“Shit,” muttered Mila before a coughing fit overtook her. The vent’s temperature was rising quickly. Phoenix sliced a hole in the top of the vent with his laser, diverting some of the smoke and saving our lungs for that much longer.
“Keep moving, Meels,” he said, urging her forward. “Once the smoke floods the incinerator room, they’ll know we’ve sliced a hole in the vent and are moving through the ceiling. We’ll have to go quickly if we want to secure the Indigo.”
She nodded and covered her mouth to prevent another coughing fit.
Phoenix was smart—a real mastermind. I guessed he had to be to have escaped the Feds so many times.
We crawled onward with Phoenix slicing a hole in the vent every few feet to provide us with some respiratory relief. Smoke billowed out through the holes, but traces of it still clung to the vents’ metal sides and fought to smother us. It stank like rotten eggs, like burning flesh.
It was burning flesh, I realized. They were burning the bodies. I felt nauseated and crawled faster. I was finally able to move myself forward without Phoenix’s help.
Then Mila stopped abruptly. We’d reached a dead end.
She shook her head. “We’ve gotta go down, Phoenix.”
“Perfect—we’re here,” he said, and sliced a hole behind us. The vent, however, must have suffered from one too many cuts, because it chose that moment to collapse beneath us. We fell to the ground—the shock was enough to jolt the last bit of paralysis from my limbs, and I stood.
Clear plastic cases filled with blue vials lined the walls of the room—Indigo vaccines. We’d landed in the club’s stronghold. Between the cases, I figured there had to be over five thousand of them.
Phoenix ran to the small room’s door and melted its lock with his pen. “What time is it?” he asked Mila.
“12:50,” she said. “Ten minutes before Big Bertha’s show time. Did Sparky send her the new coordinates after they moved the Indigo from the safes?”
Phoenix nodded and pushed a stack of vaccine cases to one end of the room.
Gunshots sounded in the hall, followed by screams. There was a sharp bang on the door, then more gunshots. An alarm sounded. Red lights flashed overhead.
“THIS AIN’T NO DRILL!” yelled a breathless voice over a loudspeaker. I recognized it as the skinny man. “WE’RE IN FRICKIN’ LOCKDOWN! SEEK THE NEAREST AREA OF REFUGE AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS! THIS AIN’T NO DRILL!”
Mila and Phoenix pushed the rest of the Indigo cases against the wall as smoke flooded the room, pouring from the broken vent above. My lungs burned like fire.
“Give me your face,” Phoenix said, grabbing the side of my cheek and pulling hard. The synthetic skin peeled off in his hand. He tore it into three pieces, keeping one for himself and tossing the others to me and Mila.
“The synthetic skin has enough microfibers to filter out the air’s impurities,” he explained, pulling the skin taut and wrapping it around his nose and mouth. “I know it’s a bit of a stretch,” he winked, “but give it a go.” I did as he instructed, and the burning in my lungs quickly ceased.
The door flew off its hinges. Mila raised her gun, and Phoenix peeled off his suit jacket. Beneath it he wore a silver vest with a red blinking light: dynamite. In one hand, he held a button.
Nine Federal soldiers stormed the room in a V-formation. They had guns. Big guns. Almost as big as Bertha’s.
“FREEZE!” shouted the one in the center. “BY ORDER OF THE MINISTER OF DEFENSE & PATRIOTISM, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.”
Phoenix stepped forward, shaking his button. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, I’m afraid arresting us is not in your best interest.”
Mila tightened her grip on her gun, and I just stood there, sort of waving my arms like I was protecting myself from a stray dog. I glanced around the room, searching for a loaded weapon, a rusty pipe, something. But there was nothing. Just a lone paper clip sitting on a case of Indigo.
Briefly, I imagined myself shaking it at the Feds as they cowered in fear. The image was comical—it was better to have nothing. I spread my hands into flat palms and leaned forward in the only stance I could remember from fourth-grade judo.
“Jesus, Kai,” muttered Mila. Maybe I had the stance wrong.
“ONE MORE STEP AND YOU’RE ALL DEAD,” shouted the same soldier. The officer in charge, it seemed. The men aimed their guns at Mila. “TELL THE GIRL TO DROP HER WEAPON!”
Phoenix pressed and held the button with his thumb. Lights on his vest beeped and flashed—it was a dead man’s switch.
“I told you,” he said, “that that wouldn’t be in your best interest. Shoot any of us, and I lift my finger from this button, detonating the three tons of dynamite strapped to my chest. We’ll be dead, and the Indigo will be gone.”
The officer thought for a second. “Hold position, men,” he said. He lowered his weapon slightly and stared at Phoenix through narrowed eyes. “You don’t have enough to blow this place.”
Phoenix smiled and stepped forward. The lights on his vest flashed again. “Guns down, gentlemen,” he said to the others. They hesitated, unsure. “Don’t make this more difficult than it is has to be. Chaos begets chaos, my friends. And wouldn’t we all like a bit of peace?”
The officer shook his head. “You’re crazy.”
Phoenix flashed him a dazzling smile. “Ah, excellent detective work, my friend. You ought to get a medal.”
The officer mouthed a silent curse before sighing loudly. “Stand down, men.”
“And the guns?” said Phoenix. “Please slide them to my associate, Ms. Vachowski, immediately.”
The soldiers crouched to lower their weapons.
“WAIT!” shouted the officer.
Mila glanced toward the ceiling and then looked at Phoenix. “It’s 12:59,” she hissed.
Phoenix stared calmly at the soldiers and moved to lift his thumb. “Three tons of dynamite, gentlemen. The choice is yours.”
The soldiers elbowed their leader aside and pushed their guns forward. Mila quickly wrapped them in a steel cord and secured them to her waist. A soldier muttered something into his shoulder—he was calling for back-up.
“Really?” Mila examined the guns. “You brought a rocket launcher?’
A soldier’s face flashed red. “Uh—well, you never know—”
She fired it at the ceiling. The soldiers ran for cover. A massive hole smoldered where the roof had once been. Through it, I saw night sky.
Phoenix pointed to the cases of Indigo. “Paper clip!” he shouted.
Mila grabbed the paper clip and tossed it at the soldiers. It melted, midair, into a thick gold gas. They coughed and yelled as it smothered their lungs. It had no effect on us, apparently unable to penetrate the synthetic skin masks we had stretched across our mouths.
More marching feet thundered in the hall—reinforcements had arrived. The thunder was soon drowned out by the sound of whirring blades roaring overhead. Through the hole in the ceiling, I saw a helicopter hovering over the nightclub.
“Twenty seconds!” yelled Mila.
The bottom of a rope ladder dropped down through the hole.
“Climb!” shouted Phoenix.
I hurried up the ladder, and Mila followed, guns swinging from her waist. I glanced down below, and saw Phoenix lift his thumb. I braced myself for impact.
Nothing.
The bombs strapped to his chest had been fakes. The soldiers had never been in any real danger. It had just been a ploy on their psyches. A small but brilliant piece of Phoenix’s master plan.
“TOSS THE GRAPPLE!” shouted Mila as we reached the helicopter’s cabin.
A five-prong hook fell from the sky, secured by a steel cord to the copter. Phoenix grabbed the grapple as it fell, and wrapped its hook around the Indigo cases in a knotted bunch. Gunshots fired again.