“I’d like to, but I’m extremely busy at the moment.”
Rakel is reading her favorite graphic novel for the twenty-eighth time while eating oranges in bed. The whole room smells of citrus.
“Come on,” I coax her. “It’s a computer thing, and you’re better at it.”
Rakel holds her place with one long, dangerously pointed fingernail and glances over at me.
“I haven’t beaten you at a programming challenge in weeks.”
“This is something different.”
“You’re being mysterious because you want to intrigue me.”
“Is it working?” I grin.
“Maybe. I’ll help you—”
“Yay!”
“IF you do something for me.”
“What?” I say suspiciously.
“Go to the dining hall and get me four more oranges.”
“What!” I groan. “It’s hideous out there.”
“I know. That’s why it’s a good trade.”
“You already ate . . .” I try to count the towering stack of peels, “ . . . a whole fuck-load of oranges.”
“Nature’s candy,” Rakel says, returning to her novel and turning another page.
“I’m gonna freeze.”
“You’ll stay warm if you run really fast.”
Grumbling, I sprint up the stairs and then dash across the lawn with my jacket pulled tight around me. I already froze my ass off walking to and from the village with Dean. After this second excursion, I’m going to need a solid hour huddled under a blanket just to thaw out.
I steal as many oranges as I can stuff in the pouch of my sweatshirt, then I run back to the Undercroft, cursing Rakel’s extortionary tactics the entire way. She’s been paying a little too much attention in Professor Owsinki’s class.
“Here, you fucking terrorist,” I say, dumping the oranges down on her lap.
“Great,” Rakel says. “I’ll help you when I’m done eating them.”
“RAKEL!”
“Alright, alright.” She grins. “Tell me what you want.”
I take a deep breath. “I need to find somebody. But I only have a small amount of information about her. And she might be in hiding.”
Rakel considers. “Is Miles’ satellite still working?”
“Yeah, as far as I know.”
Miles and Ozzy set up their own private network on the island so they’d have constant internet access outside of the limited and highly-monitored connection available through the school computer lab.
Rakel keeps Ozzy’s old laptop hidden under her mattress. It looks like it’s been through a war but performs like a race car.
Though I’ve gotten pretty decent at my Code-breaking and Security Systems classes, Rakel is still the master at old-school hacking techniques. I hope she can put her skills to use on my behalf.
Rakel rolls off her bed so she can dig out the laptop, scattering orange peels everywhere.
Then she reseats herself, holding her fingers over the keyboard like a pianist about to play a concerto.
“Alright . . . what do you know about this person?” she says.
19
Dean
Cat and I are openly dating now. We spend most of our time together, outside of class time.
I need to be with her, because when I’m not, I’m plagued with a sense of revulsion toward my own future.
I always knew the plan: graduate from Kingmakers, take a position under Danyl Kuznetsov, pay off my two years’ service, then work my way up in the Moscow Bratva until I’m Pakhan.
But now when I picture going back to Moscow, battling with Vanya Antonov for ascendency, forcing the rest of the Bratva to respect and support me, I just feel . . . blank.
I never liked Moscow. I always hated living there.
I ask Snow, “Did you like St. Petersburg?”
He shrugs. “Well enough.”
“But you wanted to go to America.”
“I wanted to fight at Madison Square Gardens. To me, that represented the ultimate achievement in boxing.”
“And you stayed in New York after.”
“That’s right.”
He’s taking me through a heavy bag workout with intense three-minute rounds. I can only question him during the brief rest period, because otherwise I’m panting too hard to speak.
I pound the bag with all my might until Snow clicks his stopwatch, letting me know I can rest again.
“What’s New York like?” I puff.
“Loud. All the time. Horns, sirens, subway trains, people shouting when they think they’re just talking. It’s constant stimulation—the color and diversity and the scent of the food. You could eat a different kind of food every day and never have the same thing twice. It’s safe, too—surprisingly safe. You can walk around any time, day or night. It’s always busy, always people around.”
He clicks his watch again, prompting me to launch myself at the bag once more, punching, ducking, circling, hitting again, until my three minutes are up.
I flop down on the mats, taking a hefty swig of water. I’m pouring sweat and I’ve