“Wait. How did priorities change while we were sleeping down here?” Sam asks.
I tell Sam how Ella reached out to me telepathically from her prison aboard the Anubis, explaining that Setrákus Ra is headed for the Sanctuary. Daniela listens in, her eyes wide and locked on me, mouth slightly opened. When I’m finished describing the dreamscape, prophecies and endangered Lorien historical sites, she shakes her head in total mystification.
“My life has gotten so effing weird,” she says, walking down the train car towards the exit.
“Hey,” Sam calls after her. “You forgot your bag!”
Daniela glances over her shoulder. Then, she looks at me. I don’t know if she wants permission or if she’s challenging me to stop her. When I don’t say anything, she doubles back and lifts the heavy bag with a grunt.
“Use your telekinesis,” I say casually. “It’s good practice.”
Daniela eyes me for a moment, then nods and grins. She concentrates and floats the bag out in front of her.
“What’s in there, anyway?” Sam asks.
“My college fund,” she replies.
Sam gives me a look. I just shrug.
When Daniela reaches the end of the car, she levitates the bag aside and yanks the metal door open with a sharp clatter. She steps onto the gangway that connects to the next car. Sam and I follow a few feet behind her.
“Whoa, whoa,” Daniela says, her words not directed to us. Her duffel bag rockets back into our subway car, Sam and I both having to jump out of the way. Daniela telekinetically slides the bag under a bench, like she’s trying to hide it. A second later, she steps backwards through the door, her hands raised in surrender. Immediately, my muscles tense. I thought we were safe down here in the tunnels.
But we aren’t alone.
A machine-gun barrel with a flashlight attachment is leveled inches from Daniela’s face. A shadowy form, covered in bulky equipment and body armor, inches cautiously into our train car, backing Daniela down. Too late, I notice flashlight beams in the next car over—at least a dozen of them, maybe more. A second halogen beam shines right into my eyes, a second gunman boarding our car. Without thinking about it, I ignite my Lumen, fire slithering across my fists.
“Wait,” Sam warns. “They aren’t Mogs.”
I hear the telltale click of a round being chambered, probably in response to my channeling a fireball. The subway car aisle is narrow, Daniela is in the way and the light in my face makes it difficult to see. Definitely not ideal conditions. I could probably disarm them with my telekinesis, but I don’t want to risk them getting off a burst of automatic fire at such close quarters. Better to wait and see how this plays out.
I let my Lumen wink out, and at the same time the soldier in front lowers his flashlight beam out of my face, pointing his gun at the floor. He’s wearing a helmet, fatigues and night-vision goggles. Despite all that, I can tell he’s only a few years older than me.
“You’re him,” the soldier says, a bit of awe in his voice. “John Smith.”
I’m still not used to this whole being-recognized thing, so it takes me a moment to answer. “That’s right.”
The soldier snaps a walkie-talkie off his belt and speaks into it. “We’ve got him,” he says, not taking his eyes off me.
Daniela edges towards Sam and me, glancing between us and the soldiers, more of whom are now filtering into our train car, fanning out, making the whole area even tighter. “Friends of yours?”
“Not sure,” I reply quietly.
“Sometimes the government likes us, other times not so much,” Sam explains.
“Great,” Daniela replies. “For a second there, I thought they were here to arrest me.”
The soldier’s walkie-talkie crackles to life, a familiar woman’s voice filling the train car. “Ask them nicely, but bring them in,” the woman commands.
The soldier clears his throat uncomfortably, staring at us.
“Please come with us,” he says. “Agent Walker would like a word.”
Chapter NINE
THE SOLDIERS RUSH US THROUGH THE SUBWAY tunnels, out through the nearest station and finally into daylight. They’re constantly in a tight knot around us, a human shield, treating us like the Secret Service does the president. I let myself be hustled along, knowing that I can easily shove through them at the first sign of trouble. We don’t encounter any Mogadorian patrols on the way back to their armored Humvees, and pretty soon we’re rumbling through streets filled with broken chunks of building, the wreckage the result of last night’s Anubis bombardment.
We reach the Brooklyn Bridge quickly and without incident. On the Manhattan side, the army has set up a heavily armed checkpoint—soldiers packing mounted machine guns watch the streets from behind a blockade of sandbags. Behind them, three rows of tanks are parked six across on the bridge, their turrets armed with surface-to-air missiles and aimed at the sky. Helicopters laden with more missiles patrol the skies and some muscular-looking boats sit ready in the river. If the Mogadorians try to push into Brooklyn, they’ll definitely encounter some resistance.
“Have you had to fight many off?” I ask the soldier driving our Humvee as we’re waved through the security checkpoint and begin slowly weaving through the choke points on the bridge.
“None whatsoever, sir,” he replies. “The hostiles have stuck to Manhattan so far. That big ship flew right over us this morning and didn’t engage. You ask me, they don’t want a piece of us army boys.”