The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(52)
Rayla says we must change our clothing every day to remain inconspicuous. Enveloped in her new taupe scarf, Mira reaches the front of the line and exposes her right wrist to the scanner. My mind fires off possible scenarios that could go wrong: the new microchip is a fake after all . . . the imitation chip she’s worn in her wrist for over eighteen years somehow affected the—
Ping. Approved.
A single twitch of excitement flicks across Mira’s face before she moves into the bus, exuding complete self-confidence in utilizing public transit. She saunters past me like a stranger, headed directly for the winding staircase.
I follow my sister up the stairs and find her seated in the back row by the window. When I take the open space beside her, she places her rucksack between us and turns her body toward the tinted glass, still affecting a keen interest in the structures surrounding the downtown station.
“First stop Cheyenne, Wyoming,” an automated voice rings pleasantly from the speakers. “Please sit back and enjoy your travels.”
Rayla emerges from the staircase and walks down the aisle, covertly examining the passengers one by one. Satisfied the compartment is secure, she takes the seat to my left. The three of us sit together as companions—the strategy being that nothing stands out more than a young girl traveling alone.
With a tranquil beep, the bus rolls silently forward. Mira throws her legs onto the seat back in front of her, exhaling heavily through her nose. She leans her head against the window, her eyes focused on her feet. She pops her knuckle.
“From this distance the mountains look like one enormous tear in the atmosphere,” I say, pointing to the jagged place where the Rocky Mountains appear as a rip across the clear blue sky, fooling the eye. I speak lower than a whisper, ensuring Rayla does not overhear our twinspeak.
“Maybe we’re headed up to live at the peak of the tallest mountain,” I say, and for all I know, we might be. We’re still ignorant of Rayla’s plans, the bus’s destination our only clue.
“A small cabin in the Teton Range. Near Yellowstone,” Mira continues the fantasy with a slight grin. Finally.
A hologram newscast abruptly materializes at the front of the aisle, forcing me to abandon my daydream. I jerk my head around and see my father, garbed in a prisoner’s uniform, dragged out of the Dallas courthouse surrounded by a mob of frenzied journalists.
Reality makes a mockery of all our dreams.
“Dr. Darren Goodwin has been found guilty of treason,” a newscaster recounts, unable to mask his exhilaration at this gripping development in Father’s scandal. “Will he receive a presidential pardon or face a firing squad? You’ll hear it first on United Network.”
Roth’s going to kill him.
The screen changes to Governor Roth standing live behind a podium in his mansion’s palatial gardens. I want to close my eyes, to shield myself from the triumph etched across his smug countenance, but I keep them firmly open and watch.
“The highest court in Texas has spoken, and soon justice will be served. Until that time, we will not let the treasonous acts of one man deny our great country the right to memorialize seventy-five years of hard-earned prosperity,” Roth’s strong voice declares. “The Anniversary Gala will proceed as scheduled.”
From the front row a man in a dark baseball cap hurls an umbrella through Roth’s digital head, and it hits the wall with a loud thump.
“Enough!” the man shouts.
Immediately a surveillance camera zooms in on the protester’s face, but the brim of his hat protects his features from being scanned. The elderly woman seated next to him rises, lifts her oversized purse to block her face, and heads for a new seat as far away from the marked man as she can manage.
Was the umbrella thrown in support of my father or out of pure hate for Roth? Whatever the reason, I want to stand up and lend my angry voice to his, but Rayla’s grip on my leg prevents me. The man jumps from his seat and flies down the stairs two at a time.
A strangled cry followed by a loud commotion from the downstairs compartment drowns out the rest of Governor Roth’s speech. Mira tenses beside me, and all my weight moves to the balls of my feet in case I need to rise quickly. Will a single man’s protest attract the Guard? What if they’re waiting for him at the upcoming stop?
I turn to Rayla, anxious to know our next move. She sits motionless and perfectly calm—furtively demanding we do the same.
“He’s fleeing,” Rayla says, lips barely moving.
Mira places her hand on the glass behind us, her fingers tracking the man’s baseball cap lying in the middle of the road. He’s nowhere in sight—he must have pried open the doors and fled into the trees.
A successful escape, for now. But the Guard already has irrefutable evidence of his presence on the bus—his microchip scan made sure of that. They will identify him and track him for the rest of his life. No matter where he runs.
A United Network exposé entitled “The Double Life of Darren Goodwin” replaces Governor Roth’s public address. Strategically edited sequences of the disgraced Goodwin family—digitally altered events that include scantily clad women hanging on my father’s arms and me indulging in a carefree drug binge—redirect the passengers’ attention as the bus continues its steady progression north.
I look away from the slanderous program, tired of seeing my face, and instead see a vision of my father lined up before a firing squad, a blindfold over his eyes.