Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“I don’t read Time Magazine.”
Jesus Christ.
“Look, I just need cash. What’s the daily limit for a withdrawal?” I’ve never felt like more of a civilian.
“Ten thousand dollars. But a cash transaction of that amount without identification is going to flag in our system. I’d need to file a suspicious activity report, which means—”
“A suspicious activity report. For me. For Vanguard. For America’s superhero?” I’m cringing internally as I say all that.
“For anyone, sir. Those are the rules.”
The voice comes out of nowhere.
Take the money. Kill her. She’s in your way. Kill her and take what you need.
My hands go cold. I can feel my jaw tightening, my fingers curling against the counter. The teller is still talking, something about federal regulations and bank policy, but I can barely hear her over the static building in my skull.
Do it. Hold up the whole place. You could take them all down in seconds. Take out the cameras. No witnesses. No problems.
“Sir? Are you alright?”
I’m gripping the counter hard enough to dent the wood. I force myself to let go. Force myself to breathe.
“Fine,” I manage. “I’m fine. Just—give me a second.”
Kill her. Kill them all. Take what you need and go.
“Is there a problem here?”
A new voice. I turn and there’s a man in a slightly nicer suit than the other employees—manager, probably—coming out from a back office. He’s maybe forty, balding, and he’s looking at me like I’m a celebrity and a potential PR disaster all at once.
“Mr. Vanguard, sir, I’m Tom Hendricks, branch manager. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I need to make a withdrawal. Ten thousand. I don’t have my ID or my card on me. I’m sorry.” I give him another golly-gee, how embarrassing, apologetic smile.
The teller opens her mouth to protest, but Hendricks holds up a hand.
“That won’t be a problem,” he says smoothly. “We can verify your identity through other means. Facial recognition, biometrics—we have your file on record from the Citizen Heroes program. Linda, process the withdrawal please.”
Linda looks like she wants to smite the both of us.
Five minutes later I’m walking out of the bank with ten thousand dollars in a manila envelope, the voice in my head finally quiet, my hands still shaking slightly as I wave goodbye to the security guard.
I find the alley again. Go invisible. And fly back to the lake house as fast as I can.
Mia is still waiting on the porch when I land, a black balaclava rolled up on her head like a beanie.
“Any problems?”
“None,” I lie. “Got the cash.”
I head inside and count out eight hundred dollars from the envelope—more than enough for the food and the clothes, but the Thompsons deserve it for unknowingly harboring two fugitives for a week. I leave it on the kitchen table with a note that just says Thank you.
When I come back out, Mia has pulled the balaclava down over her face. Only her eyes are visible, dark and watchful.
“How do I look?” she asks.
“Like you’re about to rob a bank. You should have come with me, maybe I could have gotten more.”
“Funny.”
“I thought so.”
I go invisible and scoop her up, one arm under her knees, one behind her back. She wraps her arms around my neck, and even through the coat and the sweater and all the layers between us, I can feel the warmth of her.
“Ready?” I ask.
She takes in a deep breath and nods. “Ready.”
We lift off into the darkness, heading west.
CHAPTER 47
MIA
I see Moresby Island before Nate does.
It rises out of the black water like a memory I’ve been trying to outrun for years—dark Douglas firs, rocky shores, the faint glow of the facility’s lights through the trees. Six hours of flying through the night, my face buried against Nate’s chest to block the wind, then ten minutes of circling the Gulf Islands until I could pick it out from the others. Now we’re here.
Home. If you can call it that.
“That’s it?” Nate asks, his voice cutting through the rush of air as we descend.
“That’s it.”
He banks left, circling the island from a distance. I can see the main compound through the gaps in the forest—low concrete buildings, a couple of cottages, a helipad, the perimeter fence with its discreet sensors, the dock. The place where I learned exactly what I was and the cost it would have on my life.
My father works here. Has worked here for almost twenty years, ever since he packed up what was left of our family and fled across an ocean.
“Where do I land?” Nate asks.
“There’s a dock on the north side. Staff housing is nearby—a couple of cottages. That’s where my father lives.” I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “Where I grew up. After.”
He doesn’t ask after what. He already knows about the car accident.