September 27, 12:30 P.M.
Kalamazoo, Michigan, U.S.A.
Top-secret tunnels under the Amtrak Train Station.
Isabella
“Whose idea was it to put spikes down there in the first place?” I squeak out, clutching at Scarlett for dear life. She steadies me against me the tunnel wall, her eyes glowing with pleasure at the rush of air from a nearby shaft. The train ride took over 12 hours—I’m the only one who couldn’t sleep, which explains my even slower than usual reflexes today. Though I didn’t even bother freshening up, opting to stay in my loose t-shirt, the others are dressed up in blouses.
“I don’t know,” Scarlett says, “But whoever did is brilliant. Was it you, Irene?”
“Wasn’t me.” Irene leans on Xena and Jemima, her forehead coated in sweat. “I’ve never been to Michigan before.”
To our left, a metallic door with a four digit combination lock looms over our heads. Scarlett twirls in the numbers six-two-six-four, and it pops open with a satisfying ding.
“Our target’s house is a just a bus ride away from here.”
~~~
The house isn’t a house at all—at least not in the typical American suburban sense. It could only have been better described as a flat on top of a store. A neon sign proclaims: “Dreamon’s Music Store”, and a row of handmade violins in the showcase windows rest in cushions next to Pop CDs and electric cables. Scarlett and Xena perk up, no doubt excited by the band tees smashed up against the glass. Irene rolls her eyes at the gold-painted shutters. Nothing unusual there.
“Let’s just go in.” Irene shrugs her leather-clad shoulders and shoves the door open. Sunlight bounces off the metallic studs embedded on her sleeves against the wood. In spite of her regular enthusiasm, ours only inflates as we step into a world of artistic merchandise.
A strong smell of coffee and bubble gum hits my nostrils. Strange, but not unpleasant.
Bright colors redirect my attention to a rack full of albums. Most of it is Rock, and Contemporary, but I’m intrigued nonetheless. The two girls beside me sigh in wonder and, without hesitation, head over to examine the titles with pokes and prods. Their boots click on the floor.
Irene ignores everything, choosing instead to head for two over-stuffed sofas in the center of the room. A dark haired girl chews her gum. One arm curls around the side of the sofa, the other holds a Microeconomics book. A teen boy in a grey sweater meticulously shuffles a deck of cards, his feet on the coffee table in front of him. The girl doesn’t spare us a glance, but he stands.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asks, keeping his gaze on the cards while bobbing his head to the dub-step purring out of his pocket.
“Where can I find Denise Cordon?” Irene plops herself down on the opposing sofa and undoes the first few buttons on her blouse. It appears as if the heat as finally gotten to her. Jemima sits next to her. I stand next to the door, unsure of what to do. The girl continues to appear lost in her book.
“My name is Daniel,” the boy offers and sits, “I’m the manager and salesman. Denise is my sister. Are you friends of hers?”
“Not exactly. When will she be back?”
He checks his wristwatch, and then goes back to shuffling. “Soon. And I assure you, I’m quite capable of helping you with anything you need—”
YOU ARE READING
Saving Nightlock
ActionFive master assassins: they are the judges, the silent executioners, and they will find the guilty. Five who keep the world in balance. Five with very different stories: One who loves her birthright; one who loathes it. One careless; one contradicto...
