Father lands the helicopter, the blades slowly winding down above us.
I look at my jeans and the bloodstained shirt. Father notes it.
“There’s a bag behind the seat for you,” he says.
I find a small duffel in the back. I open the bag and take out a new military jacket and camos. An ID card identifying me as a National Guardsman.
“That should get you off base easily enough. Not that you need the help,” Father says.
I can’t take my shirt off in front of Father or he will see my wounds. There will be questions. Instead I slip the military-issue coat over my bloodied T-shirt, then I slide on the pants.
“Reports from Boston suggest that casualties will be minimal. You triggered the evacuation early enough to save lives. Homeland Security is rounding up the squads that blew the power grid.”
“They’re just kids,” I say.
“Dangerous kids,” Father says. “But they’ll be dealt with fairly. In any case, it’s got nothing to do with us. Not anymore.”
I pull the Guard ID out of the bag and slip it into my pocket.
“What happened on that roof?” Father says. “You couldn’t stop this?”
“I misjudged the girl.”
“That seems to be an issue for you.”
I hold my body still, willing myself not to react to Father’s statement.
“Not an issue,” I say.
But I’m lying. Because I tried to save Miranda.
Would I have really left The Program in order to be with her?
I’ll never know. She didn’t give me the chance to find out.
“Once is an anomaly,” Father says. “Twice is an issue.”
He’s right. Samara was one. Miranda is two. There won’t be a number three. The Program won’t allow it.
“I didn’t know she had a backup detonator,” I say.
“You couldn’t get it away from her?”
Father’s question makes me angry.
“She jumped before I could get to her,” I say quickly. “I watched her die.”
I want to say more, but I stop myself. Without the chip in place, my emotions are raw, too close to the surface. I can’t trust myself to speak too much.
Father’s expression changes at my tone. His face softens.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he says.
He says it like it matters to him, like he’s concerned for me.
“The explosion shook me up a little. I’ll be okay.”
The rotors whir above us. I pull my emotions inside, hardening my face to a soldier’s countenance.
“I think you’ll be okay, too,” he says. “In fact I’m sure of it.”
I grab the duffel and open the helicopter door.
“This thing we have is fragile, Zach.”
Zach.
It’s a shock to hear him say my name.
“The Program is fragile,” he says. “It doesn’t seem so, but it is. It’s based on a foundation of trust.”
“Of course,” I say.
“We have to trust each other,” Father says.
I think of the freelance team in the backyard of the safe house.
I look at Father in the helicopter next to me.
I think of the chip hidden under the tape on my chest right now. The things Francisco shared with me about The Program.
Francisco may have gone insane, but there was truth to what he said.
I look at Father.
I don’t trust him. Not anymore.
I use every skill at my disposal to hide my feelings from him, masking them under layers and layers of other feelings, then capping those with a surface of calm.
Father’s watching me, waiting for me to say something.
“I trust you,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
He nods once. We’re done.
“Leave the base. Destroy your phone. There’s a Stop&Shop two blocks away with an Infiniti G37 in the lot. Check your e-mail from a safe location when you get clear. We’ll send you instructions.”
Back to business as usual. The assignment followed by the waiting.
“Will it be a long wait this time?” I say.
“I can’t be sure.”
I start to climb out of the helicopter.
“Zach,” Father says.
I hesitate in the doorway.
“If it gets to be too much, will you call me?”
“Too much?”
“The thoughts. I know waiting can be difficult for you.”
“I’ll call.”
“I’d prefer it. These last few days—” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I had to make some choices that were difficult for me on personal level. I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but I think it’s important that you know. I’d like it if this was an anomaly, something that we move on from.”
“I’d like that, too,” I say.
“Call me if you have an issue. Don’t let it get to this point again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
I step onto the tarmac. The blades rev up behind me, whipping the air into a frenzy as the helicopter takes off, banks hard, and disappears in the night.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
A G37 COUPE IS WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE GROCERY STORE OUTSIDE THE BASE.
There is an iPhone charging in the center console and a set of documents in the glove compartment. I push down the visor, open the vanity mirror, and blow hot air on it. A number appears there, the secure PIN for the phone that will serve as my code for this waiting period. I memorize it and wipe the mirror clean.
I start the car. The engine roars to life. It’s the big engine that Infiniti is known for, 330 horsepower of muscle, a rare indulgence these days.
I pull out of the parking lot, the wind whipping through open windows.
The Program is back, our protocols are in place, and the elements have been arranged for my safe egress.
It’s as if the last four days never happened. The Program never disappeared, never left me.
Part of me wants to accept this. I was used and I survived. This was my mission. It was more complex than the ones that preceded it, but so be it. Everything is back to normal now.
But another part of me knows this is a lie. I trusted these people once.
Never again.
A phone vibration snaps me back to the present moment.
It’s not coming from the new Program iPhone in the center console. It’s the iPhone I forgot I had. The one connected to Howard.
“Jets leave trails in the sky,” he says when I answer the phone.
His voice is rushed and excited, Howard in fast-forward mode.
“I’m not following you,” I say.
“Jets leave trails. So do digital signals. E-mails, voice messages, interagency communications. They all leave faint trails online, even the secure ones. Especially the secure ones, because even though they are erased, they are not overwritten by the amount of traffic that overwrites normal public communications.”
“Where are you going with this, Howard?”
“I followed the trails.”
“Followed them where?”
“To your father.”
I’ve accelerated without realizing it, and when I look up, I’m bearing down on the rear bumper of the truck ahead. I swerve, narrowly missing it as I switch to an empty lane.
“Where are you now?” I say.
“I’m still in Manchester.”
“I told you to get out of there.”
“I just had to do one thing before I left,” he says. “And one thing led to another, and the data started to come in—”
“Promise me you’ll pack up as soon as we get off the phone.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I triple swear it. That’s what Goji makes me do when I promise to FaceTime her in Osaka, but I forget and—”
“My father. Tell me where you found him.”
“Right, right,” he says, getting back on task. “He was in the historical data. The Program data. Remember that twelve-year-old hacker I told you about when you were in New York?”