“This is a dictatorship, not a democracy?” I ask.
The muscles in Jackson’s jaw tense. He doesn’t usually bother to explain himself, so I’m surprised when he says, “There are two main entry points to our target. One at the north, one at the south. We need to clear both. It’ll take half the time to send a separate team to each rather than hitting one together, then moving on to the next. So what do you suggest?”
The way he asks that . . . it’s as if he actually wants my opinion. As if he wants me to make the call. I feel like my answer’s important, but I can’t imagine why. I’m not the one in charge here.
“We split up,” I say after a minute of figuring all the options. “Tactically, it’s the only good choice. But I still don’t like it.”
“Fair enough.” He turns to Tyrone. “You and Luka take north.”
Luka crosses his arms over his chest. “Miki stays with me. I’ll watch her back. I’ll keep her safe.”
Whoa, where did that come from? Before I can come up with an appropriate comment, Jackson answers, his tone harsh. “And that’s why she’s staying with me. Watching her back? Keeping her safe? That’s a good way to get yourself killed, Luka. Miki can take care of herself.”
He sounds so certain of that.
“He’s right,” Tyrone says, sounding bleak. “You know it, Luka. If you’re trying to keep an eye on her, you’ll split your focus. It might get you killed. And you might end up getting her killed, too.” There’s so much pain in his tone that I wonder if that’s what happened to Richelle. If she was trying to keep an eye on Tyrone and that’s part of how she ended up dead. I remember hearing her scream his name right before she screamed in pain.
Luka’s eyes narrow. But he doesn’t answer Tyrone directly; he’s saving all his venom for Jackson. “And you’re not gonna watch anyone’s back but your own, right, Jack?” He hits the k hard. “You don’t care what happens to Miki.”
But he does. For some reason, Jackson cares. I know that, and I don’t trust it. From what I know of him, Jackson isn’t the type to offer things up at face value. There are layers and layers of motivations behind everything he does. I don’t know why I feel certain of that, but I do.
And I don’t think Luka’s being fair. Jackson took more than one hit for me in Vegas.
“Look at your con,” Jackson says with a little shake of his head. He’s always so calm, so controlled. What would it take to push him across the line?
Luka lifts his wrist and grimaces.
“What?” I ask.
“The con decides how we split up,” Luka says, his voice vibrating with anger as he glares at Jackson. “Mine’s not doing anything. Look at Tyrone’s.” Tyrone lifts his hand. His con has a green border, but the majority of the screen is showing a live stream of our surroundings, and in the left corner is a small map with green triangles clumped together. Four of them. Us. “It’s a map. His con’s like a GPS.” Luka lifts his wrist and shows me that his con is still green. “Mine won’t tell us where to go. Neither will yours. Looks like either you’re with Jackson or I am, Miki.”
The look on Luka’s face is frightening. For a second, I think he actually might haul back and punch Jackson in the face.
“Hey,” I say, “it isn’t like this is Jackson’s choice. He doesn’t decide who does what.”
“Doesn’t he?” Luka shoots a dark look at Jackson.
I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here. I swear that back in the clearing there was some sort of guy-bonding thing going on. And I don’t recall this much animosity between them on the last mission. Maybe separating them for a while is the best option.
“I’ll go with Jackson.”
Luka takes a deep breath, then steps close and stares down at me. “Stay safe. We have groceries to unpack when we get back.”
Then he and Tyrone are gone, and it’s just Jackson and me, all alone.
We move on, not talking, just walking, falling into a numb routine of one foot in front of the other. We must have been down here forever . . . or at least for days. My mind wanders and then settles in to think of nothing at all. Right foot. Left foot. Right. Left.
And then I’m jerked from my lethargy as our glow sticks snap out and we’re plunged into darkness so thick and heavy it chokes the breath from my lungs. Something grabs me, arms like bands of steel, a hand pressed tight to my mouth, stifling my cries. I struggle and push, but the grip on my body only tightens until I can’t breathe at all. Light-headed, I take the only option I can see. Hoping to catch my captor off guard, I let my legs drop out from under me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MY PLOY DOESN’T WORK. THE HAND THAT’S PRESSED TIGHT against my mouth and the arm across my waist only tighten all the more, taking my weight as I try to drop, holding me immobile. My struggles are worthless. Whatever has me is stronger than I can ever hope to be. Panic chokes me. I fight it down. I need to think. I’m not stronger, so I need to be smarter.