“Don’t touch that!” the little girl scolded. Her voice was muffled by the dark welder’s hood that reached to the middle of her chest. Shiny, heat-reflective gloves covered her arms up to her elbows. Her sandy hair was held back in a bright pink Hello Kitty clip. Her feet were covered by sparkle-stitched, pink cowboy boots.
Ian returned the yellow metal sphere, like a small canister of compressed gas, to the top of the microwave oven Wink had temporarily relocated from the kitchen. A burrito was turning inside.
“What’s in it?” He took a drink of his coffee. It was already starting to cool. It was a twenty-minute trip to the closest cafe. One way.
“Rocket fuel.”
Ian choked. He coughed as the five members of a boy band danced in unison across multiple wall-mounted TVs. Over them, the countdown ticked relentlessly. “Seriously? Dude, why would you leave frickin’ rocket fuel on top of a running microwave?”
“Because I’m building jump jets after breakfast. Duh.” Wink ignited the blowtorch and began welding two metal plates at a seam.
“Jump jets?”
The microwave dinged.
Ian turned to face the dismantled emergency vehicle. All of its exterior paneling had been removed along with most of its internal parts. Everything was evenly spaced on the floor in the middle of the long hall, like an exploded technical diagram.
Ian took another sip. John was gonna be pissed. Ian wasn’t going to tell him. “Why would anyone put jump jets on an ambulance?”
But the girl didn’t hear him over the noise from the torch. Ian lifted his foot and nudged a large set of bull bars resting on the ground next to the vehicle’s detached hood. They didn’t budge. The metal seemed heavy enough to punch through concrete. Next to the bars were a winch and a pair of floodlights. In the far corner of the brick garage, past the old couch facing the bank of TVs, red cones poked from the ends of two-meter-long metal tubes marked in Chinese characters. Ian read the translation: ‘Danger: High Explosive Missile.’
“You know what?” he turned. “Never mind.”
Ian walked through the wide ceiling-to-floor sliding door at the back of the warehouse and into the junkyard at the rear of the lot. The black letters on the pale brick were scratched and faded almost to nonexistence, but you could still make out the words “GRIMM’S GARAGE.” He looked around at the dirty, rusting piles that rimmed the exterior of the property. Everything had been here awhile. And it showed.
There could be anything in all that junk, he thought. Maybe even a body.
Welcome to Jersey.
To his left, Wink’s super-secret project lay under a heavy gray tarp. The shape suggested a hexagonal sphere, almost like a six-foot-wide soccer ball, but it was impossible to say for sure. The canvas tarp was rimmed in metal-lined holes, like a shower curtain, and the little girl had padlocked them together with a sign that said “Touching this will not only kill you, you will suffer while you die.”
Xana was in the middle of the fenced lot wearing a stretchy tank top and cargo pants, both of which barely fit her. Gray cotton was pulled taut over bulging muscle. Wink’s advanced alloy exoskeleton, the one Xana wore under her armor to keep her bones from breaking, followed the frame of her body. There were hinges at each of her joints. Her bushy hair was pinned back and it bounced each time she flexed her arms and curled a long dumbbell capped in round iron weights.
Ian counted the black discs on each side of the bar and did the math in his head. He whistled and took another sip of his coffee.
“Where’s Cap?”
Xana grunted and tipped her head toward the car park on the south side of the warehouse.
Ian had no idea how Prophet had found the place. It was stuck in an urban hole in the Jersey suburbs, a dead zone behind Newark airport. The roads were narrow and there was no direct highway access, which meant almost no passing traffic. Surrounding them were empty buildings, scrap yards, and several auto repair joints that Wink insisted were fronts for mob chop shops. Italian. Salvadoran. Even Chinese. Ian had to admit, there was certainly more than one late-model luxury car parked on the street at any given time.
He walked under a crimped, green plastic overhang and into the dirty kitchen, a 60s-era tilting prefab that jutted from the back of the even older two-story brick warehouse. He stopped and counted ten empty pizza boxes stacked on the cracked linoleum table. Everything they’d ordered the night before was gone. She’d even picked out the crumbs. But she left the dirty plates in the sink, next to Wink’s cereal bowl, half-filled with blue milk.
Ian turned back to Xana and scowled. Her muscles were exploding. She was visibly bigger, even from a few days before. On top of John’s weight training, which was intense, Wink had cooked up some kind of medicinal cocktail: pills and radiation—delivered from a modified tanning bed—that was doing something to Xana’s bones, lacing them with heavy metals or something. Ian was pretty sure that was toxic, but Xana didn’t seem to care.
John was exactly where Ian expected, doing exactly what Ian expected. It was the same thing he always did when they had down time: sit by himself as far from the rest of the team as possible, stroking the cat in his lap. The black-and-white feline had hitched a ride all the way from California. Xana had found it hiding under the stretcher in the back of the ambulance about the time they were passing the Great Salt Lake. She named it Roger, despite Wink’s repeated objections that the animal was actually female.
The old soldier stroked it like a movie villain. The cat purred.
“Two sausage kolaches, just like you ordered yesterday. And the day before.” Ian handed John the grease-stained bag. “And the day before that.”
“I know what I like.”
Ian saw John’s hand twitch as he took the bag. He grimaced involuntarily on behalf of the soldier. “Don’t worry. I kept up the hood and sunglasses. No one saw my face.”
John took a third of a kolache in one bite.
Ian pointed behind him with his thumb. “Did you see how much Xan’s curling today?”
The veteran shook his head as he chewed.
“835 pounds.”
John smirked and took another bite.
“Per side,” Ian clarified.
John stopped mid-bite. “No shit?” He thought. “Is that even possible?” He chuckled.
Ian liked seeing John laugh. It was the only time he didn’t seem to be in pain. “She’s doing it like it’s frickin’ aerobics. Six times just as I passed.”
“Wink says her funky muscles don’t fatigue like ours do. As long as her heart and lungs can keep pumping.” John chewed and swallowed.
“Aren’t we supposed to be worried about that? Or something?”
John took another bite and ate in silence.
“Right.” Ian took another sip of his latte. The captain hadn’t really warmed to him. He tried to not to let it bother him. The man looked so frail in his chair. And always in pain. One more try. “Do I want to know how black-market Chinese military hardware made its way into the garage?”
John swallowed again as the cat hopped off his lap. “Let’s just say Wink was right and chop shops aren’t the only neighbors we have.”
“Where does she find these people?”
“I doubt she does.”
Ian thought for a moment. “You mean Prophet.”
John nodded as he ate.
Their mysterious benefactor. “Any idea who he is?”
John shook his head, then spoke with his mouth full. “I think Wink knows. But she won’t say.” He crumbled the empty bag against his thigh with his good hand and tossed it next to a pile of rust-stained hubcaps.
Ian resisted the urge to go pick it up. There was already plenty of trash around, not least the rows of stacked and rusted car frames long since stripped of anything valuable. But still, it seemed silly to add to it. “Why am I not surprised?”
There was the sound of massive weight hitting the ground. The two men felt it in their legs. Ian figured Xana was taking a break. Maybe he’d have better luck with her. He turned to head back.
“Why do you ask?” John looked right at him.
Ian stopped. It was a very pointed question. Everything was an interrogation with John, like he didn’t trust Ian, like he had reason to doubt Ian’s loyalty. Ian backed away slowly, trying to signal politely that he was ready for the conversation to be over, as John had been a moment before. He’d brought the captain his breakfast. He’d made an effort to talk. It didn’t need to go any further. “I dunno. I guess it just seems odd. That’s all.”
“Odd?” John rolled past Ian and toward the two-story brick warehouse that served as workshop, living space, and training hall. “Which part? The eight-foot woman curling Volkswagens or the eleven-year-old with the surface-to-air missiles?”
Ian made a face. “Okay. Fair enough. You don’t have to be a dick.”
John kept rolling. “Break’s over.”
“Right.” The taskmaster was back. Ian sighed. John could be a sonuvabitch when he wanted to. They’d been training nonstop since they arrived.
John rolled through the south door, directly under the second-floor loft offices that the team has converted to sleeping space. The old office walls weren’t private. They didn’t reach all the way to the ceiling, and sound traveled. John was the only one who had more than an old mattress on the floor—his old mattress had a frame. But Xana was the only one who had personal effects. She’d taped pictures of her son and some of his old artwork on her walls.
John stopped. He stared at the dismantled emergency vehicle laid out on the floor of the hall. “WINK!” His voice boomed.
The little girl popped her head up, wide-eyed, from the other side of the exposed chassis. She had goggles on her forehead and grease on her cheek. She looked like she was about to run.
John sighed and lowered his head. They had a training op. They were supposed to go into town. He rubbed one side of his face with his good hand. His jaw twitched involuntarily. The teeth under his burnt skin were throbbing. That was new.
John rolled past the couch. The wheels of his chair ran over the cords to the video game console on the floor. He moved in an arc around the well-organized vehicle debris, trying to get closer to the girl. “What the hell is this?”
Wink moved in the opposite direction, keeping her distance. “I’m making some upgrades.”
John pushed his joystick and started rolling faster. “We needed the ambulance to get into town.”
“We can take the tow truck.”
Ian glanced at the old 1970s faded blue tow truck on the other side of the hall. It sat at an angle under the scuffed twelve-foot STOP sign and next to a pair of fold-out tables covered in computer equipment. Wink’s winged drones, each about the size of a robin, rested motionless on the edge of one table like sunbathing dragonflies.
“We all won’t fit in the tow truck.”
“Duh! I thought of that. I modified one of the old wrecks from the yard. You and Xana can hide back there.”
Ian swallowed more of his coffee. That wouldn’t be very comfortable.
Xana walked in and wiped her sweaty face on a towel. She took a drink from her water bottle, an old two-liter Mountain Dew container. Her hand nearly surrounded it. She drank and drank. This was John’s fight. She wasn’t going to say anything.
The soldier stopped his chair and looked at the little girl across the organized collection of parts. “Wink—”
But the girl interrupted. “Moron goes to get coffee every morning and no one says anything!”
“Dude, how is this about me?” Ian was apparently the only one who needed coffee in the morning, and after several days of the same routine, he sensed the others thought it was an unnecessary exposure that put them at risk of being seen. They never knew whose eyes were cameras to their enemies.
Wink didn’t let up. “I haven’t done anything fun in days.”
“Yes, you did.” John was trying to stay patient. “You snuck out after lunch two days ago and didn’t come back until morning.”
Xana lowered her bottle. “What?” She wiped her mouth as sweat ran down her forehead.
Even Ian was surprised. “Wait. Really?”
Wink scowled at John. Had he been spying on her? If so, why reveal it? Did he already know? Should she change her travel plans? “That doesn’t count. I had to see Prophet.”
Ian rolled his eyes. There was no feeling in the girl’s words. She was lying. “Whatever, man. We all agreed to stay low. Besides, you’re eleven. What are you sneaking out fo—”
“Hey.” John cut him off abruptly.
Xana glanced at the branded paper coffee cup in Ian’s hand, then wiped her face on her towel.
Ian looked around for a trash can. There wasn’t one. He tossed it into a corner on top of an old mat.
“What are you doing?” Xana objected.
Ian almost raised his arms to point at John, who had just littered in the parking lot, but the old soldier yelled at the top of his lungs.
“HEY!”
The sound echoed off the faded brick walls. Everybody stopped.
He looked at each of them in turn. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “This Partridge Family bullshit has got to stop.”
Wink and Ian scowled at each other in confusion.
“But it’s not fair,” the girl pleaded. “We’ve been stuck in here forever.”
John agreed. “We were supposed to go into the field today.” They needed to be pushed. It was less than two days to the big mission. Not a single one of them was ready. John put their odds of success at about 20%.
“I don’t think she means another training excursion,” Ian clarified.
“Cap wasn’t talking to you.” The girl made a face.
“Manners.” Xana scolded. She turned to John. “Captain, perhaps a break is a good idea.”
“You just want to see AJ.” Wink crossed her arms.
“Dude!” Ian objected. He stared at the little girl, wide-eyed. Poking Xan about the child who’d been taken from her was rude, to say the least.
“Whatever. It’s true. She’s been Googling private schools since we got here.”
Xana stepped closer. “Have you been spying on me?”
Wink wouldn’t face the big woman. “I monitor the servers, duh.”
Xana set her jaw. “I don’t know what that means and you know it. Stop being rude.”
“Whatever . . .” Wink looked at the floor.
Xana ignored the little girl and turned her eyes on John. “I think we all need some time. Alone.”
Ian cringed. He could see John was about to go ballistic at the collective mutiny.
But he didn’t.
The soldier sat back in his chair. “Fine.”
Wink looked up. Everyone waited for the ‘but.’
“But.” John held up a finger. “You have to earn it.”
“Meaning what?” Ian spoke for everyone.
“New rule. For each accomplished objective—where someone doesn’t die—you earn an afternoon of R’n’R.”
“Wow, a whole afternoon?” Ian was sarcastic. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”
John rolled to the lowered and padlocked metal doors at the front of the garage. The intent was clear. Anyone who didn’t like it was free to leave. He waited.
No one spoke. No one made eye contact. No one moved.
None of them had anywhere to go.
“That’s what I thought.” John paused for emphasis. “In case it wasn’t clear, this is not a democracy. Got it?” When none of them answered, he repeated his question louder. Then he pointed to the wall just below the ring of windows that wrapped around the top of the building just below the ceiling. “That countdown runs whether we want it to or not, people. Our enemies don’t take weekends.”
Wink was introspective. “How do you know?”
“Wink!” John yelled.
The girl crossed her arms again. “It was just a question. Maybe they get holidays.”
“Jesus . . .” John shook his head, turned his chair, and rolled to the workstation in the corner by the truck. His new team had started strong but lost focus quickly. And the more he taught, the worse they got. Less focused. Less motivated. Less energetic. John was painfully reminded how normal people lack discipline. They lack the ability to push through the doldrums and stay on task. They get bored with repetition. They get distracted. When the pain comes, they quit. Or worse—they don’t and wind up dead.
The skin on his face was burning. His arm felt like it was being rolled in needles. His legs lay limp in his chair, mocking him.
He was done arguing. “Equipment check.” It wasn’t a request.
Everyone gathered around the L-shaped tables covered in computers and idle drones.
Wink dragged a brown cardboard box across the floor. She opened it.
“Oh, dear God.” Ian looked horrified. “Please don’t tell me we have to wear uniforms.”
The cotton jumpsuits were dark red—so dark they almost appeared gray—with belt loops around the middle and writing on the back.
Ian lifted his and read. “Emergency Rescue?”
“I ran an analysis.” Wink was very proud. “Those two have the highest positive word association scores. These outfits give us the best chance of avoiding suspicion. And no one thinks twice about emergency personnel carrying heavy gear in public.” She handed Ian another box.
He looked at it. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
Ian scowled. John smirked. Xana watched, still sweating.
Ian took the box and set it on his lap. He looked at everyone skeptically. Had they planned this? Now he felt like a total douche. Maybe he should have cut them more slack. “How did you guys know it was my birthday?”
Xana’s eyes got big.
John looked down.
There was an awkward silence.
“Oh . . .” Ian looked at the off-white lid. “Shit. Sorry. It’s just, I thought . . . You know what? Never mind.”
Everyone looked uncomfortable.
Xana broke the silence. “Is it really your birthday?”
“Well . . .” Ian around at the others. “Yeah. I mean, it’s tomorrow. But . . .” He looked at the box again. “Wait, if this isn’t a birthday present, then what is it?”
“How old will you be?” Xana wouldn’t let him change the subject.
“Twenty-five.” Ian nodded solemnly, like he’d just read his own obituary. “Yeah, a whole quarter-century.” He thought for a moment. “This isn’t at all how I thought my life would turn out.” He gave a fake laugh.
“It never is, kid. Happy birthday.” John nodded to the box. “Open it up.”
Ian lifted the lid. He was happy to drop the subject. “A work belt?” It was gray and made of thick, woven nylon. Small pouches with Velcro clips were evenly spaced around its length.
“Open one.” Wink beamed.
Ian looked at the little girl’s face. It reminded him of Christmas. He pulled a small spray canister from an elastic loop. He scowled at the girl in confusion. And then he got it. He smiled. “Oh. Right. Pepper spray.”
“I diluted it. You know, so you can trigger a sneeze instead of collapse on the floor.” Wink beamed. “Open one of the tubes.” She pointed.
At the middle of the belt, fitting at the small of his back, were three perpendicular tubes made of gray plastic. Ian opened the first. He smiled wider. It was an EpiPen, a portable injector for delivering adrenaline into the body. Adrenaline gave him a burst of speed.
Ian held up his present. Wink had given him everything he’d need to trigger his abilities, or what he knew of them anyway—several of the pouches were yet empty—and Ian felt eight years old again. He turned to Xana, peering over his shoulder into the box, and smiled. “I totally have a utility belt.”
Wink rolled her eyes and raised a palm. “Oh please. You’re not Batman.”
“Okay—” John started to bring them all back around before they started bickering again.
“Wait.” Wink objected. “I’m not done. There’s something for you, too.”
John scowled as the little girl reached under the table and removed something from a long plastic container.
It was a sword.
Ian squinted. “Is that . . . ?”
Wink could barely lift it. “I took it from you-know-who.” She strained. “After Xan knocked him off the cliff.” She handed it to John with a smile, like it was a Father’s Day present.
The old soldier took it with his good hand and turned it over. It was the black sword that had killed him in California. Or his host, anyway.
Wink was expectant.
“Why is the blade dark like that?” It was the only question John could think of on the spot.
“It’s not steel.” Wink reached for the sword again. “It’s a molecular carbon weave stretched over a tungsten carbide core.” She was very excited.
John handed it back and the little girl pointed to the edge.
“See here? There’s a monolayer of cubic boron nitride that runs in a groove on the sharp edge. And this?” She twisted the base of the hilt and removed a metal core. “There’s a power source in here that superheats the monolayer past the melting point of most commercial alloys. It also powers a miniature electromotor that vibrates the tungsten carbide skeleton a few nanometers back and forth about ten or twenty thousand times a second.” She was very excited. The little girl grunted and adjusted her footing as she held it up. “Turn it on and put your ear next to it and you’ll hear a pure frequency. It’ll take thirty seconds or so to heat up, but when it does, it’ll pierce most body armor. It’ll also cut through about an inch of steel.”
Ian whistled.
“Plus”—Wink was very intent—“it’s shielded, so it’s not affected by his bolts of electricity. And it’s totally EnergyStar compliant.”
“So they’re eco-conscious villains.” Ian turned to Xana. “Who knew?”
The little girl shot him a look. “I’m not saying they planned for it, moron. It’s just a highly efficient design.”
Ian stepped back in mock emphasis. “Whoa . . . Did . . . Did you just say what I think you said?”
Wink didn’t answer. She replaced power source in the hilt.
“Did you just say that someone else did as good a job as yo—”
“Stop it.” Xana interrupted as Wink opened her mouth wide. “Both of you.”
Wink handed the sword to John. “I thought you might want it, you know, in case we run into him again. You can use it to deflect his bolts. If you angle it right. That should help even the odds.”
John took it and turned it over again with his good hand. It was light. Deadly. He always did like a nice blade, as backup. A knife never jammed or ran out of ammo. And it was silent.
Ian scoffed. “There’s no way he survived that fall.”
No one said anything.
“Right?” Ian looked at Xana, then at John. “Cap? What do you think?”
John thought for a moment. He rested the sword on his lap. “I think we should be ready for anything.” He looked at his watch. “Everybody shower and suit up. It’s almost go-time.”