AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Do you think this is a joke, Mr. Sharpe?” he demands.
His panic doesn’t make any sense. “Let me out of here,” I say. “You said I’m not under arrest, and I’m missing ceramics class.”
“You’re going to need a parent or guardian to pick you up,” he says, placing the coffees on the table. He’s no longer flustered, which means they planned for me to ask to be let go. He’s back to a script he knows. “We can certainly get your mother to come down and get you, if that’s really what you want.”
“No,” I say, realizing I’ve been outmaneuvered. “That’s okay.”
Now Agent Hunt just looks smug, wiping his sleeve with a napkin. “I thought you’d see it my way.”
I pick up one of the coffees and take a sip. “And you didn’t even have to spell your threat out. Honestly, I must be some kind of model prisoner.”
“Listen, smart-ass—”
“What do you want?” I ask. “What is all of this for? Fine, okay, I’m a worker. So what? You’ve got no proof that I’ve ever worked anyone. I’m not a criminal until I do, and I’m not gonna.” It’s a relief to tell a lie this big; I feel like I’m daring them to contradict it.
Agent Hunt doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t seem suspicious, either. “We need your help, Cassel.”
I choke on the coffee.
Agent Hunt is about to say something else when the door opens and Agent Jones comes in. I have no idea what he’s been doing all this time, but the lunch they promised is nowhere in sight.
“I hear you’ve been a handful,” Agent Jones says. Either he was watching the camera feed or someone told him about my little trick, because he glances over at the gum.
I try to stop coughing. It’s hard. I think some of the coffee went down the wrong pipe.
“Listen, Cassel, there’s lots of kids like you,” Agent Hunt says. “Worker kids who fall in with the wrong element. But your abilities don’t have to lead you in that direction. The government has a program to train young workers to control their talents and to use them in the cause of justice. We’d be happy to recommend you.”
“You don’t even know what my talents are,” I say. I really, really hope that’s true.
“We employ all different types of workers, Cassel,” says Agent Jones.
“Even death workers?” I ask.
Agent Jones regards me closely. “Is that what you are? Because it would be very serious if it were true. That’s a dangerous ability.”
“I didn’t say that,” I say, hoping that I sound unconvincing. I don’t care if they think I’m a death worker like my grandfather. I don’t care if they think I’m a luck worker like Zacharov, a dream worker like Lila, a physical worker like Philip, a memory worker like Barron, or an emotion worker like Mom. So long as they don’t guess that I’m a transformation worker. There hasn’t been one in the United States since the 1960s, and I am sure that if the government happened to stumble on one now, they wouldn’t just let him go back to high school.
“This program,” Agent Jones goes on. “It’s run by a woman—Agent Yulikova. We’d like you to meet her.”
“What does that have to do with you needing my help?” I ask.
This whole setup feels like a con. The way they’re acting, the grim glances they share when they think I don’t notice. I’m sure their generous offer to let me be part of some secret government training program is part of the shakedown, what I’m not sure about is why they’re shaking me down.
“I know you have some familiarity with the Zacharov crime family, so there’s no point in denying it,” Agent Jones begins, holding up his hand when I start to speak. “You don’t need to confirm it either. But you should know that over the past three years, Zacharov’s been stepping up assassinations both in and out of his organization. Mostly we don’t get too worked up about mobsters killing one another, but one of our informants was the most recent target.”
A creeping dread chills my skin as he puts a black-and-white photograph down on the table in front of me.
The man in the photo has been shot several times in the chest, and his shirt is a mess of black. He’s lying on his side. Blood has soaked into the carpet underneath him, and his loose hair partially obscures his face. Still, it’s a face I would know anywhere.
“He was shot sometime last night,” says Agent Hunt. “The first bullet penetrated between the seventh and eight ribs and entered his right atrium. He died instantly.”
I feel like someone punched me in the gut.
I push the picture back toward Agent Jones. “What are you showing me this for?” My voice shakes. “That’s not Philip. That’s not my brother.”
I’m standing, but I don’t even remember getting up.
“Calm down,” Agent Hunt says.
