Tracer, page 22
“No one has ever breached Apex City’s inner walls since its inception. Do you want to be the one to let Chancellor Stewart know that we allowed that to happen?” Janus hissed, shaking the lieutenant, Carlson’s feet slipping on the edge of the wall. “Do you?!”
“No, sir!” the man practically screamed, a primal utterance of absolute terror, and then Janus pulled him back onto solid ground and shoved the man farther along the wall.
“Call the fucking reinforcements,” Janus ordered quietly. “Now.”
Without hesitating, Carlson grabbed the walkie-talkie from his belt and did as he’d been commanded. Janus brushed past him and continued along the wall until he found a spot with a better view of the chaos below. He removed his gun from its holster, took aim, and waited. After what felt like a very long time, he fired, and a Nomad went down in a wet puff of red.
Janus smiled. The first of many.
He watched as two Nomads appeared from the shadows and pulled their injured comrade into the distance. A half dozen more took the injured man’s place, carrying rope and weapons. One of the Nomads, huge and fast, let loose with a spear, which sailed through the air and impaled one of the guards down the wall from where Janus stood. The man collapsed, and other Apex City guards mirrored the actions of the Nomads from only moments earlier, pulling their hurt—or possibly dead—friend out of further harm’s way.
God damn it, Janus thought, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes. I’m going to kill every single one of these motherfucking savages. Even if it takes me all night.
“Get those reinforcements here!” he screamed at Carlson, moving back toward the lieutenant and wildly firing his gun at the oncoming Nomads. “And in the meantime, we need to hold the gate! Whatever it takes!”
Trace pulled Goldie along the southeastern side of Apex City’s outer wall.
Even this far away, she could hear the distant conflict raging on the other side of the city. Their plan was working perfectly. So far.
While they waited for the storm to arrive, they had taken the time back at the Nomads’ junkyard city to sleep and recuperate as much as possible. Everyone seemed relieved to get a bit of rest. She and Ezra had also been able to get some time alone, but Trace had a difficult time focusing on him, on their growing relationship. Like always, she found herself obsessing about the mission. And this was the most important one of her life.
Therese had offered for Jenna and Rachel to stay put during the attack on Apex City, but Trace had declined without even thinking twice about it. Therese would personally be leading the charge, after all, and although Trace appreciated all they had done for them, she wasn’t about to take a risk and leave Brisby’s wife and daughter in the hands of the nomadic tribe she had just met. Despite what they were doing to help.
Trace had also been skeptical about the older Nomad who had predicted an incoming storm. How the hell would she even know that? It seemed ridiculous. But as Trace stood outside Apex’s southeastern wall under a merciless torrent of rain, she had to admit to herself that the woman had been more than accurate. The conditions were perfect for a Nomad-driven distraction and a very quiet break-in on the other side of the city.
The key had been how and where to break in. Which is where Tracer’s gift from Darcy Jones had come in handy.
Once they were within range, Trace had made contact with the Apex City guard, who was surprised—and delighted—to hear from her new friend. But the delight dwindled once she heard what Trace was planning. There was a long moment of static-filled quiet after Trace made the request. Ezra and Jenna looked at the XN, worry etched deep on their faces. If Darcy wasn’t who Trace thought she was, if the young guard took this opportunity to warn her superiors, their plan would be over before it even started. And Brisby would be trapped there for the rest of his life.
“I can’t let you in, not even through the back gate,” Darcy had finally said, whispering through the fuzzy connection. “I have too much to lose. I’m sorry. But I’ll tell you exactly where to sneak in. It’s a blind spot on the southeastern side that’s never guarded.”
And now Trace sat staring at the wall, Ezra sitting next to her in the front seat. She had used the natural landmarks that Darcy had mentioned to locate the blind spot, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was in the exact right area. There was still a decent chance they would run into a dozen guards the minute they were over the walls.
“Okay,” she said, looking at Ezra, Jenna, and Rachel. “I’m going in. You three stay here. Lock the doors. If I’m not back by the time the sun starts coming up, or if you see a single guard, take Goldie and go back to where we found the Nomads. They’ll take care of you.”
Jenna nodded. Trace looked at Ezra, who was biting his lower lip.
“I’m coming with you,” he said quietly, his eyes on hers.
“What?” she responded, incredulous. “What are you talking about? That’s not the plan.”
“I know it’s not,” he countered. “I didn’t want to get into it before, in front of Therese. I knew you’d argue . . . just like you’re doing right now. But I’m going, too. I could literally navigate this city blindfolded, and we’re going to have to be as fast as possible. Janus is a violent psychopath . . . and luckily for us, a hothead, which means the distraction is probably going to work. But he’s also smart, so it won’t work for long.”
“Ezra, it’s too dangerous. You’re not trained to—”
“Trace!” he shouted, and she was shocked by the timbre of his voice. “I care about you. I want this mission to succeed. For both of us . . .” He glanced at Rachel and Jenna, then back at Tracer. “For all of us. And the most likely way for that to happen is if I’m with you.”
A long charged moment passed while the rain pounded the roof of the car.
“He’s right,” Jenna said, leaning forward and gently placing her hand on Tracer’s uninjured shoulder. “I know you’re used to working alone. But you need him. And Brisby needs you.”
Trace looked at the other woman and saw that tears had formed in her eyes. She realized they were probably around the same age, and she suddenly wanted to know everything about Jenna. Hoped she would someday be able to find out. She had never had a female friend, and she realized that Bell had actively made sure that nothing like that ever happened, and all the things she had lost or never even had in the first place broke her heart all over again. Trace let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.
“Fine.”
“Besides, you’ll never get over the wall—either of them—without me showing you how. Especially in this weather,” Ezra said, his usual charming and infuriating tone reasserting itself. Then he got out of the car and headed through the pounding rain toward the tall, dark structure without looking back.
“I like him,” Jenna commented, nodding as she watched him through the water-shrouded window.
“Me too,” Rachel added.
Tracer sighed. “Me too,” she agreed, then got out of the car and followed Ezra to the wall, and whatever lay on the other side.
THIRTY-FOUR
Tracer moved through the shadows, deeper into the heart of the city.
Ezra was just ahead of her, leading her toward the building that housed Apex’s prisoners. Getting over the walls had been surprisingly easy once he’d shown her where to place her fingers in the small crevices between wooden beams and metal reinforcement. She watched in awe through the waves of rain as he made his way up the wall as if he were walking across a room, then struggled to replicate what he’d done—a frustrating task but one she had accomplished. Mackie had trained her how to climb difficult surfaces—but this was by far the most challenging she had ever traversed.
The in-between area was quiet, practically deserted—a result of the rain, Ezra explained. Normally, the scavengers would be out there day and night, but none of them were used to the rain, and they avoided it during the rare occurrences when it chanced to hit the city. A few brave souls still mucked about through the detritus, hoping to find bits of plastic despite the storm, but they were easy to avoid thanks to the thick rivulets of water that continued to pound down from the dark sky above.
They made their way through the in-between quickly, not saying anything to one another, but making frequent eye contact as they wended through and around the massive piles of garbage. They’d decided, for obvious reasons, to avoid any of the roads that led from the outer to the inner wall, but luckily Ezra knew the ins and outs of these human-made hills better than practically anyone in Apex City. Every time his eyes landed on her, Trace felt her stomach twist, and she knew it had nothing to do with the dangerous situation into which they were about to place themselves. She had never been so happy to be with someone in her entire life, even in the rain and out amid the seemingly endless refuse—and the realization both excited and terrified her.
Soon, they reached the inner wall, far away from either of the two gates that led inside, and Ezra once again pointed out the optimal locations and manner in which to scale this barrier as well. He made his way up, and Trace followed, finding it much easier this time. When she dropped down on the other side, they were standing close to each other, and he smiled, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.
“You’re a natural,” he whispered through the rain.
She wasn’t able to stop herself and kissed him with an abandon that took them both by surprise. She wondered if this might be the last time their mouths would ever touch and suspected he might be thinking the same.
It was a short moment, and yet impossibly long, and when they finally separated, she looked around, got a sense of where they were: behind a large series of buildings and covered in deep shadow.
“Lead the way, street rat,” she said, and he scowled at her playfully and then did exactly that.
And now they were approaching a dark, squat building from the back, no entrance on this side other than two rows of windows on top of each other, like some kind of sick smile daring them to go through with their plan.
Ezra pulled Trace closer, and she blinked through the rain at him.
“I can’t guarantee he’s in here,” he whispered, wiping water off his face, though it was pointless. “But this is where they keep ‘enemies of the state,’ as Janus likes to put it. My guess is that they don’t want Brisby to get too comfortable, at least not yet. Based on what you and Jenna and Rachel have said about him, I’m guessing he’s being difficult. Janus will want to break him. And this is the place the lovely captain puts people when he wants them broken.”
“Okay,” Trace said, her mind clicking into battle mode, eyes taking in the building. There was no question that these windows would be shut and locked tight, particularly because it was nighttime and especially because of the storm. And she didn’t want to knock on the front door. She noticed some piping along the upper half of the structure, above the second row of windows, and did a quick mental calculation.
“Stay here,” she instructed. “I’ll be right back.”
This time, she didn’t give Ezra time to argue, and apparently he agreed with her decision on some level because he didn’t follow. Trace reached up and grasped one of the lower-level windowsills, heaved herself up, and then repeated the maneuver with a second-floor window. She took a deep breath and made sure her footing was secure—or as secure as it could be on a three-inch sill in the rain—and then stretched her right arm up as much as possible. At first, she thought she had miscalculated, and cursed herself for it, but then her fingers connected with a thin stretch of piping and she wrapped them around the metal, hoping it would be anchored enough to hold her weight.
Trace got her other hand on the pipe and felt the dull ache from the recently stitched shoulder wound but ignored it. Then she slowly raised herself up as if doing a pull-up during training and felt her feet leave the windowsill below. She held her breath.
The pipe held.
Emboldened by her success, Trace continued her way up the back of the short building, using the pipes as a makeshift ladder, and soon found herself standing on the roof. The clouds were extremely thick, the rain continuing to fall in sheets, so it took her a moment to fully take in the details of where she was standing.
And then she saw what she’d been looking for. A small curved metal structure jutted up from a corner of the roof. Some kind of cooling unit. She approached it quickly and saw that entry into the vent was prohibited by a slatted grate. Squatting, she noticed that it was held in place by multiple screws—it wouldn’t just pop off. She cursed. Didn’t have time for this.
Trace gently placed her fingers in between two of the slats and pulled. There was a bit of give, which was encouraging. This wasn’t a brand-new unit, which probably meant the screws weren’t new either. But ripping the cover off wouldn’t exactly be quiet. And while the distraction the Nomads had created was clearly working, based on the lack of guards anywhere in sight, there was no guarantee that this building didn’t have additional security. According to Ezra, this was a prison after all.
Trace racked her brain, was about to chance it, when the answer presented itself. A flash of lightning lit up the sky momentarily, and Trace tensed as a result, tightening her fingers around the metal slats. When the thunder followed a few seconds later, she pulled with all her strength—and just hoped she didn’t pop a stitch.
The grate came off with a grinding complaint, and Trace silently thanked the thunder. The resistant metal had been even louder than she’d expected, and she just hoped that no one in the building below her had heard it. She waited a moment while the last of the thunder died away and then slid feet first into the vent.
Just hope I don’t get stuck, she thought grimly, and then wiggled her way in.
Brisby Frost pulled his knees up even closer to his chest.
His new room was adequate—there weren’t bars on the windows, and he had plenty of food and water and even a few old, musty books—but this was still a prison.
He missed his wife and his daughter desperately. Couldn’t believe that he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye, and wondered if he would ever see them again. He cursed President Bell, and not for the first time. If she had simply asked, he would have been willing to move to Apex City and work on their damn machine—as long as his family could come with him. Instead, they had traded him in return for some kind of mail-order husband. A slave for a slave.
He was sitting on the floor in a corner, cold and uncomfortable, but he felt guilty lying in that foreign bed, pulling strange-smelling blankets up to his chin while Jenna and Rachel were miles and miles away, probably scared out of their minds.
During the last couple of days working on the pyrolysis machine for Stewart and Janus, he’d done his best to take stock of the buildings and the city itself, which he glimpsed during his trips to and from his duties. And based on what he saw, the sheer number of guards in this city, and its size in general, there was no way he was ever getting out of there. He was stuck. For the rest of his life.
He sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head back against the concrete wall. Decided he would just do the best he could, keep their machine running smoothly, help out these younger techs—teach them. Maybe if one of them got good enough, the chancellor would let Brisby go home.
Don’t delude yourself, a part of his mind chimed in.
Fighting a wave of anxiety, Brisby worked hard to clear his mind and sat like that for a long time until merciful sleep finally began to claim him.
A loud banging noise from outside his door jarred him back to consciousness.
As the sound grew louder—were those grunts and shouts of pain?—Brisby pushed himself up along the wall until he was standing and quietly crossed to the door. Unsure if it was the wisest thing to do, he placed his ear against the wood.
All was quiet. He waited for a full minute. Had he imagined all of that? He hadn’t been getting much sleep, was barely eating. But was he losing his mind now, too?
“Brisby? You in there?”
It took him a moment to place the voice, and then a huge smile crossed his face.
“Tracer?”
The door handle jiggled, and Trace’s voice came again, muted by the barrier between them. “Can you open it?”
“No,” he responded. “They lock me in at night. Maybe you can find a key?”
He heard what sounded like laughter, and then Trace simply said, “Step back.”
Brisby complied, scrambling backward, knowing firsthand that Trace wasn’t the most patient or subtle person on the planet when action was required.
And sure enough, about five seconds later, the door crashed open, and Trace’s figure was outlined in the doorway, lowering her boot to the ground. She stepped in, and he noticed right away the additional bruises on her face and neck, the blood on her trench coat.
“You look terrible,” he said, his smile even bigger.
“So do you,” she responded, stepping up to him, taking in his appearance. “Are you hurt? Can you move?”
“No, not really—and yes, absolutely.”
“Okay,” she said, starting to turn away. “Stay close, and make sure you—”
Brisby gently grabbed her shoulder—the one without the new blood stain. She spun to look him in the eye, and he saw the desperation there. Wished he could hug her—knew that he might get punched in the jaw for even trying, or shot—maybe just in the leg.
“Jenna . . . Rachel . . . are they okay?”
A small smile rippled across Tracer’s face, and Frost felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. “They’re outside the city, in Goldie. They’re safe. But we need to move, fast, if we want to keep them that way.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” he responded, then let go, and took a final look back at the room. He’d only been there a few days, but in his mind, it would have been his home for the rest of his life—and part of him had been resigned to that, had begun memorizing every inch of it, thinking about ways to personalize it. And now he would never see it again.
