Stifled (Summoned Book 2) Read online

  “We need to deliver it to a house.”

  “We don't have a house in California,” she says.

  “Yes. . .” I give her a look imploring her to follow along.

  Syd is a tick away from going wack jack. Best to ease her into the idea.

  She stares at me again. Then her head lulls back as she groans. “That's like a six hour drive.”

  “Overnight the order, and you can round trip,” I say.

  “Me?” She sits straight. “You want me to haul chemicals over the state line?”

  I laugh.

  “There isn't a big potassium nitrate smuggling ring going on, Syd. No one will care.” I push to my feet and cross the room to the table. I pull the other chair next to her, straddling it backwards. “Besides, I need to stay here and work out the other parts of it.”

  Her expression is like she's scrambling for a counter-argument. Then she sighs, defeated, and logs into the hotel Internet to order the rest of my supplies.

  ***

  Syd takes one of the guns and heads out. She will be gone for at least a full day, probably closer to two. That's cutting it close, considering we have to be back in Phoenix soon for the JiNet get together.

  I strip the toilet paper tubes and turn them into handy little containers. I wrap some papers for the fuses. I re-watch the online tutorials. Come to find out, that's about all I can do for prep work. The potassium nitrate is a key part of the whole project.

  The rest of the time, I just hang around at the hotel. I even order in. As much as I would like to convince myself I'm too tired to leave, I can't ignore the truth: I'm afraid to go outside. I might run into my fan club again.

  ***

  Syd texts me once when she reaches Phoenix and once when she starts her trip back to Los Angeles. I don't hear from her again until she lets herself into the hotel room. She looks road weary.

  She tosses two packages at me.

  I catch them and place them on the table. “Didn't have to pay off the cartel, I see.”

  “Wrong.” She drops onto the bed. “You owe them a kidney.”

  “Huh. All I have to barter is cocaine.”

  She kicks off her shoes and crawls under the blankets. With a groan, she buries her head in pillows and says, muffled, “Some days, I don't like you. Just saying.”

  “Get some sleep, Syd.”

  She uncovers her face and lifts up to look at me. “You coming to bed?”

  “Nope,” I say, tearing into the packets. “I got some cooking to do.”

  ***

  Single electric burners are the not the easiest way to melt candle wax, but they work. Eventually. I spend the night mixing up wax, sugar, potassium nitrate, and food dye, then stuffing the cardboard tube containers.

  Somewhere between the witching hour and don't-give-a-shit-o'clock, I find myself yawning and rubbing my eyes. I straighten, my back protesting. I have been bent over the vanity so long I'm starting to feel like Quasimodo.

  With a half-sigh, half-yawn, I plug in the glue gun to finish off my art project.

  A voice says, “I don't want to do this.”

  Once I peel myself off the ceiling, I turn to Syd standing in the doorway. “Jesus, woman. Remind me to never work on anything explosive around you.”

  She tilts her head, hair ruffled. “You should get some rest.”

  “I will. Soon. Kinda.” I go back to gluing. “What don't you want to do?”

  “This task. I'll call Lyle in a few hours and tell him I'm withdrawing.”

  I glance at her. “Bad idea.”

  She doesn't reply, just watches me work.

  After I finish a tube, I set down the gun and unplug it. “Look, you accepted the task. He gave us the details. You think he's going to let us walk off with that info? Risk us giving the target a heads up?”

  “He said these were members' houses.”

  I give her a look.

  “Just because you don't like him doesn't mean he's lying,” she says.

  “Not liking him is an understatement.” I shove a homemade igniter into the next container. “I would Mozambique Drill him, twice for good measure. But I think Thor trying to spill Sea World on my head was a pretty good indicator we weren't supposed to have that laptop.”

  She quirks her lips. “I only followed half of that.”

  I return my attention to finishing off the tubes.

  At length, Syd says, voice soft, “I didn't mean to, Dim.”

  I don't respond. I know she means the fight, but I'm not awake enough to talk about it. I'm not sure I have anything left to say, either.

  She continues, still barley more than a whisper, “I thought deep down, you would want to know more, too.”

  “I told you I didn't,” I say, flatly.

  “Yeah, but you went along with it.”

  “What else what I supposed to do, Syd?” I lean over to seal off the last tube, then glance at her in the vanity mirror. “You kept insisting.”

  “Yes, you're right. But you let me.”

  I tilt my head to look at her directly. “Care to reword that?”

  “No,” she says, without missing a beat. She stands taller. “No, you're not supposed to always agree with me. You're not supposed to always let me have my way.”

  “You could have just listened,” I say, more nonchalant than I feel.

  “You're right. I made a mistake—some pretty big ones—and I'm sorry. But there are other people out there in the world, Dim, and they're not always going to ask for your opinion. You have to make them listen. Make them hear you.”

  I swallow hard. I have no idea what she's jabbering about, yet it makes perfect sense at the same time.

  My brain is too tired for this.

  She shakes her head. “There's no difference between not having freedom and being too afraid to use it.”

  Before I can grasp a reply, she turns and walks away.

  ***

  After I finish off my project, I clean up the vanity and throw away the wax-crusted pots.

  Syd frowns at the wastebasket. “Why is the wax purple?”

  “Oh, you know. Aesthetics.” I drop down on the end of bed and flip on the TV. My brain has caught a second surge, and it will be a while before I'm ready to sleep.

  I hope Lyle meant it when he said this was the last test. Everything has been a disaster since Syd and I came back to the US. I'm not sure how many more run-ins I'll have before I'm forced to shoot to kill. Then a whole new slew of problems will arise.

  I hold up my hand to inspect my fingers. “I think my fingerprints are coming back.”

  “Um, congrats?” Syd looks up from the laptop on the table. “When was the last time you. . .did the thing?”

  I drop my hand to my lap and shrug. “I don't know. Forgot to mark it on the calendar.”

  Syd returns her attention to the laptop. After a moment, I stand and head to the vanity.

  “What are you doing?” She comes over to me.

  I plug in one of the flat burners and crank up the dial.

  “You do realize they can pick up DNA from crime scenes, right?” Her tone is sharp.

  “Eh, it was good enough for Karl,” I say.

  She hesitates. “Yeah, but Karl had a lot of connections.”

  “Touche, mon amour.”

  I stick all ten fingertips to the burner. Not a pleasant sensation, but still better than someone cramming my hand onto a hot plate against my will. I learned that much a long time ago.

  Just breathe through it.

  After my fingers are properly aching, I peel away from the burner. My skin sticks a little. I turn the cold water on with the side of my hand and rinse the burns.

  Syd unplugs the burner, marches it across the room, and drops it into the wastebasket.

  “That's a fire hazard,” I say, still running my fingers under the cold water.

  “You are a fire hazard.” She goes back to her laptop.

  It's not until I return to watching TV, absently proddin
g at the blisters on my fingertips, that I understand what Syd was trying to tell me last night. For some reason, I can stand up for her life when she is in danger, but not for mine.

  I have resigned to my role.

  ***

  Santa Clarita is about a forty minutes north of Los Angeles. I leave in the late afternoon with the hopes of catching the tail end of the day at the academy. Less people, and those remaining will want to wrap up the day as quickly as possible.

  My plan is to pretend I'm there for an interview, baffle everyone until I'm brought into the back to wait. Then I'll drop a few lit smoke bombs, race down the hall to the target room, grab the files, and slip out.

  The mixture inside the smoke bomb tubes is dyed purple just to add to the mayhem. People know how to react to regular gray smoke, but purple will momentarily confuse them. And I need as many moments as possible.

  I follow my GPS to the academy. The entrance has a small walkway that leads to tinted glass doors. Posted signs direct to park to the side, so I do. The parking lot is shared with a separate shopping center.

  I grab my backpack from the passenger seat and walk around to the front of the academy. A sign posted in the lawn indicates it's a dance studio.

  Why don't I ever look this stuff up first? There's no way I can sell myself as someone who belongs here. The only role I might be a convincing candidate for is janitor. Or security.

  Bingo.

  Security is often staffed by third parties. That might work in my favor by adding more to the disarray. It'll take them longer to discover I'm a phony, and by then, I'll be breaking chocks.

  With renewed hope, I head up the walkway and push the door. It doesn't give. A handwritten note taped to the glass catches my eye.

  Closed for performance.

  What the hell does that mean? I drop the backpack to the ground and crouch next to it to pull out the map.

  Now that I know what the building is used for, the map makes a lot more sense. So does that big domed room on the other side of the building.

  I stand, grabbing my bag, and round to the back of the building. Turns out, it's the theater front, with big glass doors and trees on either side. A few people are standing by a planter, smoking.

  A ticket booth sits to the right. I head to it.

  The clerk—a young kid, maybe in high school—speaks through the shatterproof glass panel. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. . .” My gaze trails over the wall behind him, looking for some sort of itinerary. Nada. “I need a ticket for tonight's show.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I slide him my card. A moment later, he returns it with a ticket. I thank him, then wander away, studying the ticket.

  Aerial Belly Dancing.

  Whatever that is, it doesn't start for an hour. I return to my car.

  My phone vibrates, so I pull it from my pocket. Syd is calling me.

  I answer. “Hey, kinda in the middle of a thing.”

  “Then why did you answer?” Her tone is curt.

  “You got me. I have a few minutes.” I push myself up to sit on the hood of the car. “What's going on?”

  “Zoe called. She says she misses me and wants to come back to the US. I told her she couldn't, so she started crying and hung up.”

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't.

  “Well,” I say, trying to figure out what the right answer is, “she can't. Too dangerous right now.”

  “Yeah.” Syd's tone is flat.

  I start to ask what she expects me to do about this, then I remember this is Syd. Always mild, always stoic. Always on the verge of a hidden break down. Especially about Zoe.

  “You did the right thing, Syd,” I say.

  Syd is quiet a moment, and then whispers, “Thank you.”

  She hangs up.

  I sigh, sprawling out on the hood and staring up at the sky. Truth is, Syd doesn't know what she's doing any more than I do. Something tells me she's regretting ever getting us wrapped up with Lyle. Now I just have to figure out how to get us out of it.

  ***

  Over the next hour, the sun goes down, the academy lights up, and people fill the entrance. I grab the backpack and head indoors. The lobby is bright, with red carpet and posters with gold frames lining the walls. To the right, a busy snack stand, and straight ahead, a darkened hallway with a posted ticket taker. Contagious excitement fills the air to the point I have to remind myself I'm here to make a mess of things.

  I join the small crowd flowing toward the hallway. Everyone is chattering and laughing. I hand over my ticket, take back the stub, and stroll inside. No one gives my backpack a second glance.

  The dimly lit room opens to rows of seats on either side. Against the far wall, red theater curtains are pulled over the stage.

  I stand in the aisle, studying the map. More of the outline comes together. Behind the stage opens into a hallway that leads into the actual studio—and to the room I need.

  Someone bumps me from behind. I look up from the map and head toward the front row. An idea is forming.

  I shove the map into my backpack as I evaluate the theater. The areas to either side of the stage are dark, hiding tall floor speakers. There's a walkway directly above me, but I doubt I can get up there without being noticed. The map doesn't show if it leads anywhere, either.

  The seats fill up. I keep the backpack on my lap and wait. This is going to require the right timing, which would help a lot if I knew what this show was going to be like.

  The lights dim further. The curtains pull open to reveal someone with a microphone. She welcomes everyone. People applaud and whistle. She talks a little about the school. Nothing noteworthy. Then she bids everyone to enjoy themselves. More applause. The curtains close.

  I unzip my backpack and reach inside with one hand to line up smoke bombs.

  The curtain opens again. Several long strips of gathered fabrics hang from above and pool on the stage. The lights above them flick on.

  A woman enters from the side and glides to the center of the stage. She's dressed head to toe like she just stepped out of Arabian Nights, the glimmering red and gold outfit displaying her toned abs. Completing the look, long black hair to her waist decorated with so much jewelry, I'm not sure how she keeps her head upright.

  She sweeps her arms out in front of her, then bows low.

  A drum intro starts banging out of the speakers.

  My hand slinks from the backpack to my jacket pocket and finds the lighter.

  She begins to shimmy across the stage. Syd would dig this.

  I'm about to make the show a little more interesting.

  The woman reaches up and grabs the fabric beside her. My gaze fixes on her as she snakes up the fabric in rhythmic, almost eerie, movements. She stops, legs wrapped around the fabric, and moves her arms and stomach to the music.

  Kinda hot. I feel a little bad about what's to come.

  A line of dancers in bright colors make their way onto the stage, twisting and doing that gliding thing.

  I move forward in my seat, just inches.

  The woman in the air separates the fabric into two strips as she continues to quiver in time with the song. The line of dancers spread out across the stage.

  I stand and step to the side. The woman next to me glances up, then her attention returns to the show.

  I inch back into the shadows, closer to the clattering, thumping speakers and the rich, foreign words emanating from them.

  The grounded dancers spin around.

  I duck into the darkness, biting back the twinge in my ankle.

  The music kicks up. I light a smoke bomb and throw it. The woman in the air swings upside down. The stage fills with purple smoke.

  The crowd cheers.

  I'm golden.

  I follow with two more bombs. The smoke billows into an enormous cloud.

  I take off across the stage. The fabric brushes against my sleeves as I run. I can't see anything. Neither can anyone else.

&
nbsp; I skid around the back of the stage, arms out. I find the exit and dive through.

  A woman at a table in a kitchen area looks up.

  “Special effects,” I say between gasps. “Ran out.”

  I bail down the hall before she can ask anything else. To the immediate right, a room with a mirror lined wall. I turn into a different lobby, stumbling over chairs. There's no one here. Thankfully.

  I make a sharp right and halt at a door. There's my room.

  My hand goes to the lock. It's not a lock. It's a keypad.

  My gaze travels up to the hinges. There aren't any. Not visible, anyway.

  I glance back the way I came. No one is after me. Yet. They're going to check into it, though.

  I beat my fist against the door as I push on the knob. The door echos.

  It's metal.

  Nothing is safe from being broken into, but short of whipping up some thermite, this door is pretty much Fort Knox to me.

  My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my pants legs.

  Someone shouts behind me.

  I turn, muscles tensing for a fight. A security guard is standing in the lobby.

  He takes a step closer. “What are you doing?”

  “I need into this room,” I say, trying to sound urgent instead of panicky. “I'm doing the effects for the stage and—”

  “Yeah, go ahead and just step away from the door, kid.”

  I give him the once over. No gun, but he does have a small club or something holstered at his waist.

  He's waiting for me to make the next move.

  I try to be discreet as I analyze my options. He's in the path of the tinted glass door. The only other way out is back through the stage. Probably a bad idea without a smoke screen. Behind him are three rooms, and one is jarred open, revealing a window.

  “Step away from the door,” he says again.

  I barrel toward him. He puts out his arm to catch me. I shove him away and bolt into the open room.

  Mirrors line one wall. Fabric hangs from the ceiling. The window is dead ahead.

  I make a move for it.

  He grabs the collar of my jacket, pulling it taut. I turn into my punch. He ducks and shoves me back. I stumble a few steps. My ankle gives. Pain bolts straight to the top of my head. I hit ass to ground. He reaches down for me. I bring my arm up and knock him back. The backpack slips off my other shoulder and falls to the floor.