Induction, Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: Ninjas and Boy Bands

The blast from the second explosion feels like an eternity ago, though only a few seconds have passed. My leg muscles are already burning when we reach the top, emerging from the underground lair to the forest. Tall pine and aspen trees cast long shadows from the evening sun, and cold air nips at my exposed skin. It’s surreal and disorienting after being surrounded by bland gray stone.

A hand on my back pushes me forward, not giving me a chance to regain my senses. We continue running. Through brush, over logs, across streams, until my sides ache and a sharp pain pings in my shoulder. My throat is tight, my lungs scream for air, and we continue racing away. Somehow, I haven’t tripped yet.

“Circe. We’re thirty seconds out,” the ninja says, his words easy, like he’s not running for his life. He’s not the one who almost died, though. Elizabeth and I are. But she’s also not gasping for air like I am.

A chopping sound of a helicopter thrums in the distance, the first sign of normal civilization since we emerged from the lair. We burst into a clearing, a meadow of winter-browned grass taller than my knees. The clearing stretches a couple hundred yards before deferring to the forest again. The ninja and Elizabeth come to a stop. I bend over, hands on my knees. Through hacking coughs, I try to catch my breath.

“Stand up straight, hands on your hips or your head,” Elvis says. “You’ll breathe easier that way.”

I peek up at him as he stands next to Elizabeth, wondering if his name is really Elvis. I don’t recognize his voice, but it has been years since I’ve listened to One Times Three. Voices change with puberty. But who’s to say he is one of the brothers? He could be unrelated to the band, for all I know.

Elizabeth leans against an aspen, skin as pale as the aspen’s bark, and nods at me. She holds her injured arm to her chest and Elvis eyes her injury with concern. I straighten but leave my arms hanging at my sides. I cough a couple more times, my lungs unaccustomed to such aggressive cardio.

“Don’t freak out,” the ninja says to me again.

What’s he going to blow up this time? Is he going to pull off his mask?

Elizabeth gives him a look. “Stop it. She doesn’t need your stupid warnings.”

“It’s protocol.” His words are clipped, and his attention keeps returning to her injured hand.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, but before either of us can interject, I hear the helicopter again. Closer. The chopping of its blades, the rumble of its engine.

“That’s for us,” she says, grinning tiredly.

A rush of wind blows past us. A shadow passes overhead. My hands press to my ears as I watch the helicopter lower into the middle of the clearing, wildly tossing the grass and our hair.

You’ve got to be kidding me!  I can’t take my eyes from it. This isn’t real. Now I really am in one of Anita’s video games.

As soon as the skids touch the forest floor, the two guide me to the helicopter. Instinct has me ducking my head as we approach, though with how the helicopter is built, I can stand fully upright and not get my head sliced off.

A gloved hand appears in my view, and I look up into yet another masked face. My heart beats as rapidly as the blades. I take their hand as I’m helped into the flying machine. They buckle my seat belt for me and slide a headset on my head, adjusting the mic close to my mouth. The din of the engine and rotor instantly recedes.

I sit across from the ninja who helped me in, and next to Elizabeth. “Elvis” sits across from her, leaning forward to assess her wounds.

The pilot is a slight woman with black hair cut to her sharp jawline. She’s wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a form-fitting T-shirt. Her left arm is a sleeve of tattoos all the way to her knuckles. A slight southern accent spurs her speech: “HQ, this is Circe. ETA five minutes. Medical attention is needed.”

She then asks us how we’re doing. The question isn’t stupid or awkward, like when friends and family asked after Aaron died. We’ve just been through a traumatic event. How do you think we’re doing? The question is more calculating, like a doctor trying to assess our pain level.

“It’s been a day,” Elizabeth answers, eyes closed and head leaned back against the seat. “Elvis” is examining the hand she ripped from the shackles. Even with his mask on, I can see the pinch of concern in his brow. Her hand is swollen, purple and black bruises peek out from under dried blood.

“Sahara was there,” he says, not taking his eyes off her mangled hand.

Silence hangs like a fog in the air; not even the sound of the rotors can diminish the sadness and loss of those words. I may not have any connection to Sahara, but I’ve experienced loss. We don’t have to share the same reason. Loss is loss.

The ninja in the front seat pulls off his mask, revealing familiar tight curls—Devon.

“Uh,” someone says.

“She’s already seen my face, chill,” Devon says, as he readjusts his headset.

“Huh. Cool.” The ninja in front of me pulls off his mask. His dark hair is cut in a faux hawk fade—buzzed on the sides, a couple of inches longer on top. Not the longer, shoulder-length hair I’m used to seeing on all the posters I used to have. Without a doubt in my mind, I know he is Jonah from One Times Three. The second oldest of the brothers. He waggles his thick eyebrows at me.

I blink, looking away. Not sure where my head is at. A pounding in the back of my skull spreads to the rest of my head. My eyes ache.

“This is not protocol,” the ninja with Elizabeth says, focusing on her hands as he shakes his head.

He doesn’t have to take off his mask. Two out of three brothers have revealed themselves. This concerned-with-protocol ninja is Adam. He’s the youngest. I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t the one I crushed on the most. Maybe because he’s closest to my age, or because of his alto voice, or for his love of pineapple on pizza. The one thing we have in common. I was into a lot of things when I was thirteen that I don’t pay much mind to anymore.

“She knows who you are, A—”

Adam flashes his brother a dark, warning look.

“Whatever.” Jonah throws up his hands.

The tension is heavy, and the awkward silence is deafening. I keep my attention directed out the windshield. A mansion comes into view, nestled on the hillside and surrounded by trees. The building’s neutral earth tones keep it from popping out like a sore thumb, even with the elegant pillars and vast backyard swimming pool. In the front sprawls a cobblestone courtyard with a circular fountain.

Despite the fog and warbling in my head, I recognize that mansion. I’ve seen it from below, on the road leading to the highway. The tall, peaked roofing and the turret-like thing at the entrance.

It takes me a moment, though, to realize the mansion is our destination. On the side of the building is a large concrete helipad. The pilot lowers the helicopter, keeping it steady.

A stone pathway leads from the platform to the mansion. A middle-aged, suntanned man and a young Black woman stride down the path with taut, grim expressions. The man’s strict military buzz cut speaks of authority, and he is clad in dark khaki pants and a black T-shirt that strains against the brawn of his barrel chest and shoulders. The woman’s hair is done up in dozens of braids, pulled in a knot on the top of her head. She wears a blue long-sleeve shirt and leggings that hug her curved, muscular body.

Being back on solid ground is weird. As smooth as the helicopter ride was, my stomach starts to churn like the fog in my head. My jaw tightens. Saliva rushes into my mouth. I stumble from the platform, fall to my knees, hunch over, and spew bile, coating a bush that lines the path to the mansion. Never mind the needles and little pieces of gravel digging into my palms and knees. My head throbs, my body aches. I sit on my knees, trembling, staring at nothing.