The agent repeated what Jackson said into the radio and then told Jackson, “Good. Now go out front and wait for someone to arrive so they know where to find us.”
Jackson flashed Tyler an “I’m sorry” expression even though he didn’t say a word. He avoided my gaze altogether and did as he was instructed, leaving us alone with the young NSA agent.
“What do you want?” Tyler asked the agent, taking the lead and moving to stand in front of me, putting me out of the path of the gun.
I didn’t have a plan—everything was happening too fast to think. But I didn’t stay where Tyler put me. Instead, I reached down and snatched the box knife off the floor, clutching it in my palm.
The agent saw what I’d done, probably because I hadn’t been exactly smooth about it, but he stayed where he was, his gun still cocked and trained on the two of us. I didn’t blame him, really. I guess he’d heard the expression “You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”
“Son,” the agent said to Tyler like he was decades older than we were, even though he looked like he’d barely graduated from whatever training academy the NSA sent their agents to. “You need to step away from the girl. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here. She’s putting you in danger.”
That was when I realized it, the way he held the gun. He’d never really been pointing it at me at all.
He’d kept it aimed at Tyler the entire time. And the way he looked at me, all meaningful, the way he challenged me with his steady gaze, made it more than clear that he was in on my little secret, and he suspected what I did: that it wouldn’t do any good to shoot me.
Not that I was immune to pain or anything—I’d definitely felt the blade when Simon had cut me. But I’d healed all the same. And, most likely, if what I’d learned then was true, I’d probably heal from a gunshot too.
Tyler . . . not so much.
“Turn yourself in,” he told me, “and no one has to get hurt.”
“Don’t do it, Kyr.” Tyler ordered, his eyes never straying from the agent’s. He reached into his pocket and tossed me his keys. “Run.” He said it so calmly it was hard to believe he’d even noticed the gun at all. “Get out of here. Now!”
I looked from Tyler to the agent with the gun and down to the gun itself. There was no way I was leaving him.
It was over. The NSA had found my Achilles’ heel.
Still clutching the box cutter, I held up both hands, showing the agent that I surrendered.
Grinning with a kind of condescending arrogance, the agent took a step toward me. “I knew you’d make the right choi—” He stopped then, right where he was, midsentence and midstride. His eyes flicked down to my right arm, falling to my wrist.
I looked too.
A trickle of blood made its way down my arm from my closed fist where I clutched the razor-sharp blade curled against my palm. I recoiled, opening my fingers, but it was too late. The blade had already done its job, cutting a wide trench across my hand.
The pain was there again, a sting that started in the cut and burned all the way up my arm to my shoulder.
“Kyra!” Tyler started to lunge for me but stopped himself. His eyes were trained uncertainly on my injury, and I suddenly hoped he wasn’t one of those people who fainted at the sight of blood.
“It’s okay,” I told him, nearly forgetting we weren’t alone. “Wait . . . watch.” Already I could feel the telltale prickling sensation that told me the wound was beginning to heal. The tingling that meant my body was working. “It’s okay. It’ll heal.”
But he was shaking his head, his actions slow and skeptical. Despite everything he’d said, he hadn’t been entirely convinced. He remained where he was, transfixed, and he saw the same thing I saw.
It did heal. Same way as before. First the flow of blood around my palm became a mere trickle. And then the wound began to mend itself. To close, until there was nothing but the streaks of blood to indicate it had ever existed at all.
Tyler was still shaking his head when the agent lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We have a situation here,” he stated numbly, his eyes as wide as Tyler’s. “I repeat,” he said, this time taking an entire step back from us. “We have a . . .” His eyes dropped again to the blood that had dribbled down my arm. I didn’t know this guy, but if I had to guess, I’d say something about me or my cut had frightened him. “We have a Code Red,” he finished.
He lowered his weapon. “Come with me, son,” he said to Tyler, using the barrel of the gun as a pointer, indicating Tyler should step away from me too.
When we heard a door opening at the front of the store, the agent stopped backing up and whispered to Tyler, “It’s too late for both of us.” And then he closed his eyes and lifted his gun to his temple.
I gaped at him, at the scene unfolding in front of me, wondering what the—
But Tyler didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my hand, the one without the newly healed cut on its palm, and he dragged me. We were running when we reached the door that led to the alley, and were still running when we spilled out into the narrow, garbage-filled street, to his awaiting car beyond.
Running away from the earsplitting sound of the gunshot that came from the bookstore behind us.
We sat dazedly in Tyler’s car while we tried to collect ourselves after what we’d just witnessed, which we still weren’t entirely clear about. Had that agent really just shot himself?
Tyler recovered before I did. I wiped the blood on my already-stained jeans and stared blankly out the windshield at the quiet street beyond, trying to take a page from Tyler, the way he seemed to be able to channel that silent inner calm whenever he was thinking. It was hard, though. I wasn’t like him.
Are you sure? I silently asked, my brows pinching together as I nervously gripped the cell phone he’d handed me. I’d already tried calling my dad again, convinced it would be easier to explain things to him since he already believed half the stuff I had to say.
Turning to my mom was an entirely different story. She’d always been more practical than he was. She was all about facts and numbers and puzzles—things that made sense. Things that were normal and fit and didn’t disturb the status quo.
Things unlike my dad and his alien conspiracy theories. And surely unlike a daughter who was no longer like everyone else.
Tyler clutched my hand. It’ll be okay, his squeeze assured me.
I glanced down at the scribbling on my damp palm—the one I hadn’t cut—surprised that the marker had survived all the perspiration and blood and scrubbing with Wet Ones. The numbers were blurred around the edges, but it was still my handwriting, exactly the same as it had always been—reassuring considering so much else about me wasn’t.
I checked the time and then dialed hastily, before I could change my mind. Holding my breath, I waited to find out if Tyler was right or not.
Even though no one said hello when the phone stopped ringing, I knew it had been answered. “Mom?” My voice was timid and shaky.
“Kyra? Oh my god, where are you? I told you to stay home.” Her words came out in a rush, her relief audible.
“Mom, I need you to listen to me. There were these guys from the National Security Agency who came to the house—you can’t trust them. I can’t explain why right now, but you have to believe me. They’re after me, and they want to hurt me.” I looked to Tyler for strength before going on. I choked on a breathy chuckle. “I know it sounds like I’ve been drinking from Dad’s crazy Kool-Aid, but what I’m saying is true. These guys are bad, Mom. Don’t tell them anything.” When she didn’t respond right away, I asked uncertainly, “Mom? Did you hear me?”