Debra Driza - Mila 2.0 - Renegade

Holland’s face flashed again, but this time the fire licked at his toes. I could almost smell the acrid char of smoke, feel the heat singe my own skin, and the sensation sent a shiver through me.

Overhead, clouds cloaked the moon like a shroud, and in the distance, a solitary star glittered, barely lighting the dark night canvas. The rolling green hills on either side of us were devoid of businesses, of houses. Of streetlights.

I could only imagine how dark it looked without the lights on. Impossibly dark.

I kept my mouth shut and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Waiting.

Hunter peered out the windshield, forehead all furrowed in puzzlement. He muttered under his breath. “How the hell …” Then, with an angry shake of his head, his voice grew louder. “You could have killed us.”

No, I couldn’t have. But that wasn’t something I could share. No, really, we were never in any danger, because I’ve got this great night vision built into my head.

“But I didn’t,” I said. Because I felt like I had to say something. I hoped he’d leave it at that. I also hoped he couldn’t hear the thump-thump-thump pounding in my ears.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head. “That’s the thing. How? How did you not kill us?”

It was a good question, really. One that deserved an equally good answer.

Under the unrelenting weight of his stare, my hands tightened on the wheel. The interior of the car suddenly felt way too small.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good answer to give him. But as the clouds eased away from the moon, providing a little bit of illumination, I gave it my best shot. “I have really good vision, and my eyes must have adjusted as the darkness crept in.”

What an understatement.

“I might buy that if you were some sort of supernatural being, but there are no streetlights out here. None at all.”

“There’s the moon and stars … and it’s just not all that dark. I was distracted, thinking about meeting my father. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

“I’m not looking for an apology.” He opened the door, got out, and trudged around to my door. When he tried to open it, he discovered it was locked.

Considering the tension undulating off him in waves, I hesitated, which was a totally human reaction. It was like I was scared we were about to have our first real fight. But I opened the door anyway. He reached in, closed a hand firmly around my wrist, and pulled me up. Then his arms were around me and I was pressed to his solid chest. I could feel the tiniest of trembles, the fading adrenaline rush.

“When the car started careening,” he began, his voice raspy, “I was so afraid you were going to get hurt … or worse.”

Holding him close, I sank against him. “We’re okay. And I won’t let myself get distracted again.”

More promises I wasn’t sure I could keep.

“No, it was my fault. I guess I didn’t realize how upset you are. I should’ve sucked it up and driven a few more hours.” He drew back and held my gaze. “You know, no matter what you learn about him, it doesn’t change a thing about who you are.”

I wanted to believe him, but knowing my history, it was probably going to change everything—on so many different levels.

“Hopefully the next town has a place to grab a real tire,” he said, as he left our embrace and walked to the trunk of the car. As he pulled out some emergency flares and a spare, he said, “Let’s try to keep the lights on from here on out, okay?”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Nope,” he said, smirking. “Can you do me a favor and find something good on the radio? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure,” I said, getting back into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “Any requests?”

“Yeah, something with a lot of drums and no Auto-Tune.”

“You got it.” I reached over and started scanning through channels, finding nothing but static. Then, without any command from me, my mind opened, and the red words blinked.

Searching clear frequencies.

As bits and pieces of audio began ripping through my brain, I started trying to pinpoint a local classic rock station. But instead another fragmented image floated before my eyes. Guitar chords accompanying a woman singing; the smell of oatmeal cookies in the air. Small feet standing upon two men’s tennis shoes; legs swaying back and forth, back and forth.

Within a few seconds, the song sped up in my mind, the pitch reaching such high levels, I instinctually covered my ears. But that did nothing to stop the music, which was now just an insanely loud screeching sound that was splitting my head in two.

Internal malfunction.

Audio capability compromised.

Reconfiguring … please wait.

As the vision faded, I sat there in the car, unable to hear anything but this awful, excruciating noise. My hands began to tremble, so badly that I feared the shuddering would overtake my entire body. Then suddenly I couldn’t move an inch—legs, arms, neck. Nothing was moving. Luckily, Hunter was still rummaging around in the trunk and noticed nothing. Whatever this was had better wear off or I would find myself having to explain to Hunter why I was paralyzed.

If it wasn’t so alarming, it actually might have been funny. All this time, I’d been worried about the threats in the outside world. Holland. The V.O. Three. The cops. But it wasn’t until now that I let this realization sink in.

There was something strange happening inside me that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

What could be a bigger threat than that?

We arrived in Knoxville well into the early evening. Hunter couldn’t push the Jeep over forty-five miles per hour due to the spare, so it took a little longer than expected. I was quiet for a good part of the drive. I spent an hour or two with my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep while my internal clock counted down the minutes of this one day I had promised him, and praying that these increasingly debilitating false flashbacks would stop.

But when we finally found this Richard Grady’s house, I blocked everything out and focused, instructing Hunter to park across the street. House was a pretty tame word, though, given the size of the place. From where we sat in the car, I had a slightly obstructed view of graceful arched columns and beautiful brick construction, broken up by the bars of a fancy, wrought iron gate that led to the horseshoe driveway. Pristine green lawn peeked through, and with the window cracked, I caught a mix of sweet grass smell, chemicals, and the perfume of roses.

Video surveillance detected.

I froze.

Zoom activated.

I heard the clicking near my eyes, felt them narrow. Then my visual field changed, nearby objects racing past while the tree flanking the gate grew larger.

There. A tiny black video camera, nestled in branches that flanked the front gate. Just what I didn’t need—someone with CIA ties getting a good shot of my face for posterity.

I blinked, and with an almost inaudible whir, my visual field returned to normal. Only seven cars visible on the street—it was a weekday, after all—all of them newer, pricey foreign models, with the exception of one slightly older but impeccably washed Honda Accord, five houses down on the left at 15432. Five with Tennessee plates, one with Oklahoma, and one Georgia. No rentals.

Access DMV database?

The prompt tempted me, but no. Doubtful anyone knew we were here, and if they did—well, they’d know to cover their tracks.

“We don’t have to do this,” Hunter said, drumming his fingers on his jeans while he stared toward the gate. Even though I was acting like I’d rather be anywhere but here, I was surprised he could read me so well.