The Fallen Legacies (Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files #3)(15)

“Come, Ivanick,” he says, sweeping from the room.

I’m left alone with the two techs. They ignore me, glued to their bank of monitors, watching as the bus containing Conrad Hoyle trundles through the city. I realize this is the first moment of peace I’ve had since waking up from my coma. I close my eyes and lower my head into my hands, trying to keep my mind blank, pushing away the conflicting feelings I’ve been having about my people. I’m relieved that I don’t have to go on this operation. I don’t know what I’d do if faced with the task of actually killing a Garde. But then, who am I? I was raised as a ruthless hunter.

“So that’s your plan?” asks a familiar voice. “To just sit here and do nothing?”

I look up to find One sitting next to me. I jerk back in my chair, nearly toppling over, eyes wide.

“Booga booga,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me. “Seriously, dude. Get off your ass and do something.”

“Do what?” I snap. “You think they’d hesitate to kill me too?”

One of the techs glances over his shoulder, frowning at me.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

I give him a blank look, then slowly shake my head. He turns back to his monitors. When I look over to where One was sitting, the chair is empty.

Great. Now I’m crazy.

“Look,” says one of the techs, “something is happening.”

I turn my attention to the screen, where Hoyle’s bus has jerked to a sudden stop. The doors fly open, and panicked passengers begin streaming off.

One of the rear windows explodes outward, a man flying through it. Before he can hit the ground, his body disintegrates into ash.

“He’s onto us,” observes the other tech, both of them leaning forward to watch the action.

Bright flashes of gunfire pop across the screen, and then the back of the bus goes up in flames. As it does, I watch Conrad Hoyle emerge from the front doors. He’s much larger than his picture indicated.

Hoyle holds a submachine gun in each hand.

“By Ra,” says the tech, sounding almost giddy, “he’s going to be a tough one.”

“We should be out there!” grumbles the other.

Most of the pedestrians are fleeing the scene of the flaming bus, like any sane person would. Except there are others that move towards the wreck: men in dark trench coats, shoving their way through the frightened crowd. The Mogadorian strike team has arrived. They’re greeted by a hail of gunfire from Hoyle, and they quickly take cover before shooting back.

If my father and Ivan aren’t out there yet, enduring Hoyle’s fire, they will be soon. I should take pleasure in this noble combat, like the techs are, but I don’t. I don’t want to see Hoyle, a Loric enemy whom I’ve never even met, be murdered. Yet despite my conflicted feelings about the mission, I also don’t want to see my father turned into a pile of ash.

My only choice is to turn away.

The techs are so absorbed by the action, they don’t hear when the station monitoring internet activity chimes. I inch my chair over to the screen, squinting at a red-flagged blog posting.

It reads: Nine, now eight. Are the rest of you out there?





CHAPTER 16


It takes only a few keystrokes to isolate the blog posting’s IP address—it’s here in London. The techs aren’t paying any attention to me, especially now that calls for tactical support are coming in. Hoyle is proving to be one hell of a distraction.

A few keystrokes more and I’ve pinpointed the location to an address only a few blocks from the Mogadorian base.

I’ve discovered the location of a fugitive Garde. Not the General, not Ivan. Me. For a moment, I feel a swelling of pride. Take that, Ivan. I guess growing big and strong doesn’t count for everything after all.

Now, what do I do with this information?

I should turn the Garde’s location over to the techs, have them call my father back from battle. It would mean major glory for myself and my family, and another step for Mogadorian progress.

It’s what I was raised to do. And I almost do it. But as soon as the thrill of discovery passes, I realize I don’t want that at all.

I want to help this Garde. Maybe I can prevent another scene like Malaysia.

Wait. Is that what I want, or is that one of One’s suggestions, a thought left over from traveling through her memories? If I’m hallucinating her, is there even a difference between One’s thoughts and my own anymore?

“Deep stuff,” says One, peering at the computer screen over my shoulder. “Maybe sort out your philosophical questions after we’ve saved this one’s life, hmm?”

That settles it. I minimize the report before the techs have a chance to see it and slip out of the room. I run down hallways now empty of personnel, all of them having joined the ambush on Hoyle. The way I figure it, I’ve got only as long as Hoyle can keep fighting. After that, the techs will most certainly discover the blog post and relay the details to the strike team.

I’m already winded when I reach the street. I have to push myself. My leg muscles feel about ready to snap after years of disuse; my lungs are on fire, gray spots floating in and out of my vision.

Still, I strip off my coat, which marks me as a Mogadorian, and begin to run. Sirens sound in the distance, the local authorities on their way to the site of the battle.