Resonance - Erica O'Rourke Page 0,33
the aisle of the next compartment. The seats were crammed full, but nobody batted an eye at our appearance. Ms. Powell leaned weakly against the door we’d circumvented.
“They say it gets easier,” she said, “But I’ve been doing it my whole life, and I always think it’s going to be my last Walk.”
I sank down onto an empty seat, my knees wobbly. “I’m not sure I can do that again. What if we’d gotten the timing wrong?”
“Some questions are better left unanswered.” The train jolted to a stop, the station visible through the windows. Two guys—nearly identical with their buzz cuts, broad shoulders, and a distinct lack of neck—were standing on the platform, scrutinizing everyone who exited the train. They had the same stance you saw rent-a-cops use—flat stare, feet spread, hands behind their back—but their heads were tilted to the side.
“Our contact’s a few cars down,” Ms. Powell said. “We’ll go as soon as everyone’s settled.”
I flattened myself against the wall as a group of chattering senior citizens entered. I glanced out the window again, but the rent-a-twins were gone.
The train started with a jerk, and people shuffled into the seats. Ms. Powell began making her way along the center aisle. I trailed behind, distracted by all the pivots created by the new passengers.
Unease rippled through me. If a single person made contact, the entire train would see us.
We made our way across the compartment and into the next vestibule, the chill air like a slap. Ms. Powell hauled open another set of doors, then stopped. I peered over her shoulder, curious about the delay. Halfway down the compartment, a harried-looking mom was wrangling two rambunctious toddlers and an enormous stroller. She’d managed to block the entire aisle, take up four seats, and spill Cheerios everywhere. They crunched underfoot as the train swayed. The other passengers tsked and gaped, but nobody offered to help.
The doors at the far end of the car slid open, revealing the guys from the platform. They stepped inside, forming a surly barricade, and my uneasiness grew.
Ms. Powell pointed to the upper level. “Let’s wait up there till this clears out.”
I backed into the staircase, the stainless steel walls cold and claustrophobic. Peering around the corner, I saw the men scrutinizing each seat, every face. One of them closed his eyes and tilted his head.
“We need to reach our contact,” Ms. Powell said. “You’re scheduled to jump in a few minutes.”
My nerves stretched tighter at her words. The creak-clatter of the train, the passengers’ conversations, the static and blare, the pitch of the world—it was overwhelming. I tried to focus on Ms. Powell’s instructions, but then, unmistakably, I caught a wisp of the Key World’s frequency.
“Something’s wrong with the pitch,” I said. Squeezing my eyes shut, I cocked my head to the side and listened closely.
Just like the rent-a-twins.
My eyes snapped open.
“Walkers!” I hissed, ducking back in the stairwell. “The guys by the door.”
Ms. Powell froze, then glanced casually at the end of the compartment. “How can you—”
“The one on the left is listening.” I knew the motion, because I’d done it a zillion times. “He’s trying to pick up our frequency.”
And judging from the way they were moving toward us—steps slow and menacing—they’d found it.
“Did they follow us?” I asked.
“No. I was very careful. They could have followed our contact. Or someone tipped them off.”
The stroller-toting mom was still blocking the aisle, but not for long.
“They might not know there’s two of us,” Ms. Powell said. “Head back the way we came, and get off at the next station. I’ll deal with the guards.”
“How? With your baton? What about finding Simon? What about your contact?”
“Simon will be kept safe. But we can’t afford to lose you, either.”
The conductor called out the next stop, and the upper-level passengers began collecting their bags, shuffling toward the stairs. In a moment I’d be forced into view.
“Go,” she hissed. “Go now!”
I pulled up my hood and kept my back to the guards, hoping the other passengers would block me from sight. Tugging the door open, I chanced a quick look back. Stroller Mom had cleared out of the way. One of the guards put a hand to his hip, revealing the stun gun there.
The Consort’s enforcement branch didn’t carry regular guns. Too risky—a stray bullet could hit a bystander. Few things created an Echo as strong as an unexpected death, and they wanted to avoid such things at all costs.
They wouldn’t kill us. They’d capture us. Put us