Instead I say, “There are different kinds of choppers— civilian grade and military grade. They look different, but people don’t realize that most of these aircraft have similar programming—and use the same computer chips. The civilian models just have massive security restrictions.” I tilt my head at him. “So I tricked the computer into thinking it was a military chopper.”
“What does that mean?”
“I unlocked stealth mode.”
James’s eyes widen, a flash of respect quickly displaced by suspicion. He sits back in his seat. “What about the flight deck?” he says, nodding at the dead screens. “How are we airborne right now?”
I turn away, studying a crescent of shorn metal around the windshield. “There are two battery packs. A big one for the motor and a smaller one for everything else—monitors, sensors, air-conditioning, locking mechanisms—that sort of thing. The secondary battery isn’t as powerful, of course, but it wasn’t damaged and appears to be near full capacity. It might be enough to get us to shore. As long as our speed remains constant,I’m hopeful we’ll reach the coastline of The New Republic in about thirty minutes. We might not have to swim at all.”
James says nothing for so long I finally look up.
He’s staring at me. Stonily silent.
I avert my eyes again. “You can’t see our flight path on-screen anymore, but I’ve directed the chopper to pilot itself to our destination,” I add, feeling uncomfortable now. I nod at his injuries. “I thought you’d appreciate a break from operating the vehicle. Considering the state you’re in.”
When he continues to say nothing, I reach underneath my seat and unlatch the emergency kit, hefting it onto my lap. I tap the metal case. “There are life vests in here, in case everything fails and we need to jump. But I thought we could use the remaining flight time to deal with your wounds. Your legs seem to be healing; those injuries must’ve been a result of DEWs. But you still have a bullet lodged in your left tricep. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says, shifting. “What the hell is a DEW?”
“Directed-energy weapon.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Try again.”
“Laser guns.”
James laughs, but the sound is hollow. Nerves snake through me, and I distract myself by releasing the snaps on the kit.
“Wow,” he says. “First she kills me, then she cares for me. Everything about this scenario is believable. Consistent.”
I tense.
I don’t know why his derision bothers me. I’ve spent most of my life perfecting a perception of myself. I’ve never wanted anyone other than Clara to imagine me capable of emotion. I should be pleased he thinks I’m cold and inhuman. Instead, it makes me feel ill.
I rifle through the medical supplies, searching for scissors and antiseptic. “Do you—”
“How did you know how to do that?” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “How’d you know how to reroute the power supply? How are you capable of genius-level computer hacking? How’d you know where the emergency kit was? How’d you know there were life vests on board? How are you so familiar with the tech and mech of this aircraft? And while we’re asking important questions: What, exactly, is the purpose of your mission? Because you’re clearly much more than a serial killer. You’re some kind of highly trained operative, and I’m going to give you one chance to prove me wrong before I punt you into the ocean.”
I go uncomfortably still. This is my own fault. I should’ve anticipated this. I should’ve anticipated the pitfalls of proximity.
I underestimated him.
Rosabelle
Chapter 17
My mistake.
I knew James wouldn’t trust me right away, but I thought he’d be easier to manage. He’s a stronger, more formidable fighter, but I pegged him as emotionally inferior. He struck me as ridiculous; unserious. His easygoing, playful attitude tricked me into thinking he might be lazy, less observant, unlikely to ask too many questions.
I pick out a pair of medical scissors, weighing the variables of the situation.
I’ve been trying to pin James’s character to a pattern without success; every time I think I’ve found consistencies in him, he introduces deviations. So far, my only concrete discovery is that he lives by some kind of moral code. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have cared to save Clara. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have offered me a chance to prove him wrong. Based on many of his actions, I’d categorized him as rash and impulsive; instead, he wants to be sure he’s making the right decision before he kills me. Another inconsistency.
This is interesting.
It seems clear to me now that James’s conscience is the only thing keeping me safe from ejection. If I give him a solid reason to doubt my intentions, he’ll likely toss me off the chopper and head home without a second thought.I can’t risk underestimating his intelligence again by feeding him a thin lie. I have no choice, then, but to settle for an admission of truth.
“I used to build these things,” I say.
