“Lookit!” the Kid whispered, dropping lower into the dirt.
Two big trucks were approaching, sounding unnaturally loud in the dark night. Their headlights were dimmed, and they had no names or logos painted anywhere.
As Nate watched, the trucks paused in front of tall metal gates topped with razor wire. The gates screeched open and the trucks drove through.
“Was they construction trucks?” the Kid asked archly. “Didn’t look like it. Was they food trucks? Who they feedin’ in there? Mices? Rats?”
“You’ve seen this before?” Nate asked. “And then the trucks leave?”
The Kid nodded: he was the source of all knowledge. “They’ll leave in a couple hours.”
“Have you ever seen anything else?”
Shrugging, the Kid said, “Seen a van once, with tinted windas. Once I seen a black funeral car, like what the SAS uses.”
Nate sat back, thinking. A secret prison in the middle of nowhere? Trucks bringing supplies? Call him crazy, but this seemed like an excellent spot to bring… disappeared kids.
Now he just needed a plan to get in.
69
BECCA
“OH, HELL, NO,” I SAID.
Tim crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me. “Wasn’t my idea.”
The click-click of the Strepp’s heels immediately put me on edge. Or, further on edge, I should say.
“It was my idea, Rebecca,” she said coolly. “You’ve become one of our strongest fighters. Therefore you warrant more specialized training. As our best fighter, Tim is most suited to training you.”
Nine snide retorts popped into my brain, but since I didn’t want to get slammed with a billy club, I kept my mouth shut.
“You will do well, Rebecca,” said Ms. Strepp. It wasn’t a prediction or an encouragement. She didn’t need to say, “Or else.” It was understood. Giving us each a last look, she left us in the small, dank room.
Last time I’d seen Tim, he’d mashed me against a wall for talking in line. And then given me an apple. I had no idea what to expect now.
“Drop and give me thirty,” he said.
For a second I considered dropping and giving him thirty one-fingered salutes, but again, not eager for a beating. Gritting my teeth, I got down on the ground and did thirty push-ups without a word.
And that was how it went. Tim was as much of a slave driver as Strepp was, but he never used the nail board, and he hardly ever whacked me with the billy club. We did weights, cardio, sparring, kickboxing—you name it. If it was heinous and sweaty, we did it. And of course once I was exhausted and as limp as corn silk, I had regular classes with Strepp. This week we were focusing on astrophysics, like how to determine the phase of the moon by only knowing the time of its setting or rising on a certain date. It was so much less fun than it sounds.
I was assigned a fight, as usual, and dreaded it, as usual. When I saw Tim was my opponent, my heart sank. I knew he wouldn’t show me any mercy, and I knew if I didn’t give it my all, I might be executed. Rock = hard place = death.
The bell dinged and Tim and I circled each other, our gloves raised. What was Cassie thinking, watching me? Were they really drugging our food? It would make sense. If I were an evil overlord, I would—
Wham! Tim’s first punch slammed into my shoulder and spun me backward. I caught my balance, jumped in the air, and barreled my fist down into his face. He made a gagging sound, and then blood rushed from his nose. I smiled. And Tim… kind of smiled back. Was he proud of his student?
The first time I’d fought Tim it had been over within minutes and he’d annihilated me. This time was much worse because I was a much better fighter. The fight went on for a long, long time, and we damaged each other more—I actually heard one of his ribs crack at one point. He nearly dislocated my shoulder and fractured my instep.
Finally I was so whipped that I didn’t jump out of the way quite fast enough when he landed a powerhouse punch to my head, and I went down. Out for the count and for several minutes afterward. I came to when someone waved ammonia under my nose, and as soon as I could stand they brought me to the pen.
Because that’s what Strepp did. She made you fight, and then she locked you up together in a room barely big enough to sit down in.
They opened the door and shoved me in. Tim was waiting, one eye swollen shut, bloody and sweaty with bruises and scrapes all over. I’d done a good job of beating the crap out of him.
The guard slammed the door shut behind me, and I heard the lock click.