Talented (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

The moment that I stepped on the hover plane, my mood shifted drastically.  I pushed all thoughts of Erik and Donavon aside, and focused all of my energy on the task at hand.  Finding that I was too amped up to sleep, I again ran through all of the intel, over and over in my mind.  When that became tiresome, I switched to sensory drills.  Even still, the nearly four hour flight went faster than I would’ve liked.

When the hover plane landed, we were approximately sixty miles from the Nevada border.  My backpack was already strapped firmly on to my back when the craft lowered into the clearing.  I called goodbye to the crew and readied myself, as a metal panel in the bottom of the plane began to slide open.  Looking down, even in the dead of night, I judged the ground to be about ten feet beneath me.  I tensed, as my muscles prepared to jump.  Once the hole was large enough for me to fit through, I leapt.

Landing in a low crouch, I focused all my energy to my sight; even though the craft was quiet, it was not easy to hear above the dull hum.  I drank in my surroundings, my eyes adjusting quickly.  I didn’t wait for the hover plane to rise back into the night, but instead took off at a run immediately.

I was wearing tight black pants, made of a stretchy material, and a tight black jacket, instead of an
adapti-suit.  Since this Hunt wasn’t covert, an adapti-suit was unnecessary – I wasn’t hiding from anybody.   Eventually, I would be trying to attract a certain amount of attention to myself.

I would be spotted on my way into town; in the middle of the night, there would be little traffic going through the checkpoints at the Las Vegas city border.  If I were to cross in the middle of the day, I’d be less noticeable, but it was safer for the hover plane to drop me under the cover of darkness.  Even in the middle of the night, the risk was too great to get any closer than we did.

The soles of my black mesh shoes barely made any noise as I ran through the woods.  I followed the map that I’d committed to memory, concentrating my energy on my sense of feel.  The ground would change from fallen leaves, where the tree covering was dense, to tightly packed earth with only a scattering of leaves when the trees began to thin.  It was there that I needed to switch directions, from south to southwest.  Approximately three miles before the tree cover ended entirely, the ground would change again, becoming rockier.   Once out of the woods, I would find myself in a small neighborhood.

Unlike my Missions with Henri and Erik, there would be no hover vehicle waiting for me.  Toxic had safe houses equipped with vehicles in this area, but it was too risky for me to try and cross the border in an Agency vehicle.  The Coalition states, and their residents, were poor, so a car outfitted with the latest technology would cause suspicion.  Instead, I would “borrow” a vehicle from one of the houses in the neighborhood.

My run through the woods went exactly according to plan.  I was feeling confident when I burst through the trees and into a grassy area behind a neighborhood home.  Slowing to a walk, I took several deep breaths and willed my pulse to return to normal.  I pulled the hood up over my curls, hoping to obscure as much of myself as possible, now that I was around people.

I refocused my mental energy and expanded my mind, searching for any creatures that were awake in the area.  I sensed several animals – dogs or wolves – in the vicinity. 
Concentrating harder, I pinpointed the exact homes that they guarded, and I made a mental note to steer clear of them.  I crept around the house that I was behind, and did a quick scan of the area.  I found myself in a cul-de-sac with only six houses.  Four homes had animals patrolling their yards.  I chose one of the two houses without a security animal and quickly spotted the owner’s vehicle in the driveway.  Relief flooded through me when I saw that it was a hover vehicle – they make so much less noise then road vehicles.

Crouching low next to the driver’s side door, I unhooked my backpack.  I set the bag in my lap, and felt around for the residue-detector that attached to my portable communicator.  Once I connected the two, I turned on the detector and ran it over the keypad on the
driver’s-side door.  Five of the ten numbers glowed neon green.  I waited as my communicator processed the possible combinations of the five numbers to make up the passcode.  Several agonizing seconds passed, before the screen of my communicator displayed the top five most likely combination orders.  I entered the first one and was rewarded with a soft click as the lock disengaged.  Relieved, I eased the door open and crawled into the driver’s seat.

Thus far, pure adrenaline had steeled my nerves.  But now, sitting in a car that I was about to steal, my apprehension returned.  I took several calming breaths, and acquainted myself with the vehicle.  Mentally disengaging the door lock would have been risky, since the vehicle could have had an alarm, but there wouldn’t be a similar risk using my telekinetic powers to start the engine.  The
intel package had contained an entire section on engines in the most common hover and land vehicles.  I’d meticulously studied each and every one.  I placed my hand on the dashboard, envisioned the engine for a Y420 Hover Craft – the name was emblazoned on the dash – and mentally engaged all of the pistons.  I held my breath as the engine came alive, purring softly.

Gently, I glided the hover vehicle across the front lawn of its owner’s home, hoping that nobody inside needed a late night bathroom run.  I didn’t exhale until I was safely out of the neighborhood and soaring high above fields and pastures, in route to the border of Las Vegas.  For my first solo driving experience, it was uneventful.  I made a mental note to insist that Henri let me drive the Agency hover craft next time we went into D.C.

I cruised at a moderate speed and made it to the border in twenty minutes.

I pushed the button to lower the tires from the undercarriage when I was still about five miles from the border check; seeing as I had yet to master landing, I thought it better to land a
safe distance from the actual checkpoint.  Hopefully, I’d draw less attention to myself if I crashed.

Once I landed, with only a minimal amount of bumping and swerving, I drove the last five miles to the border in a haze.  Sweat rolled down my back, pooling in the fabric at the waistband of my pants.  I wiped at beads of perspiration dotting my forehead and upper lip with the sleeve of my jacket.  I gripped the hand controls of the vehicle so hard that I knew my knuckles were white underneath my black gloves.  I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, and I prayed that the border guard wasn’t a Talent.  I didn’t overly worried about that since Talents were shunned by the Coalition rather than revered, so was unlikely that one would be working as a border guard.

As I approached, I saw that the border was virtually empty.  Only one vehicle occupied any of the ten gates.  I focused my energy on my mental abilities and slid the vehicle into the rightmost gate.

A short man with a thick mustache leaned out of the guard booth.  I panicked, mentally forcing my window down instead of pressing the button.  The guard gave me an odd look.  I looked into his dark eyes and locked on to his mind.

You saw me press the button to roll the window down,
I mentally insisted.  If there were cameras at the border crossing – and I assumed that there were – I didn’t want to draw suspicion to myself; I wanted the transaction to appear as normal as possible to anyone watching the surveillance footage.  His face relaxed and he smiled at me.  I rewarded him with a toothy grin.

“Good evening,” I greeted him, without breaking eye contact.

“Good evening, ma’am.  What is your business in Las Vegas?”

“Family visit,” I responded out loud. 
Ask me for my papers and then let me through,
I mentally communicated.

The guard continued to smile.  “Do you have your papers miss?”

“Of course,” I smiled, handing him several blank pages stapled together. 
Slowly leaf through the pages then, declare everything in order and let me through,
I commanded.

My last vestiges of anxiety were gone, and I felt truly in control for the first time in months, maybe years.  I was in my element.  I had complete confidence in my mental abilities.  Was I too cocky?  Maybe, but I’d been able to bend the will of others for as long as I could remember.  My parents had discouraged using my Talents against those around me.  Mac had discouraged it while I was at school, but he’d always promised that one day I’d be able to use my abilities to their fullest extent.  Now I was, and it felt incredible.

The guard made a show of flipping through the blank pages, scanning each in turn as though checking for pertinent information.  He handed me back the papers.

Log me in as a visitor – Name Anna Reynolds – age 22, visiting Las Vegas to see my father Arnie Reynolds,
I ordered.  Arnie was a real Las Vegas resident, and he really did have a daughter named Anna, but our intel indicated that she hadn’t visited her father since she was five.  Hopefully she wouldn’t feel like reconnecting anytime soon.

The guard obediently turned around.  I could hear the tap of his fingers hitting the plastic computer keys as he entered the information I’d given him.

“Enjoy your visit to our city, miss,” the guard declared, once he finished entering the data.

“Thank you.”  I locked his eyes with mine, giving him a mental image of the real Anna Reynolds.  I held his mind until I was confident that he wouldn’t remember a small
freckle-faced girl with curly hair and purple eyes.  There was nothing that I could do about the security cameras, but I’d been careful to stay within the confines of the vehicle.

Before the Great Secession of the Western States, Las Vegas had been an entertainment mecca.  The Coalition had claimed eminent domain on the land to gain control of the hotel-casinos, turning the rooms into mandatory living quarters for Las Vegas residents.  Now, most of the residents lived on one street in the very center of the city limits – Las Vegas Boulevard.

After the Coalition seized control of the small contingency of states that seceded from the rest of the nation, they declared Martial Law.  Without their national funding, the states fell into disrepair.  The Coalition herded most of their citizens into the cities, and set up border patrols to regulate all incoming and outgoing traffic.  The residents lived in poverty when compared with those who resided in states still loyal to the Agency.  The Coalition provided all of the necessities for their citizens, but nothing extraneous.  Given all of this, it amazed me that people still sought refuge across the borders just to escape the Mandatory Testing Laws.

The Strip extended several miles.  Towering forty-story, casino-turned-apartment buildings lined both sides of the street, their splendor long-forgotten.  Cracked neon signs hung across the front of each complex, announcing the name:  Caesars, Bellagio, New York, New York, Treasure Island, and The Wynn.  An ancient monorail system connected the four miles of the Strip; at this time of night the trains were still, but I assumed they creaked unsteadily across the rickety rails when they ran during the day.  Sky walkways allowed the inhabitants to easily cross the cracked street without having to navigate the uneven pavement below.  Road and hover vehicles were rare here – they were too expensive for most Coalition citizens.

After crossing the border, I made for the patch of neon lights that were like beacons in the black of night.  Agency loyalists had filed the necessary paperwork to secure me an apartment several miles off the main strip.  I flew over the few freestanding homes located inside the border.  Without warning, the control panel on the dash started beeping.  I glanced down nervously.

“Redirect route.  Redirect route,” a mechanical voice cut through the quiet car.  Shit! What was going on?  Not good, not good!

“State reason,” I demanded, unsure if the vehicle would respond to my voice.

“Restricted airspace,” the mechanical voice answered.  I called up the city map ingrained in my mind. 
Ohhhhh – my current course had me flying straight over Crane’s temporary residence.  I cut a wide arc to the right, straining to catch a glimpse of the home as I passed.

It was only a matter of time before the owner of my borrowed hover car reported it missing, so I needed to get rid of the car.  I scoured the area just past Crane’s temporary housing for a hiding place.  The land stretching in every direction from the property was barren; there wasn’t a single tree to conceal the vehicle from hover cars searching from above.   I was forced to double back to an unkempt house about ten miles from the Strip.  I was tired, and the thought of running that far to my new apartment wasn’t appealing, but the house appeared unoccupied.   I didn’t think that I would have a better option any closer to the center of the city, so I grudgingly directed the vehicle towards the ground.

After landing, I stashed the car in an empty shed behind the house.   I pulled a small bottle of Identiscure from my pack, and sprayed every surface of the interior with the chemical, removing my fingerprints, hair, and skin cells.  After replacing the bottle, I strapped my bag on to my back and set off at a brisk jog, towards the glowing lights.

Almost an hour later, I arrived at the apartment.  I did a quick sweep of it to make certain that I was alone.  The apartment was almost as barebones my cabin in the Hunters’ Village.  It had one
main room, with well-tread carpeting that stretched from one paint-peeled wall to the next.  The tiny bedroom held nothing more than a twin-sized bed, but the sheets at least appeared clean.  A small white-tiled bathroom completed the apartment.