The Burning World (Warm Bodies #2)(20)

“We are here to prove our value to you,” Yellow Tie says with doe-eyed sincerity. “We are here to help.”

Black Tie says nothing.

Rosso looks at me again, and again I have nothing to offer but my vague, inarticulate apprehension. The truth is, Yellow Tie is right. There are no secrets here for spies to steal. No access codes or defense strategies. Just twenty thousand scared and hungry people packed into houses made of trash. But Rosso has to draw a line somewhere.

“Your assistants are welcome to stay and assist with our negotiations,” he says, forcing a thin smile. “But I’m afraid guided tours are unavailable at this time.”

The pitchmen look at Rosso. The fluorescent lights buzz like beehives. Yellow Tie widens her grin to show teeth. “I’m glad we were able to reach an effective compromise.” Her voice reveals no trace of irritation. “May we begin our presentation?”

Rosso indicates a nearby eatery table. “Have a seat.”

Blue Tie regards the table, then the sunny passageway to the stadium’s interior. “We would prefer a more secure location.”

Rosso spreads his hands. “I’m afraid this is as secure as it gets around here. As you so rightly pointed out, we’re just people in a box.”

“Surely you have a space in which to discuss operations away from the ears of citizens.”

“Our former leader built a space like that. We don’t use it anymore. We’ve stopped hiding operations from the people they’ll affect.”

Blue Tie blinks a few times, still maintaining his grin. “That’s not the way things are done.”

“You said you believe in complete transparency.”

“We apologize for our poor choice of words,” Yellow Tie says. “We meant translucency. We believe in complete translucency.”

“With all due respect—” He stops. “I’m sorry, I still haven’t gotten your names.”

“We’re representatives of the Goldman Dome branch of the Axiom Group,” Yellow Tie says. “We appreciate your patience as we determine how to meet your needs.”

“Are you not hearing me?” Rosso snaps, his eyes beginning to spark. “I’m asking what your name—”

“I’m afraid your attitude may be negatively affecting the outcome of this meeting,” Blue Tie interjects with a sudden spike in volume, and the corners of his grin fall.

Rosso closes his mouth. The pitchmen’s warm river of pleasantries makes it easy to forget the helicopters, the truck convoys, and the phrase “under new management.” But with that small shift in Blue Tie’s demeanor, everyone suddenly recalls the shape of the situation.

“Due to the sensitive nature of the materials,” Yellow Tie says in a gentle tone of deep apology, “we are unable to deliver our presentation in a public setting at this time. If you can take us to a private, restricted location”—her smile returns like the sun breaking through clouds—“we would be delighted to share our development plans for your enclave and the entire Cascadia region.”

Rosso glances at Kenerly. Kenerly’s face glistens with sweat and his fingers are tight on his rifle, but it’s just three lunatics in colorful ties. Whatever the real threat might be, it’s waiting in the shadows behind them.

Kenerly nods.

“We’ll take you to our command office,” Rosso says, then hesitates. “But just you three. Your ‘assistants’ wait outside.”

“Our assistants wait outside,” Yellow Tie agrees, a little too readily.

The assistants turn and exit through the gate, unfazed by their abrupt dismissal. Balt watches them go and frowns, glances at Yellow Tie, then at Rosso. “I’ll go keep an eye on them,” he says with the exaggerated volume of a bad stage actor as he follows the men outside.

But Rosso isn’t listening to Balt. He is staring at the pitchmen with a grim intensity, as if playing out unpleasant scenarios in his head. Without another word, he walks toward the nearest passageway and the pitchmen follow close on his heels. The gloom of the tunnel gives way to daylight, but although the sky is a dim purple and the air has cooled, I feel a dampness in my palms.

I have finally learned to sweat.

? ? ?

I trail behind with the soldiers, watching the pitchmen’s feet grind into the sticky asphalt, heavy black boots incongruous with their business attire. Ahead, Rosso and Kenerly walk in grim silence, leading these strange intruders into the heart of the stadium, and though they’re unarmed, it has the feel of a march at gunpoint to a secluded spot in the woods. Pick up that shovel. Start digging.

Yet what I feel isn’t fear. It’s loss. Nostalgia for something I can’t quite name. My mind drifts out of this fraught negotiation and into the streets and buildings around me. I hate this city. I wish we didn’t need it. But it’s filled with people I love and covered in their fingerprints. I think of Julie’s old bedroom, the multicolored walls and the paintings, her own raw splashes of emotion hanging alongside Picasso and Dalí’s mastery of form. I think of Nora in her foster home, older than some of the parents but refusing to take an apartment of her own, staying behind to mother three floors of frightened orphans whose faces she looks into like mirrors. I think of Rosso’s house, Ella and the younger women talking in the kitchen while Lawrence sits by the fire and reads the brittle pages of some ancient text, pulling more knowledge into his already vast inner library.