Jackson Ford - The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind

On second thoughts, throwing myself out the window of a skyscraper may not have been the best idea.

Not because I’m going to die or anything. I’ve totally got that under control.

It wasn’t smart because I had to bring Annie Cruz with me. And Annie, it turns out, is a screamer. Her fists hammer on my back, her voice piecing my eardrums, even over the rushing air.

I don’t know what she’s worried about. Pro tip: if you’re going to take a high dive off the 82nd floor, make sure you do it with a psychokinetic holding your hand. Being able to move objects with your mind is useful in all sorts of situations.

I’ll admit, this one is a little tricky. Plummeting at close to terminal velocity, surrounded by a hurricane of glass from the window we smashed through, the lights of Los Angeles whirling around us and Annie screaming and the rushing air blowing the stupid clip-on tie from my security guard disguise into my face: not ideal. Doesn’t matter though—I’ve got this.

I can’t actually apply any force to either Annie’s body or mine. Organic matter like human tissue doesn’t respond to me, which is something I don’t really have time to get into right now. But I can manipulate anything inorganic. Bricks, glass, metal, the fridge door, a sixpack, the TV remote, the zipper on your pants.

And belt buckles.

I’ve had some practice at this whole moving-shit-with-your-mind thing. I’ve already reached out, grabbed hold of the big metal buckles on our belts. We’re probably going to have some bruises tomorrow, but it’s a hell of a lot better than getting gunned down in a penthouse or splatting all over Figueroa Street.

I solidify my mental grip around the two buckles, then force them upwards, using my energy to counteract our downward motion. We start to slow, my belt tightening, hips starting to ache as the buckles take the weight—

—and immediately snap.

OK, yeah. Definitely not the best idea.

Rewind. Twenty minutes ago.

We’re in the sub-basement of the giant Edmonds Building, our footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The lighting in the corridor is surprisingly low down here, almost cosy, which doesn’t matter much because Annie is seriously fucking with my groove.

I like to listen to music on our ops, OK? It calms me down, helps me focus. A little late-90s rap—some Blackstar, some Jurassic 5, some Outkast. Nothing too aggressive or even all that loud. I’m just reaching the good part of “So Fresh, So Clean” when Annie taps me on the shoulder. “Yo, take that shit out. We working.”

Ugh. I was sure I’d hidden my earbud, threading the cord up underneath the starchy blue rent-a-cop shirt and tucking it under my hair.

I hunt for the volume switch on my phone, still not looking at Annie. She responds by reaching back and jerking the earbud out.

“Hey!”

“I said, fucking quit it.”

“What, not an OutKast fan? Or do you only like their early stuff?” I hold up an earbud. “I don’t mind sharing. You want the left or the right?”

“Cute. Put it away.”

We turn the corner, heading for a big set of double doors at the far end. My collar’s too tight. I pull at it, wincing, but it barely moves. Annie and I are dressed identically: blue shirts, black clip-on ties, black pants and puffer jackets in a very cheap shade of navy. Huge belts, leather, with thick metal buckles.

Paul picked up the uniforms for us. I tried to tell him that while Annie might be able to pass as a security guard, nobody was going to believe that the Edmonds Building would employ a short, not-very-fit woman with spiky black hair and a face that still gets her ID’d at the liquor store. Even though I’ve been able to buy my own drinks like a big girl for a whole year now.

I couldn’t be more different to Annie. You know how some club bouncers have huge muscles and a shit-ton of tattoos and piercings? You know how people still fuck with them, starting fights and smashing bottles? Annie is like that one bouncer with zero tattoos, standing in the corner with her arms folded and a scowl that could sour milk. The bouncer no one fucks with because the last person who did ended up scattered over a six-mile radius. We might not see eye to eye on music—or on anything, because she’s taller than me—but I’m still very glad she’s on my side.

My earpiece chirps—my other one, the black number in my right ear. “Annie, Teagan,” says Paul. “Come in. Over.”

“We’re almost at the server room,” Annie says. She sends another disgusted look at my dangling earbud.

Silence. No response.

“You there?” Annie says.

“Sorry, was waiting for you to say over . Thought you hadn’t finished. Over.”

“Seriously?” I say. “We’re still using your radio slang?”

“It’s not slang. It’s protocol. Just wanted to give you a heads-up—Reggie’s activated the alarm on the second floor. Basement should be clear of personnel.” A pause. “Over.”

“Yeah, copy.” Annie says. She’s a lot more patient with Paul than I am, which I genuinely don’t understand.

The double doors are like the fire doors you see in apartment buildings. The one on the right has a big sign on it, white lettering on a black background: AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. And on the wall next to it, a biometric lock.

Annie looks over at me. “You’re up.”

My tax form says that I work for a company called China Shop Movers. That’s the name on the paperwork, anyway. What we actually do is work for the government—specifically, for a high-level spook named Tanner.

For some jobs, you need a black-ops team and a fleet of Apache choppers with heat-seeking missiles. For others, you need a psychokinetic with a music-hating support team who can make a lot less noise and get things done in a fraction of the time. You need a completely deniable group of civilians who can do stuff that even a special forces soldier would struggle with. That’s us. We are fast, quiet, effective and deadly.

Go ahead: make the fart joke. Tanner didn’t laugh when I made it either.

The people we take down are threats to national security. Drug lords, terrorist cells, human traffickers. We don’t bust in with guns blazing. We don’t need to—not with my ability. I’ve planted a tracking device on a limo at LAX, waving hello to the thick-necked goon standing alongside the car while I zipped the tiny black box up behind his back and onto the chassis. I’ve kept the bad guys’ safeties on at a hostage exchange—good thing too, because they tried to start shooting the second they had the money and got one hell of a surprise when their guns didn’t work. And I’ve been on plenty of break-ins. Windows? Cars? Big old metal safes? Not a problem. When you can move things with your mind, there’s not a lot the world can do to keep you out.

Take the lock on AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY, for instance.

You’re supposed to put your finger on the little reader, let it scan your fingerprint, and you’re in. If you’re breaking in, you either need to hack off a finger (messy), take someone hostage (messy, annoying), hack it locally (time-consuming and boring), or blow it off (fun, but kind of noisy).