I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense(20)

“If they want to fight, they should be fighting under our command.”

“No offense, General, but the government doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to the Loric.”

“We’re talking about less than a dozen Garde and their allies, right?” Jackson asks. He turns to an aide. “Prepare a video conference with our people in the Brooklyn evacuation zone. I want those Garde found. I want to talk to John Smith. Then we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

One of Jackson’s aides gasps and runs to his side, sliding a tablet in front of him and whispering something I can’t hear. His eyes go wide.

“Mr. President . . . ,” I start.

He raises his hand. “I’ve got military operations to coordinate and a terrified nation to run. I’ll be in touch when we have further questions.”

And just like that, Richards is pulling me into the hallway.

“But, sir . . . ,” I say, but everyone in the room has already turned their attention to one of the monitors on the wall, where the aide is bringing up some sort of video.

The last thing I see before the war room doors close behind me is Setrákus Ra’s black eyes on the screen.





CHAPTER TEN

NEITHER RICHARDS NOR I TALK ON THE WAY back to my room. That’s fine by me. I’m too busy wondering what Ra’s demands are and going over all the ways I should have reframed my arguments in the war room, how I could have helped Sam and the Loric more.

When we get back, Briggs is standing outside my door, leaning on a crutch.

“Major Briggs here has been assigned to guard you,” Richards says.

“You mean watch me,” I say.

Briggs doesn’t meet my eye.

“It’s standard procedure,” Richards says. “Guests are always assigned an escort. It’s for your own safety.”

“You know, I can be of use to you,” I continue. “Get me data to go through. A computer. Hell, I’m just staring at the walls in there. It’s a cell. Even prisoners have access to libraries.”

“This is temporary,” Richards say. He frowns. “Look, we’re all just trying to follow protocol as best we can. The sheer amount of decisions to be made here . . .” He shakes his head. “I’ll be back later. I’m sure the president will want to speak with you after everyone’s had time to digest what you explained at the briefing.”

“Can you at least tell me if they find the Garde?”

“You’ll be informed of any declassified information deemed relevant to your situation. Now if you’ll—”

I go into my room and slam the door behind me. Immediately I feel stupid, like a child stomping off to his bedroom because his parents made him angry. But I am angry. That I haven’t heard from Sam. That I’m being treated like a prisoner. That despite everything we’ve done to try to protect Earth, the Garde are still being thought of as possible enemies.

I lie on the bed and seethe, trying to calm down. I start to count backwards from one hundred, something I used to do when the Mogs had me conscious—anything to take my mind off the horrible things that were likely to come. Somewhere in the fifties I pass out again, my body desperately trying to make up for all the lost sleep of the last few days.

After a few hours of dreamless napping, my phone rings. I am immediately fully awake, bolting into the bathroom and turning the taps on again.

I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answer, holding my breath as I wait to hear who’s on the other end of the line.

“Hey, Dad,” Sam says. “I was afraid you wouldn’t answer.”

Despite everything that’s happening, the moment I hear his voice everything is right in the world. Relief washes over me, and for a fleeting moment I think I might break down. I lean my back against the wall and sink to the ground.

“I’m here, son. Where are you? What’s going on? Are you safe?”

I manage to close my mouth before another thousand questions come out.

“I’m safe, yeah,” he says. “John and I are in Brooklyn. Once the attack started, we tried to save as many people as we could. Then we were looking for Nine, but Walker’s team found us in the subway and brought us to a temporary camp. I can’t tell if they’re about to give us medals, try to get us to enlist or arrest us.”

There’s plenty I could say about this, but I can tell there’s something else on his mind in the way his voice lilts as he speaks. Something he’s not telling me. Figuring out what that is seems much more important than catching him up on what I’ve been through.

“And?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says slowly. “At least, I don’t think so. But, Dad . . . are you sitting down?”

“Yeah.”

“Um, I don’t really know how to say this, but . . . I’ve got Legacies now. Or telekinesis at least. There was a piken coming at us, and I just . . . I did it. I pushed him with my thoughts like I was John or Six or Luke Skywalker or something. I’m like a Jedi. I’ve been using it all day.”

Noises come out of my mouth that are nothing more than odd syllables and half-formed vowels. I can’t process what he’s talking about.

My son has powers now? How? Why?