Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(35)

She slapped u. She’s dangerous. It’s the right thing 2 do. Meet us at Agency Zac

I provoked her Tori

Listen 2 urself. U still luv her Zac

. . .


Tori

U don’t even deny it.


Zac

What time r u meeting there?





THIRTEEN




THEY COME FOR ME THE FOLLOWING DAY.

I’m writing an essay, using this week’s assigned vocabulary words—determined by some anonymous teacher I will never meet. I turn at the sound of voices and spot Pollock instantly. I haven’t seen him since the meeting in his office and my reaction is almost visceral. My body tenses and panic claws up my chest, closing my throat.

He’s with Mr. Tucci and another man I’ve never seen before. Brockman rises instantly, his expression alert, his eyes blinking awake. He’s such a phony, pretending to look attentive when anyone can glance at his desk and count the dozen magazines and candy bar wrappers littered there.

I spin around, clutching the edge of my desk. My gaze lands on Gil. He’s rotated in his chair and stares at me, eyes wide, unblinking, questioning. My heart skips a beat and I know somehow. This is because of me.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid. I haven’t done anything. I glance around the room and catch Coco looking at me. She quickly turns away, goes back to working on her desk. Nathan sits up, his eyes worried. No doubt he’s done any number of things that could have brought them here.

A quick read of the clock confirms that Sean won’t be here for another forty-five minutes. For some reason, I wish he was here. Not that he could do anything.

I slide my gaze back to the men at the front of the Cage. Their voices rumble low and deep. Mr. Tucci talks to Brockman, but it’s Pollock who holds all my attention. He moves in front of the Cage door, squares himself directly center with it, arms crossed, expression set, determined. A man on a mission. And I know. I’m the mission.

His small, dark eyes settle on me and he crooks a finger, motioning me forward.


Mr. Tucci avoids my gaze as he leads us to the front door of the building. Pollock walks to my left and the other man to my right, flanking me. Like they’re afraid I might bolt.

“Where are we going?”

Pollock stares straight ahead, not replying.

My breathing falls fast. I take several swallows and try to slow my racing pulse.

Tucci doesn’t step outside with us. I glance back at him through the glass doors, but he’s already walking away.

“Does my mother—”

“We don’t need to contact your parents.” Pollock opens the passenger door of a white, nondescript van. “You’re under the supervision of the Wainwright Agency.”

I hesitate, staring at the dark blue interior. It’s just another cage. Wire mesh separates the front of the van from the back. I inch away.

“Get in.” The other man shoves me, and I stumble forward. My hands catch on the floorboard.

“Now, Webber.” Pollock clicks his tongue. “I’m sure Ms. Hamilton isn’t going to give us any trouble.”

I look over my shoulder. Pollock cocks his head at me. “Are you?”

Webber rests a hand on his belt, and I’m sure he means to look imposing . . . threatening.

“No.” I climb up inside and settle my backpack on my lap, hugging it close like a pillow. The door slides shut behind me with a reverberating slam. Pollock and Webber get in the front. They don’t speak as we pull out of the parking lot. We’re soon on the highway. It only takes me a few moments to realize we’re not headed toward the Agency office. We’re heading even farther away from the city. North toward Fredericksburg. The highway winds through hill country. We pass an occasional gas station and rest stop. A few houses dot the sloping, mesquite-covered hills, isolated and safe from the city.

“Where are we going?”

They exchange looks.

Pollock glances back through the wire. “We’ll explain when we get there.”

A sinking sensation starts in my stomach. I ease my hand inside my bag, searching for my phone. Pretty certain they’re not going to approve of me using it, I peek inside and start to compose a message for my mother.


Pollock has me don’t know where he is tak


“Hey! What are you doing?” Pollock’s voice cuts through the silence. “Damn it! Pull over, Webber!”

The van jerks to the side of the road. I gasp and send the message, hoping it’s enough.

Pollock hops out and yanks open the back door. He grabs my bag off my lap. The phone is still clutched in my fingers.

“Stupid,” he mutters, ripping it from my hand. I don’t bother resisting. He scans the message I just sent.

His body relaxes and he glances to Webber. “She just texted her mother. We’re good.”

Who else did he think I texted that might not have been good? I wish I knew. Wish I had their number.

“I want to call my parents,” I say hotly. “I have rights! You can’t just take me from school—”

“We can. We did.” The vein in Pollock’s forehead bulges. “When are you going to get it? You don’t have rights. You’re lucky you even get to walk the streets. You and every other carrier.” He’s panting, each word like a bullet fired. A semi roars past us, shaking the van. I dig my fingers into the upholstery. “As far as I’m concerned, you all should be wiped from the face of the earth.”