His shoulders relax a bit.
“About what?” he asks.
“I don’t have a four-point-oh grade point average. I did last semester, but not anymore.”
“What happened?”
I sigh like I’ve been caught.
“I fucked up in AP Physics and ended up with a B-minus for the semester. There was this girl in class, and maybe I got a little distracted. Whatever. No excuses. I went down in flames. It won’t show on my GPA until next fall. I haven’t even told my father yet.”
Francisco nods, considering this. I’ve made it up on the spot, but I can always call it in to Father and ask him to doctor my school records. It’s standard procedure for the hackers at The Program to get into the high school mainframe and insert a false student record there to support my cover story. I make a mental note to remind Father when I speak to him.
“You really want to get into Camp Liberty,” Francisco says.
“Totally,” I say.
“So much so that you’re willing to lie.”
“Embellish.”
He nods.
“So be it,” he says. “Now tell me something: Why Camp Liberty?”
“Because Weight Watchers camp rejected me.”
“Humor works on Moore. Not on me.”
“What works on you?”
He considers the question for a moment. He takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out the window. I can see him contemplating something, then he makes a decision.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “No more questions right now.”
“Good, because I was starting to sweat through my shirt.”
“I want you to call your father instead,” he says.
It’s the second time he’s asked me to call. Why does he care about that?
I angle my body slightly, improving my defensive position if things get physical.
“You want me to call my dad?” I say casually.
“You said you needed to call. So call now.”
“I tried him a few minutes ago.”
“Try again.”
“Good idea,” I say.
He waits as I take out my phone. He holds the cigarette in his lips, his hands free somewhere in the darkness below the wheel.
I turn on my iPhone. He watches me as I access the home screen and dial Father’s public number again.
“Put it on speaker,” Francisco says.
“Why?”
“I want to know who you’re calling.”
“You ever hear of the Fourth Amendment right to privacy?”
“I know all about it,” he says. “We don’t have that at Camp Liberty.”
“What do you have?”
“Transparency. That’s how we know we can trust one another. If you want to be one of us, that’s how you roll.”
“Fine,” I say. “Maybe you can talk to my father. Save me the trouble.”
I put the phone on speaker.
It rings three times, the rings loud in the silence of the truck cabin. I wait for the pickup, knowing Father will stay in character on a public line, and hoping that will be enough to convince Francisco.
The phone continues to ring, but the familiar sound of Father’s voice never comes.
There’s no answer.
“Where is your father?” Francisco says, menace in his voice.
“I don’t know,” I say. And I mean it.
“No voice mail?”
We don’t leave voice mail messages. Calls are securely logged and always picked up. There’s no need for messages. But I don’t tell Francisco that.
“There’s no voice mail on his personal line,” I say. “He doesn’t believe in it. He’s old school. You either get him or you don’t.”
“Unusual.”
“He’s an unusual man, no doubt about it,” I say. “But he does read his texts. I’ll send him one so he doesn’t worry. He dropped me off tonight, so he knows I’m here. It shouldn’t be an issue if I stay over at camp.”
“You sure?” Francisco says. “I can still take you home.”
“I’m sure,” I say.
I type out a text to the public number, something that Daniel Martin might say to his father. Then I send it.
“All set,” I say. “Are we going now?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
I’ve been playing chess with this guy, trying to satisfy his curiosity. But I’m tired of being on the defense. I decide to switch to offense and let Daniel Martin get pissed off.
“Hey, it’s been a while since the others left,” I say. “You needed a smoke, you had some questions. I get it.”
“Do you?” he says, amused.
“But it’s Moore who invited me to camp. So why don’t you give him a call. You can tell him I answered all your questions, but now you’re overruling his decision.”
I watch his face closely to gauge the reaction. Does Francisco have the power to keep me out of camp? I note tension at the corner of his lip—just the tiniest amount—and I have my answer. This guy is reaching. Maybe he’s even off the reservation right now.
“Oh, and when you call Moore,” I say, “how about you put it on speaker. You know, for transparency.”
Francisco chews the inside of his lip. I notice he doesn’t take his phone out, doesn’t even make a move to do so.
“I never overrule Moore. I share my opinion with him,” he says.
“I see. So you’re just an adviser,” I say, pushing him a little further.
“A security adviser,” he says. “My job is to protect him. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe.”
“I’m no threat to him,” I say. “In fact, after what I did tonight, you might consider me the opposite.”
Francisco drags deep on his cigarette. I see him studying my face in the soft glow of the cabin.
Finally he exhales and flicks his cigarette butt out the window.
“Point taken,” he says.
He starts the truck.
“Finally,” I say.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WE MAKE OUR WAY UP A TWISTING MOUNTAIN PASS.
Francisco navigates by memory, his speed faster than anyone should be able to safely manage the route. Eventually he slows to make a hairpin turn, and suddenly the road descends steeply for nearly a mile into a deep valley. At the bottom the forest falls away, leaving an open area of a hundred yards in all directions.
This doesn’t look like the boundary of a normal kids’ camp. It looks like the perimeter of a military facility. Cover keeps an encampment safe; lack of cover exposes the enemy. Together they make up the yin and yang of a good defensive perimeter.
We descend into the valley, drive through the clearing, and the wooden sign for Camp Liberty briefly lights up in our truck’s headlights.
“Home, sweet home,” Francisco says.
It’s so dark in front of us, I can barely make out a scattering of buildings spread across several acres, their profiles appearing and disappearing in the gray-blue moonlight peeking through the clouds.
I wasn’t given a map of Camp Liberty in my briefing because I’m not supposed to be here, so I’m going to have to find out everything I need to know on the ground.
Francisco seems to know where he’s going. He pulls forward and brings us to a stop, a building rising out of the darkness.
“Ride ends here,” Francisco says.
“Sorry if I was a little bit of an asshole earlier,” I say, offering him an olive branch.
“A little bit?” he says, obviously not interested in taking it.
“Okay, then. See you around,” I say.
“Guaranteed.”
I open my door. A flashlight beam comes toward me out of the darkness. It shines in my eyes, briefly blinding me.
“You made it,” Lee says, redirecting the light to a spot on the ground at my feet.
The truck pulls away behind us.
“It wasn’t the most enjoyable ride I’ve ever had,” I say.