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“We don’t have time for this,” says the suit, then he turns to Connor. “You want a deal? How’s this? You and sleeping beauty come peacefully, and they don’t get arrested for harboring known fugitives.”
And although Connor doesn’t believe for an instant that they’re going to leave CyFi and his dads alone, his only other option is to fight and get tranq’d like Risa. What chance would he have to negotiate for her then? Besides, there’s something that he senses in this man. He’s trying to be efficient, even a little nonchalant, but there’s an uneasiness in him. The man in the suit is scared. Why is he scared?
They turn Connor around to handcuff him, pulling his arms behind his back. He grimaces. “Careful! My seams!”
“Your what?” the suit says. “Forget it, I don’t want to know.” He has them turn Connor around again, cuffing him in front instead of behind.
They lead him and carry Risa to a jet that’s sitting in a weedy field across the road, without the benefit of anything resembling a runway. Connor had seen planes like this at the Graveyard.
“A Harrier Whisper-Bomber?”
“You know your machines,” the suit says. “Workhorse of the Heartland War. Vertical takeoff and landing. Completely silent.”
“Then Risa and I must be the bombs.”
The suit shifts uncomfortably. “That remains to be seen.”
They’re loaded inside, the three of them in a forward compartment separate from the tactical team. The intimidating boeuf carrying Risa puts her down gently and actually takes the time to put on her seat belt.
“Will you be coming back with the beverage cart?” Connor asks as he leaves to join his comrades.
The jet rises like a helicopter, its engines emitting only the faintest whine, then the craft accelerates, heading into the rising sun. Risa, still unconscious, slumps limply in the seat beside Connor, her seat belt and Connor’s shoulder the only things keeping her from falling. Across from them, the suit seems very pleased with himself. Connor considers how he might, even in handcuffs, throw the man out of the plane. But then the suit says:
“Congratulations—you’re in the protective custody of the federal government. We’ve taken you as a precaution, just in case the bee in the Juvenile Authority’s bonnet buzzes in your direction.”
It takes a moment for Connor to replay that in his mind and process it. “Wait—you’re not the Juvies?”
“If we were, you wouldn’t be alive right now.”
Connor’s still not ready to buy. “If I’m in protective custody, why am I in handcuffs?”
The suit smirks. “Because I trust you even less than you trust me.”
He introduces himself as Supervisory Special Agent Aragon, reflexively flashing his FBI badge, as if it means anything to Connor at this point.
“We are not the enemy,” he says.
“That’s what the enemy always says.”
He regards Connor, studying him like maybe he wants the eyes that Nelson never got.
“Do you believe in democracy, Connor?”
Not the kind of question Connor was expecting. “I used to,” Connor tells him. “I believe in the way it’s supposed to work.”
“It always works the way it’s supposed to work,” Aragon says. “A lot of bitching and moaning until somebody gets their way.” Then he pulls out a tablet and strokes the screen until he finds whatever it is he’s looking for. “As of this morning, forty-four percent of the American people are ready to reject the idea of unwinding.”
“It’s still not a majority.”
Aragon raises his eyebrows. “That’s only because you’re not seeing the whole picture.” Then he turns the tablet so Connor can see it. On-screen is a simple pie chart. “This morning, support for unwinding hit an all-time low of thirty-seven percent, with nineteen percent undecided. And I have news for you—that nineteen percent will ALWAYS be undecided. Which means, Connor, after all the bitching and moaning, it looks like you’re the one who got his way.” Aragon forces a smile and winks at him.
Connor has no faith in anyone who winks. “So it’s that easy?”
“You of all people should know it wasn’t easy at all.”
He’s right about that. The thought of all Connor has been through makes his seams begin to ache inside and out.
