I Am Number Four - Pittacus Lore Page 0,12
the ground. It’s the middle of the night when we arrive, setting the Skimmer down in the street once again. The neighborhood is quiet. The front door is unlocked. We find one adult inside. He’s asleep. Never hears us coming. The subject does, though. He cowers in the corner of his bedroom, tears streaming down his face as he shouts that it was all a joke. He was “pranking” his friends. And he thought it would be “cool” if aliens showed up so he could meet them.
At least he gets his wish.
The only time he shows any sort of bravery is when I reach out to grab him. He swings a lamp at me, breaking it against my chest. I am unfazed. He tries to bolt past me but only gets a few steps away before the butt of my blaster slams into the back of his head, causing him to crumple like a puppet whose strings have been snipped. I motion to one of my subordinates, and the target is sedated and loaded up.
The whole encounter takes five minutes tops. We are precise and merciless in our movements.
It’s a short flight to our final target of the night. This one in Madison. I fly the Skimmer myself, enjoying the feeling of the controls in my hands. My men are silent in their seats behind me for the most part. Eventually, the new squad member speaks up.
“What happened to Görde?”
He must mean the soldier who lost his arm.
“Shotgun,” one of the others says. “Human took us by surprise. He lost his arm. Made the guy pay for it, though. Mauled him like a starved piken who’d just spotted a juicy kraul.”
“Beloved Leader would be proud.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or perhaps he’d condemn the bastard for letting the human injure him in the first place. Görde should have been paying attention. Watching his flank. Our flank.”
After that, my troops are quiet.
Our last target has been traced to an apartment complex in what looks like a rundown part of town. She’s different from the others we’ve picked up if only because it wasn’t her own stupidity that put her on our radar screen: someone somewhere tipped off an agency our computer experts are monitoring. We land in a small park across the street. What little grass there is crumbles under our feet as we march through the night.
“Eyes open,” I mutter as we make our way to the complex. “Lots of people crammed in tight living conditions. We can expect resistance.”
The troops grunt behind me. There are a few humans loitering around the parking lot. When they see us, they freeze. It takes them a few seconds to understand who we are. What we are. Then they run. I move my finger to the trigger of my blaster, expecting them to reappear with weapons or more people. To try to keep us from moving in closer to their homes. But they don’t return.
Typical. Humans hide themselves away instead of facing their threats head-on.
The apartment building is made up of outdoor hallways, the front door to each unit opening to the open air. We find the one we’re looking for on the first floor. The door goes down with one kick. My men flood in. Out of the corner of my eye I see blinds part in the window next door, but when I turn my head to investigate, they snap closed again.
No one comes out.
There are no adults inside, only the girl we’re after. She springs from the couch, long, black hair falling over her face. Dark eyes wide with fear.
“What do you want?” she screams. “Who . . .” But she doesn’t finish. She must understand at that point.
I glance at the photo and stats on my tablet. Perfect match. This was easy enough.
“Take her,” I say.
My men step forward.
That’s when things start to move.
First it’s just the shit strewn about the apartment. Soda cans, books, a few dirty dishes. They start to float above the stained carpet. The girl throws her arms out to her sides. Then there’s a sudden bass sound, followed by a wave of invisible force. I’m still in the doorway, and the wave hits me like a brick wall, sending me flying backwards onto the concrete outside. The front window of the apartment bursts out, glass landing all around me. My men inside take the brunt of the attack. Several appear to have broken noses. The shabby coffee table and the trash and junk that had been