Wednesday, April 26

  Location: Bike Lane

  Operation: Story Time

  14:23

  “Excuse me?” I said, eyes widening.

  “Yeah,” Greg replied, as if explaining gravity. “It solves all your problems. It’s not like they’re asking you to hack the academy’s mainframe or something. Why don’t you want to tell her?”

  “Because I don’t want her within a mile of that disappointment of a being,” I said—loud enough that the two bikes drafting behind us peeled off in opposite directions.

  “Does he actually act like one, or is that just you?” Greg asked, coasting easily, unbothered by my rising temperature.

  “This cockroach skips everything except Tactical Bomb Diffusion and messes with whoever he finds in the hall. That’s why the bathrooms are so clean,” I said.

  “Okay… bit of a goon,” Greg admitted. “But think. If Nikki says no, Jamal can’t say anything. You did what he asked. She has a say. Actually, she has the whole say. You’re just the wingman. Be proud.”

  “Figures,” I muttered.

  We rolled toward the next intersection, supposed to turn left. The orange hand flashed, so we stopped. Ahead, the little white walking man lit up and Greg pushed forward, legs pumping.

  “What are you doing?” I called. He was supposed to drop me off, not escort himself to freedom. Besides, his place was to the right, not straight.

  He cut a glance at me, then past me. I turned, and my stomach dropped. A girl with a high ponytail and a black hoodie, beige cargos, and red Converse trailed us like our shadow. She didn’t just happen to be there. She knew. Greg had known first—of course he had.

  “Go,” I said.

  He went. The bike surged, and I clung to the rack as the sidewalk blurred. Our follower accelerated too, her posture relaxed in a certain way. We hit another intersection—no walk signal, no break in traffic. Greg, apparently collecting death wishes, darted across. A car braked hard and honked; the hoodie girl slipped through after us, nimble as a rumor.

  “I thought the point was not to d—” I started.

  “Is this what you meant?” Greg snapped. “His goons called their goons to mess with us?”

  “I didn’t even say anything!”

  “You explained everything!” he shot back, voice cracking with offended logistics.

  We cut right into a narrow alley. Greg tried to shake her; she stayed glued, like someone had magnetized our back tire. “Do you have anything?” I asked. “Can you do your body-stealing, or whatever it’s called?”

  “Just so we can crash for no reason?” he said. He dug into his pocket, pulled out… scissors. “Use it!”

  I grabbed them and swung as she closed. She snatched them out of the air like I’d handed her a pen and kept coming. I stared. Were these goons trained by Malachi personally? Then again, most spies could do this. I just didn’t want them doing it to me. I’d imagined doling out this kind of trouble to TSA brats someday, not the other way around.

  A riderless bike rolled into our path from nowhere. We slammed into it. Metal shrieked, then silence snapped, then pain arrived in a wave. I sprawled on hot pavement, bones chiming like I’d been tased.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Two more cyclists coasted in from the direction of the runaway bike. The girl had white-dyed hair and a jean jacket; the guy, likely my age, wore a black tee with a centered graphic and black pants. I didn’t know either of them.

  “Okay, wait—wait, wait,” Greg said, palms out. “Connor’s gonna tell her. It’s fine.”

  “Hand us Connor,” the hoodie girl ordered. She dismounted, slid a short baton from her frame, and let it thunk to the ground like a judge’s gavel. The alley was thin—good news for avoiding an audience, bad news for avoiding a beating. If we got jumped here, no one would see it, and no one would call the cops.

  “Is it that serious?” Greg asked. “Is it?”

  “Who are you?” the guy in black asked him. “To him?”

  “Does it matter?” Greg said.

  “We’re the ones with guns pointed at your faces,” the white-haired girl said coolly. “So maybe skip the witty questions.”

  Greg scoffed. “These are goons alright...”

  I shot him a cross look. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

  He inhaled and held it. Three muzzles, three choices, one very dicey Perk. Could I handle three bullets? That was the sort of question you wanted to answer hypothetically.

  “Hit him with the spray,” Hoodie ordered.

  “Spray?” Greg and I echoed, all hope and no dignity. The guy in black produced a semtex-looking puck and slammed it to the ground. It erupted in a cloud of pink smoke.

  I snapped a kick, caught the canister sweet, and sent it caroming into the white-haired girl’s face. It clocked her square in the forehead; she rocked back and dropped.

  That started the fight.

  Shurikens hissed at me an instant later, flaring silver in the haze. I vaulted a dumpster corner, used the wall for a step, and closed on the guy in black. I reached for my Perk—nothing. He threw up his forearm, and metal crawled up his skin like ivy from air to elbow, plating his fist in a gleaming gauntlet.

  So. Not just a school fight. An upgraded school fight.

  He snapped a tight combo—two across my face, then a piston to my stomach. The bus that hit me didn’t stop for witnesses. I folded, tasted copper—and then my forearms flared red. Moxie back online.

  I stomped. The pavement balked, then fractured; a slab popped up like a manhole lid. I scooped it and hucked it. It caught him mid-step and flung him into the wall. The rock exploded into grit on impact; he crumpled and slid, wand bouncing free, glowing eyes dimming to nothing. Out cold.

  For a second I wondered if he’d had a Perk too. The metal, the eyes… then the wand skittered to stillness, and I didn’t have time to wonder.

  Greg gagged. I turned. The hoodie girl had him in a chokehold, her wand hooked tight. “Let him go!” I shouted. “Greg has nothing to do with this!”

  “Of course you’d say that,” she said, barely glancing at me.

  I charged—and two more of her stepped into existence between us.

  “Give me some time, would ya?” she smirked.

  Sigh. I cannot with these G-rated spies, bro.

  The clones came fast, a tag-team rhythm they’d practiced. Fifteen punches, maybe more—yes, I counted; the fact that I could count them was proof I was still in the fight. My goal narrowed to a single arrow: reach Greg.

  They overcommitted; I slid, tripped one, used her to launch at the other, drove her into the wall. The clones evaporated on contact, their forms washing away like watercolor in rain.

  Greg’s eyes bulged. His face had blued at the edges. A new idea shouldered through the panic.

  “Transfer!”

  He looked at me, flinched, then went limp. The hoodie girl startled as his body sagged. Her grip loosened. I swept my hands and sent a heave of air through the alley. She flew backward.

  I did not plan for a black SUV to be there, but it was—and it sent her. She tumbled across the hood, rolled, and disappeared out of view.

  Greg snapped back into himself, sucking air like a landed fish. “Connor! You couldn’t have waited two seconds?” he screeched. “I had to feel the pain of getting hit by a car!”

  “Had to do something,” I said, panting.

  He stared, then shook his head. “Yeah… sure.”

  I sprinted home, changed, and immediately had myself transported to the academy. For once, the portaler nailed the landing, like he could feel the urgency dripping off me.

  Inside, the halls were quieter—classes were already in session. Which meant Nikki wasn’t floating around in easy reach. Which meant I couldn’t tell her directly. Which meant: Tisiah.

  I could have gone to the office for a pass to class; the polite choreography we pretend matters. But Mr. Robbs doesn’t care for choreography. He says nothing is ever on time anyway, so why pretend? I banked on his benevolence and knocked.

  A moment later the door swung open. Robbs looked at me, offered that weary smile that implies this profession requires sainthood, and stepped aside. I slipped in. My eyes went instantly to the seats.

  Tisiah was in our usual spot, raised a hand as soon as he saw me. Behind him sat Malachi. He didn’t wave. He stared, and the look felt like being measured for a box.

  I took the stairs two at a time toward Tisiah. His smile was already fading, as if the worry in my face had reached him first.