“There’s an office betting pool,” said Prefect. “About whose wraith would land on the right bus. I bet on you, of course.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “Now tell me what I’ve won.”
“There’ve been a series of hijacked buses between San Francisco and Portland over the last year. We traced a pattern to routes that run north on Thursdays and south on Sundays.”
“So you’ve been putting wraiths on buses in the hope that one of us would end up on a hijacked trip?”
“Precisely.”
I leaned my forehead against the driver’s cabin. “And what did you win?”
Prefect sounded very satisfied. “A coffee maker.”
“This is only worth a coffee maker?”
“It’s a very good coffee maker. Just don’t set it on fire, too.”
“Why didn’t you just trace the passengers?” I said. “Surely you’ve got records of everyone who rides these things.”
Prefect made a soft sound that seemed to indicate I was being foolish. “Of course we tried. But buses are one of the few modes of transportation that take cash and don’t require ID. And some of the cameras have been nonfunctional. We haven’t been able to compile a list of all the passengers on the hijacked buses.”
I exhaled hard, my breath fogging the glass. “So where’s this bus going to end up? The bottom of a lake?”
“Of course not,” he said. “There are no lakes in your vicinity.”
I huffed out a half sigh, half laugh. “You always know just how to cheer me up, Prefect.”
“Don’t panic,” Prefect replied. “If these hijackings were violent, you’d have already heard about them. No, these are more of a… taunting nature.”
“Taunting?” I said, forehead scrunching. “What do you mean?”
“The first stopped by an amusement park,” said Prefect. “Another went to a restaurant. One to a popular tourist attraction that sells ice cream shaped like dinosaurs. And the hacks are so seamless that we only find out after the bus has arrived at its destination. Most of the previous passengers believed that the detours were scheduled. Right now, I’m looking at the bus’s supposed location and it says you’re on I-5. Luckily your personal tracker says otherwise.”
I caught on. “Okay. So whoever’s doing this is a pro. I assume you checked everyone at the bus company?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding faintly offended for the first time. “The navigation is input by the driver and cannot be altered remotely.”
I turned to face the passengers. There were about fifteen—among them was a dad reading to two toddlers, a middle-aged woman asleep with a baseballcap pulled down over her face, a preteen boy lost in his tablet game, a young woman with very pale skin and turquoise hair, a twenty-something with expensive sunglasses, and that old lady with the yarn.
“So,” I said. “It’s got to be a passenger.”
“That’s the assumption, yes,” said Prefect. “I’m sending backup your way and I’ll be keeping tabs on your route. If you appear to be going someplace dangerous, I will call you. But in the meantime, find the hijacker. This person is good enough that they either need to be in prison or on the payroll.”
“And I should try to keep everyone on the bus safe?” I asked a little dryly.
There was a short pause. “If you believe that’s necessary.” A click and the call ended.
What Prefect hadn’t said—and hadn’t needed to say—was that no driver had been drugged before. Whoever this hijacker was, they were escalating.
We headed into the heart of the burn zone. An uneasy thrum of conversation buzzed through the bus. About half the bus were arguing that this must be an approved detour while the others seemed to think something was wrong. The dead trees cast eerie shadows along the road. Wherever we were heading, it wasn’t an amusement park or a restaurant. I didn’t know where we were going and I didn’t really want to find out. The ground was orange red from the fire retardant. Scattered alongside the road were old cars that had been caught in previous wildfires.They were nothing but hollowed-out metal frames, dragged off the pavement and left to rust.
“All right,” I said, clapping my hands. All eyes turned to me. “I regret to inform you that you’ve officially all become part of a hostage situation.”
They all gaped at me and I realized my error.
“Not by me,” I said. I gestured at the front of the bus. “Our driver’s unconscious and our course has been altered. Which means we’ve been hijacked.”
It was the dad who spoke up first. “Why should we trust you?” He had sleek black hair and was tall enough that he had to angle himself sideways so his knees didn’t hit the seat in front of him. His kids looked like twins.
