“It’s not just an opinion,” Tyrone says, his eyes locked on mine in a frozen instant of mutual understanding.
Richelle was killed because she was watching Tyrone’s back. At least, that’s what Tyrone believes. He thinks it was his fault.
“Scores,” Jackson says.
Kendra catches my eye and jerks her head in Jackson’s direction. “What’s with the shades?”
I smile a little, despite my nerves. “He likes to think he’s cool.”
Tyrone and Luka laugh.
“I don’t get the joke,” Lien says, snippy and pissy and dripping attitude.
“You will. Patience, grasshopper,” Luka says with a teasing grin.
Lien punches him in the shoulder. Hard.
She steps closer to Kendra and takes her hand. They exchange a look I can’t read and when Lien glances up and catches me watching them, her expression closes.
Then we all turn to face the screen hovering in the center of the clearing. The 3-D digitized rendering of Jackson appears, making him look like a character in a video game. He’s wearing the clothes he had on in Detroit. It’s like a snapshot of the last time he was in the game, the last seconds of that mission. I wince as I study the image. He’s lying on his back, his face chalk pale. His eyes are closed.
The emotions I felt in that second—hopeless, desperate, half-deranged—bite at me now. I tamp them down, refusing to set them free of their chains. I need to stay calm. I need to focus. One mistake could cost lives, and despite Jackson’s mantra, I’m not all about me. I’ll keep an eye on everyone on this team. We are all coming back.
The picture of Jackson flips end over end, then shoots to the top left corner of the screen.
Luka’s next. He has on the clothes he was wearing during our last mission. He’s down on one knee, leaning over something, his hands stained with blood. I’m guessing that’s my blood because there’s a clear view of my arm and my con, almost fully red.
“Something you forgot to tell me?” Jackson asks against my ear, his tone low and rigidly controlled. A sure sign he’s majorly pissed.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“But you almost weren’t.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
Luka’s picture flips over and over and zooms to the top left corner, knocking Jackson’s down a notch.
Tyrone’s next. He’s running, his expression intent, his focus complete. Up and over he goes, then zips into place above Jackson, below Luka.
The next picture’s Kendra. The black frame forms and her picture shimmers into place. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth twisted, her arms raised before her, the black ooze from her weapon obscuring half the screen.
It’s a weird angle to have captured. Not for the first time, I wonder exactly where these pictures come from and how the Committee creates them.
Lien’s picture comes next. She’s pulling back, like she was about to take a shot and then didn’t.
My picture’s enough to make Jackson hiss through his teeth. I’m on the ground, wearing my sports tank, blood everywhere. Great. I tip my head back and stare at the sky for a second before looking back at the screen.
The two columns of numbers appear.
“What’s with your score?” Lien asks. “I know you lost points to injury penalty, but . . .”
My gaze skids down the list to the bottom.
My picture’s second last. Jackson’s is last. Our scores are set to zero.
“We got reset,” Jackson says.
“Never seen that before,” Luka says at the same time Lien demands, “What does that mean?”
“Leadership snafu,” Jackson says, his tone making it clear that the subject’s closed.
Tyrone squeezes my shoulder. Kendra shifts her weight from her right foot to her left, arms wrapped around herself, palms rubbing up and down, up and down until Lien reaches over and stills her. But no one says anything more. How does Jackson do that?
“We jump in thirty,” Jackson clips out.
“If he’s the leader, how come you get a sword?” Kendra asks, pointing.
I follow the direction of her finger and see my kendo sword placed neatly beside the weapons box. I cut a glance at Jackson. He shrugs.
My sword shouldn’t be there. Only the leader carries an extra weapon. Jackson’s is the long-bladed black knife strapped to his thigh. He did combat application technique training when he lived in Fort Worth, and he brings that knowledge into the game.
“Bring it,” Jackson says as he picks up my scabbard and tosses it to me. I snatch it out of midair, mentally counting down seconds to the jump. Tyrone reaches over and helps me get the sword strapped to my back, the handle between my shoulder blades, perfectly positioned so I can reach back and grab it.
As I turn, the screen catches my eye. I stare at it, stare at the scores. Kendra’s second from the top. That means her cumulative score is second highest. I frown, thinking back to what the scores looked like before the last mission, before we respawned in the elevator. I was so focused on Jackson, finding him, saving him, that I really didn’t pay attention. Was Kendra that close to the top last time? For some reason I think it was Tyrone, then Luka, then Lien, then Kendra. So either I’m wrong or she’s gained a ton of points in a single mission.
Luka makes an odd sound. I glance at him. He’s staring at Kendra, his expression closed.
My stomach twists. Something’s off. Something’s wrong.
And then the jump takes hold and turns me inside out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WE RESPAWN IN A WIDE HALLWAY. BEIGE LOCKERS LINE ONE wall. A large, glass-fronted case full of pictures and trophies and plaques takes up the opposite wall. Sports stuff. We’re in a high school. I glance at the name and don’t recognize it.
I wait for the feeling of urgency, the sense that the Drau are near, and get nothing. Looks like they’re late to the party.
A pounding bass beat carries from a distance. There’s a dance going on here, somewhere not too far away. I glance at Jackson. “This is not good. There are civilians nearby.”
“Civilians?” Luka asks, his brows shooting up. “What are we? Special Forces?”
Lien snorts.
“Vegas,” Jackson answers me, typically verbose, reminding me that we’ve been in a position like this before. When we went after the Drau in Vegas, they were in a warehouse in a populated area. I remember jogging along a crowded street, groups parting to let us through, sensing us but not seeing us, as if we weren’t there.
The reminder settles my nerves a little.
“So if we run into anyone, they won’t see us, right?”
“Never have before,” Tyrone says.
Not wholly reassuring, but the best I’m going to get. I’m more than curious about how this all works. Different dimension? Different plane of reality? Maybe I’ll try to get answers out of the Committee next time I see them.
Good luck with that.
I glance at Jackson, waiting for his confirmation. He doesn’t say anything more, which isn’t unusual for him on a mission. So why does his silence leave me uneasy?
Lien and Kendra hang back, close enough that their shoulders touch, hands resting on their weapon cylinders. The whole we’re-one-big-happy-team thing I was aiming for last mission has definitely fizzled.
Suddenly Jackson holds a finger to his lips, then draws his right hand palm down across his throat in a slicing motion. I don’t need to know anything about military style games to read the message: danger. The Drau are near. He can feel them.
So can I.
I sense their presence, some primitive part of my soul reacting to the threat. My pulse ramps up.
Enemy.
We all feel it. Genetic memory. Instinct. The urge to flee the Drau is blueprinted into our DNA.