“And I want to be more. I want to be so much more and you’re killing me.”
I can feel the moment slipping away, sense her refortifying her wall. What is she battling? Her pride? Some promise she made to herself?
“Please don’t do this, Bree. Please don’t start fighting us when I’ve finally decided to stop.”
“This was a mistake,” she says, refusing to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
She slips into the bookshop and I stand there, struck through with shock, the taste of her still burning up my mouth.
SEVEN
WHEN I STUMBLE INTO THE kitchen the following morning, Badger is already frying eggs. I don’t know when he returned to the bookshop, but the smell of breakfast is so intoxicating, I’m easily convinced to focus on eating over asking questions. In fact, I haven’t said a word since Bree left me on the stoop last night. It was easier to crawl straight into my sleeping bag and avoid my problems than to face them. Now, it feels like my dispute with Blaine has doubled in size overnight, become just as glaring as the sunlight streaking through the apartment windows.
Blaine doesn’t say a word as I sit down at the table, doesn’t even look my way. This is so wrong, us fighting. Nothing lingered between us in Claysoot. We’d argue or wrestle or throw a punch, and then we’d be laughing two minutes later, rebounding so quickly we could barely remember what we were fighting about to begin with.
Still, tensions with Blaine might be preferable to dealing with Bree, who acts as though nothing happened last night. She asks me to pass her a plate and then smiles her thanks like the gesture won’t slit my chest open. Soon the kitchen is buzzing with activity, which is a relief. Hands reach and overlap, plates are filled, mugs are clung to. The table is surrounded by yawns and bedhead and casual chatter. Aiden still hasn’t stopped pestering Clipper about Riley.
“I told you, Aiden. I hardly know her.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” the boy says. He slips a piece of bacon to Rusty beneath the table and Clipper shoots a murderous look my way. I hate you, he mouths. I stifle a laugh and shovel some eggs down so I have an excuse to avoid speaking.
“Everything go okay yesterday, Nick? With your crew member?”
Badger twitches at the sound of Adam’s voice, sharp in the rowdy kitchen. “It was . . . uneventful. Probably could have skipped the whole thing.”
“Well, that’s not vague,” Sammy says through a mouthful of egg.
“It was a personal matter regarding water shipments. If I wanted you to have the details, you would.”
“And yet we’re putting all our trust in you to run this mission. The guy who refuses to give a straightforward answer.”
“I don’t need a wise mouth on this team,” Badger snaps. “You have a problem with me, you can walk right out that door.” He jabs the spatula for emphasis.
“All right, Nick,” Adam says. “You’ve made your point. How about we talk logistics rather than arguing?”
Badger grumbles something unintelligible and dumps the last batch of eggs on the serving plate.
“The Compound,” he says, tossing a handful of sketches onto the table. “From what we’ve gathered, the entire first floor is a shipment center. A channel of water drives right into the island, and we’ve watched boats come and go, docking beneath the building itself.”
In an aerial depiction, I can see what he means. The island is oblong: round at one end, and split by water on the other. Part of the Compound hovers over the channel, its foundation set in the land on either side.
“Most of the boats frequenting the place are commercial cargo vessels. But ’round nightfall on the first Friday of each month, an inspection team stops by on a small rig. They are in and out in the course of an hour. We will be that crew for March’s inspection, arriving two days early on account of a scheduling change.”
I shift in my seat. This is not going to work. There is no possible way this will work.
“September’s just delivered ID badges, plus key cards to get us through locked doors. The latter won’t be a problem if we’re escorted during the inspection, but we wanted to be prepared either way.” He shoots a thankful look September’s way and she raises her fork as if to say, my pleasure.
“Charlie’s sister should be returning later today with our ride. She and her husband spent the last week tracking down a matching boat model from an Order scrap yard on the eastern shores of the New Gulf. Last we heard they found one in almost perfect working condition. They’re just looking into a few spare parts.”
“And it needed a paint job,” Charlie says, emerging from the loft. He rubs his eyes with a fist as he descends the stairs. “Colors were all wrong and she had to get the Franconian emblem on its side.”
“True,” Badger says. “But that was four days ago, and they’re due back today. I’m confident everything’s been seen to. So that just leaves uniforms, and I’ve got Mercy over on Mooring Street whipping up three sets.”
“Three?” I echo.
“One for me,” Badger says, “and a pair for the rest of the team.” He points at Bree and Sammy. “They are the only two setting foot inside. You and your brother are too recognizable given the way your face is strung up across AmEast—half the time on Order wanted ads, the rest in this crazed string of new propaganda. And the kid”—he nods toward Clipper—“is young, could raise suspicions. You can come on the boat if you insist, but the only way I do this mission is if you stay on it.”
“I came so I could help, not sit around,” I say.
“You want to help?” Badger tilts his head, blinks his beady eyes. “Go pick up the uniforms with your brother. They should be ready.”
“Great. Running errands. What would you do without us?”
“How is Mercy making uniforms when she doesn’t have our measurements?” Bree interjects.
“I gave them to her,” Badger says.
“How?”
“By using my eyes.”