“Something went down at the pizza place. Were you and Jackson pulled before me?”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, how much I’m allowed to tell him. So I tell him the truth. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to tell you.”
He stands up and closes the space between us. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They’re blue now, squinting a little as he studies me, his brows drawn in a frown. I look from him to Tyrone and back again.
Fear congeals in my gut. “Where’s Jackson?” I ask, my voice a harsh rasp.
Luka rakes his fingers through his dark hair. “I was going to ask you that. He’s always here before us.”
Panic surges. I slow it down, deep breath, hold, release. Jackson brought me into this to buy his freedom. Maybe it worked. Maybe the Committee accepted the trade. Part of me hates him for that, for sacrificing me like a trussed lamb. But part of me wants that, wants Jackson to be free, safe, away from all this. That’s what he wanted. Why he did this to me. But the wiser part of me knows the likelihood is small. Something else is going on here.
“You okay, Miki?” Luka asks.
I want to laugh, or maybe sob. I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay again. I open my mouth to tell him that when I get a weird sensation tingling through me, a portent.
“Incoming,” I say, not sure how I even know that. I’m already turning before Luka can reply. Two girls I’ve never seen before stand together, looking at me.
Kendra. Lien. Transfers from another team.
The Committee is talking in my head. I hear them, feel them, the scent of their words tickles my nose, the flavor bursts on my tongue.
I swallow and walk over to the two girls. Transfers, not new recruits. That means they know the score. No explanations needed, just introductions.
“Lien, I’m Miki,” I say, offering my hand to the girl on the right. She’s about my height with straight dark hair to her shoulders. Her features are delicate and sweet. Her eyes are blue, but we’re in the game. No way to know what color they are outside of it, but my guess would be brown. I turn to the other and offer my hand as I incline my head and say, “Hey, Kendra.” She’s tiny, maybe five feet, with long, blond ringlets and a round face.
Tyrone gets to his feet and crosses the space in two strides. “Wait . . . you know them?”
“Kendra, Lien, that’s Tyrone,” I say, with a jerk of my head in his direction, “and that’s Luka.” I look at Tyrone. “I know them now. And I guess you do, too.”
Tyrone’s watching me with narrowed eyes. I’m torn between telling him about the Committee being all chatty-chat in my head or saying nothing at all. Kendra and Lien are standing close together, shoulders touching, watching the three of us warily.
“They’re transfers. From another team,” I say.
Tyrone’s brows arch high.
“Seriously?” Luka asks. “We’ve only ever had new recruits.” He glances at Lien. “How long have you been in the game?”
“A year,” she says.
“Three months,” Kendra says.
“Do you know why you were transferred?” Luka asks.
The two girls exchange a look, and Kendra’s eyes well with tears. I know what her answer will be even before she says it. “Everyone died. We’re all that’s left.”
The silence is deafening. None of us knows what to say to that. Then I find words, pulling them out from somewhere deep inside. “You’re part of our team now. We’re in this together.”
Lien swallows. Kendra nods, a single tear leaking out to trace down her cheek. On impulse, I grab her hand and then Lien’s and squeeze. Human contact. Silent reassurance. The same kind Richelle offered to me that first night in Vegas. The same kind Jackson offered when he brushed his fingers along the back of my hand.
My throat feels thick.
Gear up.
Not the Committee this time. That’s Jackson’s voice in my head. I close my eyes for a second, not sure how I feel. Glad to hear his voice. Sad that his plan didn’t work. I think the words Where are you? But there’s no answer.
I take a deep breath and face the group.
“So where’s Jackson?” Tyrone asks.
“Guess he’s sitting this one out.”
Tyrone’s eyes widen. No one gets to sit one out. We all know that.
“Looks like we’re the team now.” I look at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes. “Gear up.” They all stare at me. “Now,” I say, in a near-perfect imitation of Jackson. Then I lead by example and grab my harness, loop it, buckle it down. When I stride to the weapons box, I find something unexpected. There, on the ground, is a kendo sword.
I pick it up and slide it from the sheath. The blade is black, like the blade of Jackson’s knife. I push the sword back in and strap the sheath to my back at exactly the right height so I can easily reach back and grab the handle.
When I lift my head, I find that no one has moved. They’re all watching me.