The Elders (31 page)

In my most commanding tone, I say, “Don’t listen to him. He’s an escaped convict, apprehend him using—”

I don’t finish my sentence.

George must’ve caught on to my reprogramming. He stops reloading his gun and takes a few
steps backwards. As he does, he retrieves something from his pocket.

My entourage reaches for their guns, their movements so eerily synchronized they seem rehearsed.

I take out the long-barreled tranquilizer gun Hillary gave me—a reminder of how this mission was supposed to be surreptitious and casualty-free—from the back of my pants.

Meanwhile, George is holding a round and familiar-looking
object. I recently saw its cousin in the folds of Edward’s robe.

“Grenade!” I shout in case the cops missed it.

I’m about to say more, but the words die in my throat when George frantically pulls the pin and throws the grenade in my direction.

Conditioned by having seen this type of scenario play out a thousand times in movies, I do what the about-to-get-blown-up people always do: I fall to
the ground. More specifically, I drop as though I’m about to do a push up.

I look up and see that George has done the same thing, only he isn’t peeking; he’s holding his head in both hands.

Instantly, I realize dropping to the ground won’t save me.

The grenade landed a few feet away from me. If falling on the ground saved people from grenades at this distance, they’d be pretty useless.

Paradoxically,
for someone about to die, I’m more upset about my lack of powers. If I hadn’t lost them, I’d phase out, walk to the Temple, make sure everyone was okay, and then, eventually, when my Depth ran out, I’d go out with a bang. In fact, given my Depth, I could’ve pulled Mira in and spent a lifetime with her in the Quiet, similar to what the Elders do. No, wait, Mira is either Inert or unconscious
right now, so that wouldn’t have worked . . .

Why hasn’t the grenade exploded?
I wonder, the thought interrupting my glum reflection.
Must be a time-delay rather than an impact one,
I realize in the next moment.

Then I wonder how many people have had this exact, final thought.

Another long millisecond of my life follows. I realize that being in danger while Inert has another disadvantage: you
can’t Guide someone to save you. Were I callous enough, I could have—

In a blur of motion, the sheriff’s body lands on top of the grenade. It’s as though he knew what I was thinking. A deputy falls on top of the sheriff; then another cop jumps on top of them both. The rest of the cops fall on top of me. I can only imagine what Thomas felt like at the cemetery, though his cop pile was worse than
mine. My kindergarten experience is definitely dated; being at the bottom of a human pile really sucks.

But what the hell is going on?

Then it clicks. I Guided them to protect me with their lives. I explicitly stated they were the Secret Service to my President.

Though that command will save me, it will cost them their lives.

Guilt doesn’t have the chance to hit me because the grenade finally
explodes.

The boom sounds just like the cherry bombs Bert and I set off in the Harvard cafeteria during our freshman year, only multiplied by a factor of ten.

Through a small opening between the tangles of limbs in front of me, I see that George is already on his feet.

“Get off me,” I order, but I’m not sure my defenders heard me. “Don’t just lie there.”

The smell of burned flesh enters my
nostrils, and I instantly feel like throwing up. I can’t—the one perk of not having eaten in the last twenty hours—but I do dry-heave.

Another bang makes me think that another grenade went off, but it’s actually George firing his shotgun. I think he just shot at what was left of the three men piled on top of the grenade, but now he’s aiming the barrel right at my pile of people.

I try to roll
to my side, but the weight of the bodies keeps me pinned.

I cover my face as George fires another shot. I smell gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood.

Another shotgun blast follows.

I feel a trickle of blood run down the back of my neck, but since I feel no pain, I assume it isn’t my blood.

I feel under me for the tranquilizer gun. No luck.

This next bang sounds louder.

Giving up on
the gun idea, I frantically grab for anything from the cop on top of me. His gun is under someone else’s body, but I can reach his Taser and his set of handcuffs.

I try to push myself off the ground by essentially executing a push up. I pray to my surge of adrenaline and years of bench-pressing at the gym for strength. I only manage to straighten my arms halfway, but it’s enough for me to get
my knees to my chest.

After the fifth bang, I move to get up.

In the gym, my record for squats is four forty-five-pound plates on each side of a forty-five-pound bar. That’s a total of 405 pounds, unless my math is off. What I’m doing now is in many ways harder, since I never squat this close to the ground, not to mention that my left knee has been bugging me on rainy days ever since I set that
personal record. I’m not sure what the combined weight of the cops on top of me is, but it feels much heavier than those 405 pounds. As the bodies fall aside, my legs and knees scream for mercy.

I ignore everything, making George the center of my universe. He’s reloading his damn shotgun.

Purely on instinct, I aim the Taser and pull the trigger. The tiny cables stretch the twenty feet between
us and embed into George’s chest, but the man is still standing. Then he freezes and begins convulsing, right before he falls backwards onto the grass.

The problem with the way he falls is that the little cables get pulled from his chest.

Having no idea how long he’ll be out for, I make a split-second decision and run.

I didn’t run after pressing those 405 pounds, and now I see the wisdom in
that decision.

Despite the pain and the strain, I cover half the distance between George and me in a second. I probably could’ve done it faster, had the bodies of my unmoving protectors not slowed me down by a critical half-second.

George stirs.

I pick up my pace, knowing if there’s a tree root in my way, I’ll be splattered across the ground.

George jackknifes to a standing position.

To my
surprise, my legs have enough stamina left for a move I believe is derived from tae kwon do.

I use my momentum to execute a jump kick—a maneuver designed to topple people off a galloping horse.

My foot slams into George’s forehead with a satisfying smack. He falls backwards, and unfortunately, I follow his example.

As I fall, I wonder how I’m able to think so much in such a short time. I always
have more thoughts than I expect in these about-to-get-hurt situations. Yesterday, I would’ve said it was a side effect of the Quiet, but now, falling while Inert, I realize it’s just some kind of brain mechanism that everyone must have. This is what allows people to relive events while in life or death situations.

I hit the ground. My tailbone violently objects, but the real pain comes from
my ankle. I must’ve twisted it when I landed, or when I executed the kick.

Ignoring the agony, I grab the handcuffs off the ground and create makeshift brass knuckles by holding them through the two loops. I try to jump up into a sitting position but end up performing more of a clumsy seesaw motion. Fighting against my wounds for every inch of movement, I eventually push myself into a sitting
stance. From here, it’s an easy struggle to my feet.

Once standing, I see George. He’s an arm’s length away, and he’s holding his shotgun. If he loaded a shell in it as I was getting up, I’m done for. But I have to assume he didn’t load the gun, because he swings it at me in a wide arc.

I have two choices: dodge or take the hit.

I go for the painful route. I move, allowing the butt of the gun
to hit my right side, and plunge my handcuff-armed fist into George’s jaw just as pain erupts in my side. I’m only vaguely aware of the pain in my right hand, which I suspect is bleeding from the handcuffs. Since I don’t care to cut my palm any deeper, I throw the handcuffs at George’s head.

I miss, but on the bright side, it’s not because he dodged. He doesn’t look in any condition to counter
my attacks. His eyes seem dim, and he appears ready to fall over. The shotgun slips out of his hand.

I try to calm my ragged breathing, but it’s hard. Something inside me acquired a piece of red-hot iron, and it’s poking me when I inhale.

Oxygen or no, I have to capitalize on George’s dazedness. I step closer and ready myself to punch him.

I’ll never know whether George was faking or if he
regained his strength at the last second, but his wooziness doesn’t prevent him from doing a strange half-stomp, half-kick on my injured ankle.

I inhale sharply, provoking the red-hot pain in my side. Instantly, I forget about punching George and focus on not crumpling to the ground in a fetal position.

Emboldened, George raises his fists, boxing-style, and swings.

I realize something then:
my martial arts training is more defensive than offensive. Seeing a fist flying at me makes my brain ignore the pain and follow the conditioning of my training.

I meet George’s fist with my elbow and throw a punch at his solar plexus.

George must do crunches daily, because my hand meets hard muscles.

Instead of doubling over in pain, the fucker counters by grabbing my neck with both hands,
proving once and for all that he has a fetish for choking people.

Due to my body’s already-low air supply, I weaken quickly and with a sense of déjà vu.

I see white and black lights in front of my eyes, and they remind me of our recent Assimilation battle. I remember how I motivated myself by replaying all the things George has done, and my weakness slowly gives way to an all-consuming anger.

The anger gives me a small burst of energy, but I know that if I don’t use it wisely, this is the last burst of energy I’ll ever get.

I note that my hands are up and bent at the elbows—a natural reaction to someone choking me from the front. The dumb thing to do would be to try and unclench his hands; his grip is powerful, and in the condition I’m in now, I lack the strength to stop him. So I
use my modicum of energy to grab George’s wrists and pull his arms backwards, as though I’m trying to get him to choke someone behind me.
 

The gambit works, and his grip slips, his arms swooshing by my shoulders.

I accompany the maneuver with a Krav Maga—and Mira’s favorite—move: a kick to the groin.

George grunts but doesn’t fall over. I need him to fall because I’m about to. So I do something
I would’ve done in a drunken bar brawl.

I head-butt him.

My forehead connects with the bridge of his nose. The sound of bone cracking reverberates, though it could’ve come from my skull just as easily as from his nose.

As I fall, I see George topple over as well. I hit the ground, and all my body wants to do is lose consciousness, but with a monumental effort of will, I hold on.

With my remaining
strength, I pat the ground for the cuffs. The fingers of my right hand meet the soothing coldness of metal. I grab the cuffs, crawl over to George, and fasten them on my knocked-out opponent.

Then I reach into his pocket and remove a shotgun shell. I roll over to the shotgun, which was just out of reach, and load it.

To save my strength, I drag it across the ground and put the barrel parallel
to George’s head. It’s a shotgun, so good aim isn’t critical.
 

I place my finger on the trigger.

George opens his eyes and whispers, “Please. No.”
 

He proceeds to cover his face with his hands as though that could stop a shotgun blast.

Slightly louder, he adds, “You can’t. We’re family.”

I must be in worse shape than I thought, because my finger refuses to pull the trigger. Or more accurately,
something within me prevents me from pulling it. Some part of me tells me that I can’t kill him, that it wouldn’t be right.

I argue against whatever part of me is having these very untimely qualms.

Was it his plea?
I wonder. No, I don’t really buy his ‘we’re family’ comment for a second.

Is it that he’s cuffed and at my mercy?
That sounds more like it, but that would make my reluctance irrational.
He was trying to kill me just a moment earlier. I could’ve killed him with a punch and slept soundly, but I still can’t pull the trigger.

I reason with myself some more. George is too dangerous to be allowed to live. Also, as far as justice goes, he deserves the ultimate punishment solely based on the number of police casualties on his head. Add in the dead monks, and he deserves double the death
penalty.

I raise the gun to shoot him, but find that I still can’t.

What’s wrong with me? It’s not like George would be my first kill.

I killed that Russian mobster, the one who shot at Mira at the warehouse. I shot Jacob on that bridge. I Guided Kyle to get himself killed at the science conference. Sure, the first two times I acted in the heat of the moment, protecting people I care about.
But with Kyle, it was colder. I
meant
to kill him from the get-go. Even though it was Victor who pulled the trigger, it could just as easily have been me.

The irrational part of me that’s preventing my finger from pulling the trigger is a hypocrite.

Still, I can’t do it. I can’t shoot someone who deserves it. If these injuries don’t kill me, I’ll need to visit my shrink. Some wires have clearly
gotten crossed inside my head.

Frustrated, I mimic George’s earlier maneuver and use the gun as a club. I hit him on the head, knocking him out. Nothing stopped me from doing
that.

I aim the gun again, hoping that without him staring at me, I’ll be able to do what I must, but my finger refuses to budge.

All of a sudden, a shadow crosses us.

“Let go of the gun, kid,” Caleb says. He’s pointing
a pistol at me.