“Is everything okay?”
“I hope so,” I say, slamming the door to my bedroom.
The radio thrums to life and the headphones clasp over my ears. I withhold the prevalent urge to scream into the mic. This is urgent. This is life or death. Ambrosia or Matt or whoever else better pick up on the other end.
“Callahan, this is Eureka101. Do you copy?”
Nothing. Seconds lead into minutes. My patience is wearing thin.
“Callahan, this is Eureka101. I repeat, do you copy?” A surge of static answers.
The headphones are discarded in a flash. White noise spills out.
“¿Atlas? ¿Estás bien?” Ma's voice asks from the hallway.
Para nada, Mamá.
Noise filters through the speakers. It’s incomprehensible—enigmatic the higher in volume it increases. I rush for the headphones and plug them in. The sound from the opposite end enunciates more clearly as seconds pass by. A voice plunges from out of the static, flooding my ears.
“Eureka101, this is Callahan. Were you attempting to make contact? Over,” says Ambrosia’s sultry tenor.
“Yes, yes!” I exclaim into the microphone. “Sorry, copy. I did attempt to make contact, yes. Over.”
“Copy. What do you need? Over.”
“I . . . I think the Barclay mercenaries caught on to our trail. They’re here, disguised as citizens. Over,” I say.
She doesn’t even bother to correct me on my radio etiquette.
“Copy. Keep them hidden in the bunker. Under no circumstances are they allowed to leave, understood? We’re about a day out. We can be there tomorrow at noon. Do you copy?”
“Copy,” I say. “Over and out.”
Lowering the headphones, I take heavy gulps of air. The woman I checked in at the motel must be Mara Barclay, I have no doubt. Pa disabled the tracker, so there was only one other way the mercenaries knew where to look. They gleaned Tommy’s information, the location, and possibly where to go. My feet find the wood floor.
I don’t want to cause Conin and Ezra panic, so I won’t tell them the Barclay Network’s mercenaries are in Eureka. I will, however, tell them the Angelics are slated to extract them by tomorrow. When the door to my room cracks open, ma steps in.
“I heard,” she whispers.
“Don’t say anything. The Angelics will handle this. We have nothing to worry about,” I say, skirting past her, and beeline to the bunker.
The truth is, I’m not sure I believe myself.
Lies upon lies upon lies.
Chapter 35
Ezra
On our fifth night in the MacPhersons’ bunker, Conin, Atlas, and I surround the coffee table, each with a deck of cards. It’s been a week since Callum Finch phased through the mirror at Emery’s party. It’s been a week and a day since Lukeman Gray destroyed my violin.
Story of my fucking life.
Conin’s stubble sketches his face across his jaw and neck. It offsets the sapphire red of his faux hair: two nuanced shades of red and one considerable headache for me. Stubble looks nice on him, though. I wonder how it would feel to caress his cheek, kiss the line of his jaw, his lips . . .
We’re playing a card game, Ezra. Focus.
Atlas stares at me. His lips are compressed, and his cheeks are puffed like he’s on the brink of laughter. I cast a furious glance at him that should wipe the smug look off of his face, but he only bursts into a fit of giggles, back pressed against the carpet as he kicks his legs in the air. His cards get discarded somewhere onthe floor in favor of clutching his stomach. It’s not like I’ve said or done anything that would give away my love for Conin. Or have I? Am I that obvious?
