The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(72)

I suddenly realize how dirty we must look. How wild. Lowering my hood, I smooth down my hair.

“Ava, look.” Mira points to a family of five walking by: a mother, father, and their two sons and daughter.

My heart twists for what could have been for my own family. But I also see the future in that united family. The Rule of One oppressing us no longer.

A flashing blue light catches our eyes. It’s a kiosk with a bright digital sign: “Ride Center.” Two single-file rows of sleek compact cars are parked along the edge of the street, simply waiting for riders and destinations.

I approach the first car and circle it, looking for a way in. There’s no door handle or obvious way of unlocking the car.

“Door, open,” Mira commands.

Nothing happens.

“How do we wake it up?” Mira gives the car a quick kick.

“Car, take me to 968 Paramount Point,” I try.

Suddenly the pavement lights up below our feet with a mat blinking the word “Welcome.” The entire left side of the car yawns open, inviting us inside.

“My name is Sylvia. Please make yourself at home.”

It’s like I just stepped into someone’s living room. The seat wraps around the interior like a sectional couch, and there’s a small foldable table on each end. I scan a large screen and find endless professional and entertainment resources. There’s even a miniature food printer in the corner. You could run an entire country inside this car.

“Please select your method of payment,” Sylvia hums.

“Cash?” Mira ventures.

A cash slot lights up. So does our amazement.

“The citizens aren’t microchipped,” I say, taken by surprise.

I slide in the dollar amount owed, and the car seals itself closed. I take a seat across from Mira, and our eyes meet as we soundlessly glide toward a place where Rayla promised we would find friends.

“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” the car tells us.

Mira and I stare out at the trees that blur into buildings as they speed by our glass window.

This past week, the longest of my life, races by in my mind, one event after another, just as quickly as the miles to our destination. The car settles into a quiet stillness.

Sylvia must sense our moods, because she asks, “How about some tunes?”

An upbeat rhythm fills the car. Soft red and purple strobe lights dance in quick, joyful circles.

I smile. It’s so surreal.

“You have arrived at your destination,” Sylvia says.

The music and lights cut off. Mira and I look out the window at Paramount Point in silent expectation. I find an elegant ten-story early-twentieth-century building staring down at me. A white sign reads “Paramount Point Hotel” just above a yellow door.

“The rebellion’s based out of a hotel?” Mira says, doubtful.

Sylvia’s left side opens, and we step onto the mildly trafficked sidewalk. Before I can make sure we’re in the right place, the car drives away with a cheerful good-bye.

Mira and I turn to face the brick building. As if on cue, the yellow door unlatches and a woman walks out. She’s tall, simply dressed, with dark curly hair and features that project intelligence. A young man, about my age, pops up behind her, and another man gathers at her side.

All wear expressions of anticipation. Of hope.

“Ava and Mira Goodwin,” the woman says. “We’re pleased to finally meet you.”

A glass ceiling towers high above the lobby atrium. My eyes quickly take in what must be a hundred doors, ten hotel rooms to each level. The design and furnishings are neat and efficient. Unassuming.

Dozens of people walk about the lobby, entering and exiting a bank of elevators at the far wall. More stroll along the various corridors up above. Those near us glance at Mira and me with curiosity. Are they all rebellion members or merely guests? How many are American refugees like Mira and me?

“So the hotel’s a front for the Common’s headquarters?” I ask, turning to face the small group gathered loosely around us. The woman introduced herself as Emery, who appears to be the brains behind everything; Pawel, the young-but-eager man who appeared at her side; and Barend, who must be the broad-shouldered muscle of the group.

“This is more like the war room, really,” Emery answers. “The nerve center is much farther away.”

I give Mira a side-glance. A digital war, I hope. We need to get inside that Gala.

“Is Rayla Cadwell here?” I ask, searching the numerous faces in the lobby. “Have you been in contact with her?”

Pawel steps forward, his innocent brown eyes shy. “I sent word of your arrival the moment you pulled up to our doorstep. Your grandmother knows you’re safe.”

“How did you know Rayla is our grandmother?” Mira questions.

Emery simply shrugs. “I would recognize Lynn’s daughters anywhere. Even with your disguises.”

“You knew our mother?” I say.

“She was my best friend when we were young back in Denver,” Emery reveals. “We trained together under Rayla. I was to be Lynn’s right hand when she took over the cause. When she left, it fell to me.”

I glance at the rebellion leader’s right wrist. A lion’s head with a sword running through it covers most of her forearm, the blade’s point dipped in yellow.