Chapter 5
First things first.
I need to call for help.
The last thing I want to do is bring Prefect into this situation—I’d rather not have him or ISD within a mile of my nonna—but there’s no choice. My fingers drum out a command to call Prefect. My visor flares bright for a moment, then a “CALL CANNOT BE COMPLETED” message scrawls across my visor.
“Well, crap,” I murmur.
“What?” asks Piper, worry brimming in her voice.
“They’ve cut all communications.” I grind my teeth. “I was hoping it was just the internet, but they must have set up jammers. It’s smart—now none of us can call for help.”
“How do you know they put up jammers?” asks Piper. “Maybe the blackout’s messing with cell phones.”
I look her over. I’d guess she’s probably nine or ten years old—far too young to be thinking about jammers or cell signals. But then again, I started hacking when I was her age.
“It’s what I would do,” I say. “You want to control a building like this? You get in fast, cut communications, then make sure no one can leave. Getting into a mainframe in a building like this isn’t easy.”
Eames looks at me. “That so.”
“You know a lot about security systems?” asks Piper.
More than I ever wanted to know, actually. “Enough.”
“So what do you think this is?” says Piper.
To that, I have no answer.
My brain sifts through a few things I might do.
One, I could try to escape and get to a higher point in the building.
If the jammers only reach so high up, perhaps I could make a call on the roof.
But that assumes the jammers aren’t on the roof and the killers aren’t there.
Two, I could try to throw a note down to the ground.
Although with my luck, any paper airplanes I launch will sail directly into the Willamette River.
I walk to the sliding glass door, peering outside.
My breath fogs the glass. The city is so close, but it might as well be a thousand miles away. I can’t reach it.
And no help is coming.
“Do you live here?” asks Piper from somewhere behind me.
“No,” I reply. “Just renting the place for the weekend.” I turn back, ready to search the room for anything useful. Maybe the rental’s owners left behind a toolbox that I could use to dismantle the front door.
But to my shock, I find myself facing the tip of a knife.
Eames’s knuckles are white around the cheap plastic handle. It’s one of the knives from the kitchen—dulled from years of use, dish soap flecks scattered across the blade. But with enough force behind it, that knife could cause a lot of damage.
“What?” I ask, bewildered.
Eames’s expression is granite hard. His body is angled so that he stands between me and Piper.
He has made himself into both wall and weapon.
“Who are you?” Eames asks tightly. “What are you doing here?”