an awkward hand on my shoulder, as if this is the thing he’s been told good fathers do. “Are you worried, honey? They’re not coming after you.”

  I snort, pull my Glock out of my waistband, check the clip, and slide it home. The noise echoes in the open room. “Yeah, I’m not scared of the Cranes. I want to go back.”

  “You want,” he says slowly, looking into my eyes, “to go back?”

  “Leon has my dog, and I want my dog.”

  “Your uncle Ash’s dog.”

  I glare at him, the hard glare that mostly ends up with people being dead. “My dog.”

  He starts to open his laptop, and I give a little cluck that stops him.

  “I was going to check the satellites for a photo, but chances are that place is a wreck. From what Wyatt described, they had a lot of injured people, and you took down most of their house. They’re not going to be happy to see you.” His face goes hard to match mine. “And if Leon’s as mad as I figure he is, that dog might already be dead, and it won’t be pretty. But let me check around.”

  He rubs my shoulder, and I shrug away, so he pulls the computer into his lap and falls back into the screen like I’m not even here. As much as I want his time and attention, as much as I want to ask him more questions and get to know him, I don’t have that luxury right now. Still, I wish he’d try again, reach out somehow. I hate the smooth clicks, the sure way he types so quickly that I can’t even keep up. It’s so useless. Talking about what’s happening instead of, you know, changing it. Working against it.

  This is not how problems get solved.

  I stand, walk a few steps away, turn on my phone, and press call.

  22.

  He picks up on the first ring.

  “Let me guess: You just realized who’s got your dog. Doesn’t she, girl? Can you speak? Can you tell your shit-town owner that you’re a Crane now? Speak, goddammit!”

  Matty’s joyous bark tells me that they’re at least treating her well . . . for now. But the snickers in the background tell me they’ve already planned something pretty bad.

  “Drop the crap, Leon. Just tell me what you want for her.”

  My dad’s on his feet in a second, but I notice he’s pretty careful about setting down the laptop first.

  “Give me that phone,” he growls, and I shake my head no. When he makes a clumsy grab for it, I turn away and hold up a finger. The look in his eyes tells me he wants to wrench it out of my hands but knows that that would be the end of any hope of a relationship.

  “Well, now, Miss Patsy. Any interest in telling me how you know Jacky boy?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  He laughs, slow as poisoned molasses. “Plenty of things. I want to know why you disappeared with my tech boy and killed three of my cousins. I want to know why you blew up half of my house and killed seven of my people. And I want to know where you are right now.”

  “If I tell you all that, how do I know you’ll give me my dog back?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Then . . . no?”

  “Interesting answer.” Matty whimpers like someone’s hurting her, and I double over like I’ve been punched.

  “Don’t hurt my dog.”

  A meaningful pau
se. “Then don’t tell me no, sugar.”

  “Tell me what you really want. What’s it going to take?”

  My dad stares at me, arms crossed, shaking his head in disappointment. Leon’s self-satisfied sigh makes my skin crawl, and I imagine him leaning back, hands behind his head and ankles crossed, feeling smug.

  “I don’t want anything special, really.”

  “Bullshit,” I hiss.

  “But I will tell you how to get her back. You still got my tech boy?”

  I look up at my dad. “Yeah. Holding him hostage. Got him hog-tied. You wanna hear him squeal?”

  My dad stifles a laugh.

  “You tell Jacky that Operation Red Thursday is still on. And your dog’s gonna be part of the festivities.”

  “What does that mean? What’s Operation Red Whatever? What festivities?”

  My dad’s on the floor on his laptop immediately, and he’d better hope he’s looking up Operation Red Thursday.

  “Let’s just say that your little pooch is going to be in one of the boxes.”

  “Where?” my dad mouths.

  “Where at?” I ask.

  “Jacky knows. Make sure you hurt him a little, and he’ll tell you.”

  And then the bastard hangs up on me. It takes everything I have not to snap the phone in half and throw it at the wall. I spin and point it at my dad like it’s a gun.

  “What the hell is he talking about?”

  When he pats the floor beside him, I slide down the wall and slump. I’m suddenly aware of how very exhausted I am and how much I miss the simple pleasures of a crappy trailer. A bed. A shower. I need one. But I don’t want to stand in an empty Jacuzzi tub while people pour cloudy cistern water over me.

  My dad doesn’t look up or stop typing as he speaks. “Okay, so Operation Red Thursday is this thing the CFF is planning for Thanksgiving. Not just Leon’s CFF—the entire network, all across the country. You know how people used to wake up the morning after Thanksgiving and go crazy shopping for crap, and they called it Black Friday? And then, in the past few years, they’ve started offering insane sales on Thanksgiving itself? Well, the best the CFF can figure, Valor is part of what’s been pushing the movement. They want people out and spending money. And this year, from what we can tell, they’re going to have the credit machines rigged. People will run their card, and there’ll be a tiny line above their signature that commits their allegiance to the Valor government. We’re talking conscription, draft, agree to search and seizure, all that good stuff. You sign a credit card receipt, they’ve got you.”

  I exhale and slump further. “It’s so stupid. Why does it even matter? They can do whatever they want. They can send tanks into the streets. Why is it still about plastic and signatures and credit?”

  My dad sets his laptop aside and slumps down beside me. “Because people . . . hate to look stupid. How many people have ever refused to sign a terms of service agreement? How many people have thrown away their phone because they thoroughly read the TOS and didn’t agree with the terms? Nobody. You point to someone’s signature and tell them they signed it without reading it, what are they going to do? They can’t take it back. You’ve got the digital signature. Most people will click ‘accept’ so they can get on with their day. They’re basically becoming complicit in the bloodless rebellion.” He leans over to whisper, “And here’s the part that Leon doesn’t know: Eventually, once Valor has weeded out all the deadweight, they’re going to forgive debts in return for servitude. Can you imagine—you’ve got a hundred thousand in debt, say, and the government says it’ll all be forgiven if you just agree that they’re your government and start sending them your taxes and giving them your votes? If you’ll join the police force? If you legitimize what they’re doing with your support?”

  “Oh my God. We’re so desperate. So lazy. We won’t even fight back.” I groan.

  “Yeah.”

  “So where does the CFF come in?”

  “Well, you saw what the nut cans can do. That was Leon’s idea—just local. Just for fun. Not CFF sanctioned. Red Thursday is even bigger, taking it to the next level to cripple Valor’s holiday-shopping plans. You can probably guess what the ‘red’ stands for.” He holds his hands together like he’s cupping an aluminum can, then mimics an explosion.

  I sit up and push my bangs out of my face. “They’re going to bomb . . . the malls?”

  He nods. “Yep. All across America. Or Valor Nation. Every mall.” He must see the panic on my face, as he adds, “Before the crowds are there. The CFF, especially outside of Leon, doesn’t want to hurt innocent people. They just want to mess up Valor’s plans, and you can’t shop in a mall that’s on fire.”

  “And you helped with this.”

  It’s not a question.

  “Ever since I saw where Valor was headed, yeah. And Second Union is no better. They just want to piggyback on everything Valor does. You know about their recon kids?”

  I look down, close my eyes as the tears threaten and I remember the glitter of gold on Jeremy’s gun. “You mean the part where they send kids out to kill the Valor mercs? Yeah. They came after me.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had to kill my best friend. Or Wyatt did. But . . . it was him or us. And we chose us.”

  “Screw this,” my dad mutters, and then he’s got his arm around me, fierce and rough. “I’m so sorry, Patsy. The only reason I left you was so this would never happen, so you wouldn’t be a part of this bullshit. And you’ve had it worse than anyone.”

  I do not, do not want to melt into the comfort of his hug. I cannot even begin to pretend that my daddy can make everything okay. For so long, I carried that little strip in my locket, my childish cursive reading, I want to find my dad. When Valor came calling, I changed it to I want to survive the next five days. I got both of my wishes, and it’s still not enough. Now I wish that none of this had ever happened. Because this man, hugging me? He’s not worth everything I’ve lost.

  I stiffen and wiggle away from him and stand, rolling my toes to crack them against the wood floor. “So he’s going to take Matty to a mall and blow her up inside it? That’s what you’re saying, right?”

  His eyes are as red as pickled eggs. He doesn’t bother to wipe away the tears, and he looks wounded, I guess because I’m rejecting him. For just a second, I wonder if he had dreams of me just like I had dreams of him, of what it would be like when we met again. Whatever he pictured as his daughter—it couldn’t be what he found.

  “The Crane cell of the CFF is supposed to hit the Candlewood Mall. And, yes, I helped them plan it. But that means I know what they’re doing. And it also means that I suspect a trick. Leon wouldn’t just give you the truth that easily. He’s got something else planned. He wants you in that mall.”

  “Is it just more nut cans?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s too small for what they want. More like . . . giant nut cans. Huge boxes in wrapping paper with shiny bows. Dozens of them. The plan is to ring the fire alarm to get anyone out of the mall at five in the morning. CFF people—all the ones they’ve recruited—will be in place in custodial jumpsuits with dollies to bring in these giant presents and put them around the big tree in the center of the mall and in all the anchoring department stores. They’re . . . It’s actually pretty brilliant. They look like really expensive decorations, the kind of thing that none of the mall workers would actually know anything about or question. Then we detonate from a safe distance, and no one will be able to shop, much less run a credit card through the machines.”

  “Oh God,” I mutter. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  I look up through the tears. “They’re going to put Matty in one of the boxes. And we won’t know which one.”

  He stands and shakes his head. “Or at least that’s what Leon wants you to think.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “It’s just horrible enough to be exactly what he would do.”

  “You don’t know him like I do
,” my dad starts, and I hold up a hand.

  “Enough. Whatever. Go play on your darknet and do whatever you do. But I’m going to be in that mall before it blows up, and I’m coming out with my dog. With or without your help.”

  He sits down and fiddles with his laptop. “How’d you live this long, charging headlong into trouble?”

  I pause at the door on my way out. “I always pull the trigger first.”

  Back downstairs, I find my mom resting on a sleeping bag, reading a fashion magazine. I curl up beside her, and she wordlessly, lovingly strokes my dirty hair until I fall into an uneasy sleep.

  As the sun is setting, we gather in what used to be the dining room to eat crappy MRE meals that my mom thoughtfully prepared for us while I napped. The lantern-lit room smells like baby vomit, like all these horrible smells mixed together and blood-warm. I do not want to eat fake food at this last supper. What I really want is a milk shake.

  “What day is it?” I ask.

  “Tuesday,” Rex says.

  I count in my head. “So we’ve got two days.”

  “Two days for what?” my mom asks.

  I ignore the question. She doesn’t want to know. “Does anybody have any cash?”

  “Like, seven bucks,” Rex says.

  “Still got my card, or what’s left of it after fish drugs,” Gabriela says, tilting her head toward Kevin, who’s snarfing up the MRE like it’s actual food.

  “You had some cash left in your backpack,” Wyatt says.

  My dad gives me a measuring look. “What do you need?”

  “Tampons and condoms,” I say, because I’m still pretty pissed at him for dozens of reasons.