The Fallen Legacies (Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files #3)(41)

The Mog keeps his gun aimed at me as I hit the button for the 100th floor. I’m more nervous than I thought I’d be. I’ve never been alone with a Mog before. I remind myself that everything is going just as I planned it. As the elevator begins its ascent, I act as casual as I can.

“Did you have a nice run?”

The Mog grabs me around the throat and slams me against the wall of the elevator. I brace myself to have the wind knocked out of me. Instead, a warm sensation runs down my back and it’s the Mog who stumbles backward, gasping.

The Loric charm at work. I’m always surprised at how well it works.

“So you aren’t Number Four,” he says.

“You’re quick.”

“Which are you?”

“I could tell you.” I shrug. “I don’t see what it would matter. But I’ll let you guess.”

He eyes me, sizing me up, trying to intimidate me. I don’t know what the rest of the Garde are like, but I don’t scare that easy. I take off the iMog, laying it gently on the floor. If the Mog finds this unusual, he doesn’t let on. I wonder what the prize is for capturing a Garde. “I may not know your number, but I know you can look forward to a life of captivity while we kill the rest of your friends. Don’t worry,” he adds, “it won’t be long.”

“Good story,” I reply, glancing up at the elevator panel. We’re almost at the top.

I dreamed about this moment last night. Actually, that’s not quite right. I couldn’t sleep last night, too keyed up for what was to come. I fantasized about this moment.

I make sure to savor my words.

“Here’s the thing,” I tell him. “You’re not making it out of here alive.”





CHAPTER TWO


Before the Mog can react, I punch a series of buttons on the elevator panel. It’s a sequence of buttons that no one in the tower would ever have reason to push, a sequence that Sandor programmed to initiate the security measures he installed into the elevator.

The elevator vibrates. The trap is activated.

My iMog floats off the floor and, with a metallic clang, sticks to the back wall of the elevator. Before the Mog can blink, he’s flung backwards too, pulled by the blaster in his hand and whatever other metal objects he might be hiding in his pockets. With a crunch, his hand is pinned between his blaster and the wall. He cries out.

Did he really think we wouldn’t have protected our home?

The powerful magnet Sandor installed in the elevator is just one of the fail-safes my Cêpan secretly built into the John Hancock Center. I’ve never seen the magnet work as intended before, but I’ve definitely screwed around with it enough. I’ve spent hours with the elevator door wedged open, the magnet on, trying to bounce nickels from across the penthouse and get them to stick to the walls. Like I said, things have been kind of boring lately.

It was a good game until the tenants on the lower levels started complaining.

The Mog tries to wiggle his fingers—which are most certainly broken now—from underneath the blaster to no avail. He tries to kick at me, but I just laugh and hop away. That’s the best he can do?

“What is this?” he cries.

Before I can answer, the elevator doors hiss open and there is Sandor.

I’ve never understood my Cêpan’s affinity for expensive Italian suits. They can’t be comfortable. Yet here he is, not even noon on a Saturday morning, and he’s already dressed to the nines. His beard is freshly trimmed, clipped close. His hair is slicked back perfectly.

It’s like Sandor was expecting company. I wonder if he was watching my run on the lakefront, and my stomach drops at the thought.

I’m going to be in deep trouble.

Sandor is twisting a silencer into the barrel of a sleek 9mm. He glances at me, his expression inscrutable, then stares hard at the Mog.

“Are you alone?”

The Mog jerks against the magnet again.

“He’s alone,” I answer.

Sandor shoots me a look, and then pointedly repeats his question.

“You expect me to answer that?” snarls the Mog.

I can tell Sandor is pissed. But the Mog’s answer causes a glimmer of humor to flash in my Cêpan’s eyes. Sandor’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a laugh. I’ve sat through enough of my Cêpan’s beloved James Bond movie collection to know this Mog just provided a perfect one-liner opportunity.

“No,” Sandor says. “I expect you to die.”

Sandor raises the gun before looking at me again.

“You brought him here,” he says. “Your kill.”

I swallow hard. I planned this whole thing out. It’s been all I could think about since that red dot appeared on my iMog a couple days ago. Still, I’ve never killed one before. I don’t feel sympathy for the bastard. It’s not that at all. But this feels like a big deal. Taking a life, even if it is only a Mogadorian. Will it change me?

Whatever. I grab for Sandor’s gun, but he yanks it away.

“Not like that,” he says, and drops the gun.

I don’t let it hit the ground. My telekinesis developed last month and we’ve been practicing with it ever since.

I take a deep breath, focusing my mind, steeling myself. I levitate the gun until it is level with the Mog’s head. He sneers at me.