Forged (4 page)

“You,” I say. “You make me a mess.”

She rolls her eyes and
hmph
s. But she also gives my chest a light shove before walking away. Contact. That she initiated. The first since Burg.

UNLIKE BONE HARBOR, PINE RIDGE
sits along a narrow inlet instead of a cove. We fly over a long stretch of dry earth and rust-colored rock to get there, and when we arrive the tide is out, making the town look impressively dreary. From the sky, the community is a horseshoe around the empty trench, pockets of water still pooled in the deeper areas, with bridges spanning it at various intervals.

We touch down well inland, where the inlet is fed by a small river butting against a narrow ridge of pines—the landform that likely gave the town its name. The smell of salt hits me when we climb out of the craft. We haul the gear from the helicopter and Heidi disappears almost immediately. She must have her own orders to attend to.

The outer edge of town is marked by a failing wood fence, and it is here that a young man reclines, hip against a post and ankles crossed. When he sees us approaching, he pushes off the fence and tosses his rolled smoke in the dirt.

“Adam?” He gives a hesitant wave, then presses a fist to his heart, three fingers splayed out so they almost look like a capital E given the angle he's holding them. “You're here for Nick?”

“It's that obvious?” Adam says, mimicking the Expat salute.

A smile flickers across the guy's face. “Chopper kind of gives it away. So, what were the plans again?”

“We never said. Can't be too careful in gulfside towns these days. I'm sure you understand . . .”

“Gage,” he finishes. “Man, I'm sorry, rattling on and not introducing myself. I've been working the waters with Nick for about a year now.” He pulls out a new smoke and lights it. “We were competitors before that, but Nick bought me out, which was a blessing, really. It was only a matter of time before he'd have run me under. He's a hardnose, Bageretti. But that's why he's the boss, not me.”

“And does the boss have an address for us?” Adam asks.

“Oh, right!” Gage slaps at his shirt pocket, jacket pocket, then finally his pants. He pulls out a scrap of paper, and with his smoke still bobbing between his lips, reads,
“Our third
choice
.
”
He exhales smoke from the corner of his mouth, expression puzzled. “I swear, this is right from Nick. He said you'd understand.”

“I do.” Adam swings his gear back onto his shoulder. “Thanks, Gage. We're good.”

Curt, direct, a man of few words. That's Adam.

Gage doesn't look fazed, though. He takes another drag of his smoke and tucks the scrap of paper into his pocket with a shrug. Maybe Badger always saddles him with these sorts of message deliveries.

“You all set with the rig?” Gage asks. “I'm supposed to see to getting you refueled.”

Adam says, “She's all yours.”

As Gage passes by the group, he takes us in for the first time. The smoke nearly falls from his lips when he sees me and Blaine. He looks between us, confused, and asks, “Gray?”

Blaine shakes a thumb at me.

“As in Weathersby?” Gage continues.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Damn!” he says, clapping my shoulder. “God damn!” He punctuates it with another clap. Up close, he's younger than I first guessed. Maybe Sammy's age. “You've been giving the Order one heck of a time. Well done, my friend. Well done.”

“How do—”

“People are whispering on the water. Plus, your face is strung up back east, on wanted posters with a list of crimes as long as my forearm.” He holds his up in illustration, eyes gleaming with approval. I think I like this guy, all wild enthusiasm. Optimism's been hard to come by lately.

“Well, we're all giving the Order a hard time,” I admit. “It's not just me.”

“It doesn't hurt that they're putting your face—and only your face—on everything,” Bree says. “Helps the rest of us stay unrecognizable.”

Gage's gaze drifts over my shoulder.

“Hello,” he says to Bree, only he manages to draw the vowels out for so long that he has time to eye her from head to toe in the process.

“Do you need glasses,” Bree says, “or should I come closer?”

Sammy chuckles as Gage stumbles to recover, but Bree is already stalking after Adam.

“Aw, come on,” Gage calls after her. “I didn't mean anything by it. Let's get a drink later or something. Give me another chance. I promise I'll behave.” She's well out of earshot now, and Gage acknowledges defeat. He gives a disgruntled exhale and turns to me, Blaine, and Sammy. “If you feel like a few drinks tonight, I'll be at the Wheelhouse—along the inlet. Come if you can get away.”

He takes a long drag on his smoke and heads for the
chopper. We dart after Adam and the others.

As the inlet widens, the buildings go from spotty to cramped, and begin climbing in height, as though the town has been extended vertically in order to keep residences as close to the Gulf as possible. Rarely less than three stories, they seem to lean on one another, weary gutters and roof tiles intimate friends.

A gull screeches overhead. The last time I heard that cry, I was standing on a beach with Bree and staring at a rough patch of water where the
Catherine
had sunk the previous night, taking my father with her. There are days when I still don't believe he's truly gone. He stepped into my life over the summer, and out of it before winter could thaw. Our time together barely equates to two seasons. I'm not sure which would have been worse: never knowing him, or only knowing him the few months I did.

“. . . not even to other Expats,” Adam is saying when we catch up. “Where we're staying, the details of the plan—that remains between our team and the one Badger's assembled. This close to the border it's always best to err on the side of caution. Ah, this is it.”

He points to an establishment as skinny as the rest. A bookshop, according to the lettering on the window. We stagger our entrance so as not to draw attention, which seems like overkill. The only activity in the street is a
group of kids playing catch.

Inside the shop, two chairs flank the doorway, and a patch of light from a window above each dusts their cushions. Walls to the left and right are overflowing with books—leatherbound, clothbound, hard and softback. I've never seen so many. The shelves continue along the back wall as well, where a lanky man of about thirty stands behind a counter. He's so engrossed in what he's reading that he doesn't acknowledge us. Not even with the bell above the door chiming every time it's opened.

“Charlie,” Adam says, leaning over the counter and plucking the book clear out of the man's hands. “Is Nick in?”

Charlie snatches the book back. “You've some nerve, Adam, getting between a man and his read.”

“We're on a schedule. Is Nick here or not?”

Charlie returns to reading. “I don't know who you're talking about.”

“Don't pull that with me. I don't have to prove myself.”

“You absolutely do after interrupting this action scene.”

Adam puts a hand on the book and pushes it onto the counter, forcing eye contact with Charlie. “I'm looking for Nicholas Bageretti, who goes by Badger on the market, and Nick among friends. The real patriots are Expats.” Adam makes the same fist-and-E salute he had when greeting Gage.

“That wasn't so hard, now was it?” Charlie says.

“It was annoying.”

“So think twice before interrupting a reader.” Charlie grapples with something on the wall of the bookshelf behind him, and an entire section of the bookcase swings inward to reveal a hidden room. “Badger's in the back.”

“Some rumors about Badger and his work have made it to the Order,” Adam explains to us. “If spies come 'round asking for him, he's good and hidden. Charlie doesn't let anyone past the storefront unless they're on first-name terms with Nick and know the Expat slogan and salute.”

Adam raises a hinged section of the counter, and we all skirt through to the back room. It's loaded with jugs of water: on shelves, on the floor, in crates piled on top of one another. The bookcase closes behind us with a heavy
shwack
, and at the far end of the room, a man jumps. He's small and scrawny, sitting in a leather chair that practically swallows him. Maps and ledgers litter his desk.

“Nick,” Adam says in greeting.

They shake hands vigorously and mutter about clientele numbers they can't keep up with. The rest of us stand there, a bit confused, until Adam finally introduces us.

Nick has skittish eyes, beady and eager looking, and seems to start at the smallest noises. Bree sneezes and I swear he almost falls over. I remember something Isaac said about
the man being “shifty,” and I see it now, the animalistic edge to him, like he's trying to sniff out danger. His alias is certainly fitting.

“So this is the team?” he says, taking us in. “The girl's perfect—right age, small, spry, can probably get in and out of tight places—but I don't know about the rest of you.”

“I'm flexible,” Sammy says, looking highly offended at being told he is not spry.

“Is being small important?” I ask. “We weren't warned about that. Probably would have picked the team differently if we'd known.”

“It's not a necessity,” Badger says. “Just a preference.”

“Well, in that case, we're all coming and that's the end of it.”

Badger's hand goes to the gun at his hip. He doesn't draw it, but I can see the defensive nature of his stance. It's odd that someone so twitchy could be a spy. Or maybe that's a casualty of the job—always on edge, never fully trusting.

“He's okay, Nick,” Adam insists, putting an arm on Badger's shoulder. “They're good, all of them. I promise you.”

“What would be good is knowing the plan,” I say. “When do we go over details?”

“I've got to follow up with one of my crew this evening,” Badger says. He checks the ammunition in his gun. Pulls a second from the back waistband of his pants, checks that
one, too. Satisfied he has enough rounds, Badger opens the bookshelf door. “I'll brief you all tomorrow, and we'll hit the water the morning following.”

Then he exits the bookshop, bell chiming in his wake.

“Well, I sure feel great putting our lives in his hands,” Bree deadpans.

“No kidding,” Sammy says.

“He's one of the sharpest men I know,” Adam says. “He has his reasons for ducking out. Badger never does anything without a plan.”

“So y'all want to see where you're crashing for the night?” Charlie sticks his head into Badger's office. Now that he's not absorbed in a book there's a lot more life to his face. He seems happy we're here, rather than inconvenienced by our presence.

We follow him out of the hidden room and back into the bookshop. He motions to a spiral staircase I hadn't noticed before, and we head up to a spacious second-floor apartment. A small bedroom and bathroom sit off to the right, but otherwise, the floor plan is open, with the kitchen and sitting areas overlapping. A fire burns in a woodstove. This seems downright dangerous given the number of brittle pages below our feet.

“I sleep in the loft,” Charlie says, pointing to another spiral staircase that leads up to a third level overlooking the
common rooms. “You guys can fight over my sister's room 'til she gets back.” Sammy and Clipper immediately bolt for the bedroom. “Everyone else is going to have to crash on the couches or floor. Should be cozy given the extra guests that are coming.”

“Guests?” Sammy echoes, pausing enough to give Clipper the advantage. The boy slips into the private bedroom, whooping triumphantly.

“I need to play catch-up while in town,” Adam explains, “and that starts here. Tonight.”

Downstairs, we hear the bookshop's door chime. A moment later there are feet pounding against the stairs. A flash of copper tears into the room, a small boy trailing after.

“Rusty!” he shouts. “Calm down, boy!”

September appears next, grinning at the sight of us. She has such harsh features that something about the expression looks wicked.

I haven't seen either of them since our mission to Burg and I'm so shocked at the sight of them—here, in Pine Ridge—that I can barely get my mouth to work.

“I thought you were supposed to be finding him a home?” I point at Aiden, who is still chasing Rusty through the apartment, hands outstretched as the dog's nose explores every last floorboard.

“That was the plan. But I got attached to the kid and let him stay with me when I found a safe apartment. And he's come in handy. The Order is inspecting every vessel leaving or arriving in Bone Harbor these days. Something about having a kid and a dog with me when I travel makes the lie that we're visiting relatives more believable.”

Aiden and September could not look more unrelated—his complexion is nearly as dark as my hair, whereas September is fair—but there's an undeniable innocence pouring off the boy and his dog. It must be enough to draw eyes away.

“Where's Jackson?” Aiden asks. He's finally given up on chasing Rusty and has paused to assess the group. “And Emma?”

Dead. Both Forgeries are dead.

Jackson bent his will to help us escape Burg, only to be murdered at the hands of my own Forged counterpart. Emma betrayed us, although Aiden never knew her true nature. He adored her, just as he did Jackson. What should be a cheerful reunion is shaping up to be anything but.

“Are they coming later?” Aiden asks. “I want to play Rock, Paper, Scissors with Jackson.”

“I'll play,” I offer.

“Okay. And then Jackson when he gets here.”

I bite my lip. It's all Aiden needs to know the truth.

“They're not coming, are they?”

I shake my head.

“Not ever?” A tear trails down his dark cheek.

“No. I'm sorry, Aiden.”

He crumples to the floor and dissolves in tears. “It's so unfair,” he gasps out. “I hate it and it's not right and it's not fair.”