Burn (5 page)

I glance around. “Listen—can we get off the street? Are your parents home yet?”

“Not yet.” He leans around me as the car door opens and Christina steps out. “Christina! Your mom called me yesterday—” He pauses as her expression crumples.

“I need your help,” I say to him.

He arches an inky black eyebrow. “Are you about to get me in trouble?”

“Possibly.”

He grins, white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. “Cool.”

It never did take much to get Will to go along with my pranks. I grab my supplies from the trunk, introduce Leo as my cousin, and lead Christina by the hand as we enter Will's building. I keep my head down until we're in his apartment. He tosses his keys into a little basket on the counter and turns to us. “You seriously need to tell me what's up.”

I concocted my lie on the way here, and Christina's prepared to back me up. As much as I hate to keep the truth from Will, it'll be better and safer for him if he doesn't know everything. I offer my explanation as I pull out his mom's huge soup pot and empty potassium nitrate and sugar into it, then switch the heat to low. I want to do this quickly, but there are some things you just can't rush.

“My dad made some important scientific discoveries, and he's being framed by people who are desperate to get ahold of them. It's like a corporate espionage thing, but they've got some corrupt cops on their side. Now they're at Christina's apartment. They want me in exchange for her parents, because they know I can get into my dad's lab.”

“Fuckers,” he says.

“My thoughts exactly,” Leo replies, peeking into the pot. He's been quiet for the most part, but when he saw me picking up stump remover and sugar at the store, he couldn't wipe the smile from his face.

As the sugar melts, and the mixture in the pot begins to look like caramel, we start to cut up a bunch of water bottles to use for casings. I explain my plan as Christina watches from the doorway. I'd pay a lot to know what she's thinking, but it's almost eight, and we have no time for a heart-to-heart. All of that will have to wait until her family is safe. I was hoping my mom would have been in touch by now, but she hasn't been. I even tried calling her again, but it went straight to voicemail. And, seeing as I have no idea if she's still in control of that phone, I didn't leave a message.

We create eight mounds of the caramel mixture and load them into the plastic casings. It's kind of like working with larger versions of those plastic Easter eggs. Christina makes sure they stay closed with rubber bands. Will has the fuses—he's been the guardian of my contraband for years. As Will and Leo pack up and get ready to head out, already joking like old friends, I slide my arm around Christina's waist.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Everybody I love is in danger right now. I've been better.”

I brush her hair away from her face. “I know the feeling.”

“Then you know how much I need you to make it through this okay,” she whispers, leaning into me, her fingers curling into my shirt.

Her eyes meet mine, gorgeous and stormy blue. I'm caught in that gaze, unable to look away. “If it's anywhere near as much as I need you to be safe and have your family back, then I guess I do.” I pull my dad's phone from my pocket. “Keep this for me? I don't want them to have it.”

She takes it, cradles it in her hands. “And I'll be giving this back to you . . .”

I kiss her forehead. “In an hour.”

A few minutes later, I'm climbing the steps to Christina's building. My heart is beating a furious rhythm in my chest. There were a bunch of agents searching my apartment, so I don't know how many will be in the Scolinas' condo. As much as I hate going in there without knowing exactly what I'm facing, at least I know the layout—I've been hanging out with Christina there for years. Her room is a haven for me, the place where I've spent some of the best moments of my life, and her parents are cool. I hate that they're being put through this.

The place is quiet, but I'm sure Hooknose and his agents know I'm here. I walk the steps to the fourth floor and stop in front of number 401. In all my years of knowing Christina, I've never been so nervous about knocking on her door, and that's really saying something. Before, only my heart was at stake. What's on the line right now is more precious than that.

And as it turns out, I don't have to knock. The door opens, and I find myself face-to-face with Hooknose. He's an inch or so taller than I am, clean-shaven with razor burn along his jaw and deep wrinkles around his mouth. His tone is clipped as he says, “Tate Archer. You cut it rather close,” and opens the door wide to allow me inside. “I'm FBI Special Agent Bill Congers. It's nice to meet you.” He offers me his hand.

“Don't bother.”

He gives me an amused look and motions for me to raise my arms. While he pats me down, I size him up, noting the gun at his hip. Once he's confirmed that I'm unarmed, we walk down the short hallway to enter the living room. Two agents are positioned within, one covering the hall to the front door and one at the entrance to the dining room and the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Mrs. Scolina, her light blond hair in a bedraggled ponytail, is sitting on the chaise in the corner of the large room, Livia in her lap. The little girl's skinny fingers are balled in the loose sleeves of her mom's shirt. Christina's dad is standing next to Mrs. Scolina's chair. Lean and fit, still a fierce soccer player, he looks younger than his graying hair suggests. His arm is resting on his wife's shoulders, but he looks like he'd love to slam his fist into my face.

“I'm sorry,” I say to him. “I wasn't in town. But I came immediately.”

“That was wise,” Congers comments, running his finger over the bump on the narrow bridge of his nose.

“And now that he's finally decided to show up, he can tell you we're not involved in Frederick Archer's plot,” Mr. Scolina growls, his blue eyes cold as he talks about my dad. “I never even met the man!”

I close my eyes and remind myself that now is not the time to defend my father's rep. “Are you guys okay?” I ask Christina's parents. They don't look hurt. They look like they could run. And they're going to have to.

“No thanks to you,” says Mr. Scolina. “We're being held under suspicion of aiding a
terrorist
—”

“If Tate cooperates, the charges might go away, Mr. Scolina,” Congers says smoothly.

“Where's my daughter?” Mr. Scolina takes a step toward me. “If you've hurt her—”

“Yes, where
is
Ms. Scolina?” Congers asks. “We'll find her, you know. It's such a shame you involved her in your criminal activities. She had such a bright future.”

“The threats aren't necessary.” I meet his cold gray-green eyes. “I'm here, so stop wasting time.”

He doesn't blink. “We'll see. Let's go in the back and talk.”

“I'm not going to cooperate until I know they're safe,” I snap. “If you want anything from me, you need to let Mrs. Scolina and Livia go, at least.”

He shakes his head. “Given the stakes, I'm not willing to lose my leverage until I have access to the information I need.”

Mrs. Scolina buries her face against her husband's side to muffle her sob. He strokes her hair and gives me another death glare.

The barrel of a gun nudges at my spine. There's an agent behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see his round head, red hair buzzed short. I raise my hands from my sides. The guy scowls. “Get moving.”

“It's all right, Mack. I'm sure Tate will be happy to—” Congers is interrupted by a knock at the door.

Here we go.

Congers cuts his gaze to Mr. Scolina. “Are you expecting someone?” Christina's dad shakes his head, and Congers turns to me. “Are
you
?”

“You guys killed my dad. You shot my mom.
And
my girlfriend.” I hate that I have to say that in front of her parents, who go pale at the words. “Who would I be expecting?” I ask in a hard voice, letting my anger show through.

“You bastard,” Mr. Scolina says. I assume he's talking to Congers until his fist collides with my jaw.

Mack wrestles him away from me as I stagger to the side. “They're the ones who did it, and you're attacking
me
?” My fingers probe my aching face.

“If you cared about her, you never would have involved her in any of this!” Mrs. Scolina says shrilly.

Her words hit me as hard as Mr. Scolina did, and I'm still recovering as there's another knock on the door. The third agent, a guy who looks like a younger version of Congers himself, disappears into the entryway. “Two kids in soccer uniforms,” he says to Congers as he returns. “Selling candy bars, looks like.”

“Graham,” Congers says to the young agent, “take Tate in the dining room, and we'll let the little girl open the door.”

He gestures for Livia to stand up. She watches him with wide blue eyes. Graham motions me toward the dining room. I walk as slowly as possible.

Mrs. Scolina strokes the little girl's back. “Just tell them we're not interested, sweetheart. That's all you have to do.” Livia hops off her mom's lap, still looking uncertain.

Red-haired Mack gives her a five. “Get me one. I'm hungry.” He leads Livia to the entryway and presses himself against the wall, his gun in his hand.

She heads for the door with the bill clutched in her little fist. My heart is beating so fast I can barely breathe. I'm too far away to help her if this doesn't go well. The door squeaks as she opens it, and then I hear Will's voice.

“Hey, kiddo. Is your mom home? Soccer fund-raiser. We got some good candy.” The crinkling of a wrapper punctuates his words. From where he's standing, he'll only be able to see her, and not the armed agents listening to the conversation. I pray he sticks to the plan—we've done enough pranks together for me to know that's not a guarantee, even though I stressed the life-or-deathness of this particular situation to him before we set out.

“We have caramel, too,” Leo offers. I picture him, shuffling his feet and sliding a pack off his shoulder. He's got on one of Will's soccer jerseys, and it's hanging from his scrawny frame. I hope the agents don't catch sight of him and notice the overlarge soccer cleats tied to his feet.

But based on the sounds coming from the entryway, all is well. They both seem harmless, just two high school kids trying to raise some cash for their team. Livia asks for one bar, and when Will tells her she's got enough money for two, she shyly asks for a caramel. It's perfect. Mack has holstered his weapon now. From his concealed position next to the Scolinas, Congers rolls his eyes and looks at his watch, probably annoyed by the frivolous distraction.

I hear Will's cleats on the hardwood floor of the entryway and the
thunk
of his bag as he sets it down and digs inside. “Let's see. I have change somewhere.”

“I've got some,” Leo says, unzipping his pack.

Livia gasps, and a hissing noise fills the entryway. The agents' eyes go wide, but they move too slowly. I shove Graham hard and jump between the Scolinas and Congers as a flaming object whizzes down the hall, trailed by a plume of smoke. The room descends into chaos.

WILL HURLS HIS ENTIRE DUFFEL DOWN THE HALL NEXT.
Smoke billows from it as it lands in the middle of the living room, several feet from the first smoke bomb. A fraction of a second later, two smaller smoke bombs bounce off the walls, spewing white-gray clouds. I lunge for Congers as he opens his mouth to shout an order. Gulping in one last lungful of clean air, I elbow him in the throat, knocking him backward before jerking his head down and kneeing him in the face. He slides to the floor as the fire alarms begin to shriek.

“Fire!” I hear Will shout from the hallway. “Call 9-1-1!” Hopefully the Scolinas' neighbors are home and will do just that. We need as much confusion as possible.

Leo helps. His backpack comes hurtling down the hallway and lands near Will's duffel, doubling the smoke and adding a bit of fire when the fabric ignites—the chemical reaction must have melted through the plastic casing.

My eyes burning, I yank my shirt over my mouth and nose. Mrs. Scolina screams, and I look up to see two figures wrestling in the living room—Mr. Scolina and Graham. Leo is on the floor with Mack, both of them coughing and gasping. As I run for the hallway to make sure Livia got out, Leo disarms the much larger man and pistol-whips his round head. Leo might be small, but he's dead fast and knows what he's doing.

Still standing in the doorway, Will meets my eyes, and I nod.

“Come on, baby girl,” he says, coiling an arm around Livia, who's been huddled against the wall near the front door. He yanks her out of the apartment, heading for the stairwell. With any luck, he'll be three blocks away before anyone notices she's gone. I charge back into the living room, yank Graham's gun from his holster as he struggles with Mr. Scolina, and press it against the young agent's head. Clenching his teeth, Graham puts his hands up, and Mr. Scolina staggers back, coughing up a lung. His wife wraps her arms around him, and I smack Graham hard on the back of the head, dropping him to his knees.

“The fire escape!” I bark, but Leo's already moving, taking Mrs. Scolina by the arm and dragging her through the dining room toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Christina's there, waiting to get them down the metal stairs and out onto the street, ready to throw some smoke of her own if she needs to. I put my arm around Mr. Scolina's back and guide him to the hallway, my lungs raging and stinging.

“My daughter,” he rasps.

“Will's got Livia,” I say as I hustle him along. I can't see anything now—I'm working by feel. My eyes don't want to stay open—they're streaming, blurring my vision. “And Christina's right outside.”

I shove him into the dining room, groping for the wall, praying for some fresh air, dying to see Christina and know she's there and okay and—

A hand grabs at my ankle and lurches me back, away from Mr. Scolina, who blunders through the dining room like a bull, knocking pictures to the floor with his shoulder. “Rachel!” he shouts to his wife as Graham plows into me from behind, knocking the weapon from my hand. I try to pivot around and meet the challenge, but steely fingers are still gripping my ankle, digging in. It's Congers, on the floor where I left him, but very much conscious—and dangerous.

Graham punches me in the stomach, and I gasp, inhaling the smoke. My body goes into full-on rejection mode, doubling me over as my lungs try to turn themselves inside out. The other agents are hacking and stumbling, too, but Graham throws himself on top of me, knocking me to the floor. I land on my stomach. I can't breathe. I can't move. Mack, bleeding from a gash in his freckled forehead, flings himself across the back of my legs before I can plant my foot in Congers's face. I want to call for help . . . but who would I call? I need all of them to be safe. I don't want them here in this smoky apartment, going down with me.

Meaty hands shove my face into the floor, grinding my skull against hardwood while someone grabs my arms and wrenches them behind my back. Before I can jerk myself away, handcuffs enclose my wrists.

“You bastards!” Leo shouts, crashing into one of the dark shapes hovering above me.

“We'll take him, too,” says Congers, who's gotten to his feet and is covering his nose and mouth with his suit jacket. “The fire alarms will draw the neighbors. We need to get out of here.”

I am rolled onto my back. They don't give me a chance to make a move. There's a hand on my throat and two bodies on mine, smashing my fingers between my ass and the floor. My ears ring.

Leo hits the ground next to me. “Sorry,” he huffs. I glance to the side. My eyes are the only thing I can move, and through the spots that crowd my vision, I see the blood flowing from his nose. His wire-framed glasses lie between us, lenses cracked.

He should have escaped when he had the chance. I'd roll my eyes, but I'm still fighting to breathe. Graham is sitting on my chest. I stare at the ceiling, though I can't really see it through the haze.
Be okay, Christina,
I think.
Be safe.

“We'll take them out through the basement,” Congers orders.

“And the others?” Mack asks before he starts to cough again, his face as red as his hair.

“Should we go after them?” Graham continues for him.

“No. We have what we want. Prepare these two for transport.” Congers wipes blood from his lips and prods Leo with his toe while Mack clamps a set of handcuffs on the kid. Leo clenches his teeth as he's jerked onto his back and manages to stay silent even when his head cracks against the floor. Congers looks down at us. “Nap time, children.”

And that's the last thing I hear before there's a needle-sharp jab of pain in my thigh and a seeping heaviness unfurls within my body, sucking me down into the black.

• • •

The first thing that returns is the pain. Raw, hot, throbbing. My wrists, my ankle, my head. I stay very still and surf the rolling waves of nausea. Eyes closed, I listen, focusing on one sound at a time. The low hum of conversation. The deep vibration that tells me I'm in a moving vehicle. Somewhere in front of me, someone's gasping, frightened.

“When did he say he'd arrive?” asks a male voice. Graham, I think.

“Twenty-three hundred hours,” replies Congers from right next to me. “The helo's already left Charlottesville. We'll go back into the city once we're sure what we're dealing with. Maybe this detour will end up working to our benefit.”

“Why bring the body here instead of DC? What can that scanner tell us that we don't already know?” Graham asks.

My gut clenches. Congers must have the scanner. I wonder if it's in this SUV.

Congers shifts in his seat, and I can almost feel his gaze on me. “Focus on the road, Graham.”

My eyes snap open. I'm staring at my legs, my head bowed. A seat belt keeps me upright. I'm sitting between two men in dark suits. Their jackets cover the bulges at their waists, but as I shift, my elbow bumps against the butt of Congers's weapon. My wrists are shackled behind me. My shoulder muscles are screaming.

I slowly raise my head. A narrow two-lane road, headlights shining on the dotted white lines. Someone in this car isn't wearing enough deodorant. The odor is coming from the squirming figure in front of me. Leo. He's between two agents, too, in the middle row of this SUV. There are two more in the front—Graham and Mack. Somewhere along the way, we picked up three more agents. I have no idea how long I've been out, or what time it is, or where we are.

“Welcome back,” says Congers. He's sitting on my right. “We're getting close. We'll get you two something to eat soon, as long as you're cooperative.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper, staring straight ahead.

“Silly, immature words from a silly, immature boy,” he replies, sounding bored.

“How's your buddy Race doing? My silliness worked pretty well against the last agents who came after me.”

“He's been busy cleaning up the mess you made in Virginia. You'll see him soon.”

Great.
“I'm not going to help you get into my dad's lab.” Now that Christina and her family are safe, it's about withstanding what they do to me, not people I care about. Except, unfortunately, Leo tried to help me, like an idiot, and so I have to decide what's more important—him, or my father's discoveries.

“I would think,” Congers says slowly, “that your father would have taught you to evaluate a situation thoroughly before shooting off your mouth. And yet that seems to be one of your most consistent characteristics.”

He's right. My dad did teach me that. It was a quality he prized. And being reminded of that only pisses me off more. Then Congers slaps my thigh in a condescending way that makes me wish my hands were free so I could beat the shit out of him.

“We don't have to be enemies, Tate, though I will be if you need one,” he says. “But please believe that you will regret it.”

“You're the one who framed my dad as a terrorist, aren't you?”

He looks me right in the eyes. “It was necessary.”

“Ruining a good man's name was
necessary
?”

“Unfortunately, yes, seeing as his son set off a catastrophic incident that required extensive and decisive damage control. We kept it quiet for as long as we could, but information was leaking. The public required an overarching narrative to pacify them, and so we offered one that fit.”

I look away from his cold gaze and swallow hard. I still blame him for smearing my dad's name . . . but I also blame myself. I force the thought down and look outside again. “Where are we going?”

“Your ridiculous rescue attempt drew a great deal of attention, and people were already on edge after what happened at your school on Monday. We decided to exit the city until our agents based there can assure us the scene has quieted down.”

He still hasn't answered my question. Judging by the shadowy outlines of trees on either side of the road, we're nowhere near Manhattan. I expected them to take me straight to my dad's lab, but I guess I made that impossible, which seems like a good thing at the moment. I squint at the license plate of a minivan in front of us as Graham comes up on it hard and swerves into the oncoming lane to pass. Garden State. “Are we in Jersey?”

“We have a lab of our own,” says Congers with a smile. “Conveniently, it's also a place where no one will hear you scream if I decide to make that happen. Or maybe I should just work on this one and let you watch?” He abruptly grabs a handful of Leo's hair and jerks his head back. Leo's wide eyes stare at the ceiling, but again, he doesn't cry out. “He won't tell us who he is, but you seem to be important to him.” Congers lets him go.

“It doesn't matter who he is. It matters what he is. A clueless kid. Just some science club wannabe from my school.” As I say it, Leo's shoulders tense.

“Then maybe I should kill him and have one less clueless kid to deal with today,” suggests Congers. “But I think his pain will motivate you.”

“To do what? My dad's stuff can't be accessed remotely.”

“We'll return to New York as soon as we—”

The SUV lurches forward as something crashes into us from behind. Congers and the dark-haired agent on my other side brace themselves against the seat in front, and Graham hits the gas. Congers twists in his seat, as do I, trying to see what hit us, but all I register is headlights closing fast.

It's the minivan we just passed.

“Goddamn idiot road rager!” shouts Graham.

“Don't bet on it!” Congers snaps, then grabs my hair. “Who is it?” he hisses in my ear.

“No idea!”

He releases my hair and glares out the rear window. “It looks like there's only one, but there might be more ahead to box us in. We need to take this one out now.”

The van smashes into us again, honking, staying hard on our tail. Graham slams on the brakes, and the driver of the minivan slows accordingly, narrowly avoiding another collision. The van careens around us and speeds ahead. Its brake lights flash. “What the hell is he doing?” Graham asks.

“Stop the vehicle!” shouts Congers as he peers out the windshield. “Now! Now!” The note of panic in his voice startles me. The minivan is pulling to the side of the road, so it would be easy enough to pass it.

Instead, Graham stomps on the brakes, and we all jerk forward. “Open the back!” Congers calls, throwing himself over our rear seat and leaping out as the hatch swings up. I twist to see him lugging an honest-to-God shoulder-mounted RPG launcher from a case on the floor of the trunk. “Get out! Get the prisoners out! Get behind me!”

I turn back around and look up ahead to see what's got him so freaked. My heart stops.

It's my mom. She emerges from the driver's side of the minivan, which is parked about ten yards ahead. One of her arms is in a sling, but in her other hand is a semi-automatic, and she raises it and fires at the grille of the SUV, looking more pissed than I've ever seen her. And to my horror, Christina jumps out of the passenger seat, holding a gun of her own, her eyes blazing with fury and fear as she joins my mom. She raises her weapon, but my mom shoves her behind their vehicle as Mack opens fire.

“Move aside!” Congers calls. “I'll take care of it!”

With a freaking
rocket launcher
? “No!” I shout, flipping onto my back and kicking the dark-haired agent next to me in the face. His head
thunks
against the frame of the passenger door he just opened. I kick him again and again, and he stumbles onto the road. I dimly register Leo struggling with an agent in the middle seat, but I can't worry about him right now. I hook my ankles over the seat and drag myself toward the open door, desperate to stop Congers, who's about to blow my mom and Christina to bits. My wrists still cuffed behind me, I heave myself out of the SUV.

The agents are wide-eyed and shouting as they fire on my mom and Christina. But I don't slow down to look at the minivan—instead I spin and lunge toward Congers, who's already put the grenade into the barrel and is hefting the green-gray launcher onto his shoulder. “Lovell and Warner, get over here. We'll need your fire!” he calls as I charge at him.