Grumbling, I sprint up the stairs and then dash across the lawn with my jacket pulled tight around me. I already froze my ass off walking to and from the village with Dean. After this second excursion, I’m going to need a solid hour huddled under a blanket just to thaw out.
I steal as many oranges as I can stuff in the pouch of my sweatshirt, then I run back to the Undercroft, cursing Rakel’s extortionary tactics the entire way. She’s been paying a little too much attention in Professor Owsinki’s class.
“Here, you fucking terrorist,” I say, dumping the oranges down on her lap.
“Great,” Rakel says. “I’ll help you when I’m done eating them.”
“RAKEL!”
“Alright, alright.” She grins. “Tell me what you want.”
I take a deep breath. “I need to find somebody. But I only have a small amount of information about her. And she might be in hiding.”
Rakel considers. “Is Miles’ satellite still working?”
“Yeah, as far as I know.”
Miles and Ozzy set up their own private network on the island so they’d have constant internet access outside of the limited and highly-monitored connection available through the school computer lab.
Rakel keeps Ozzy’s old laptop hidden under her mattress. It looks like it’s been through a war but performs like a race car.
Though I’ve gotten pretty decent at my Code-breaking and Security Systems classes, Rakel is still the master at old-school hacking techniques. I hope she can put her skills to use on my behalf.
Rakel rolls off her bed so she can dig out the laptop, scattering orange peels everywhere.
Then she reseats herself, holding her fingers over the keyboard like a pianist about to play a concerto.
“Alright . . . what do you know about this person?” she says.
19
Dean
Cat and I are openly dating now. We spend most of our time together, outside of class time.
I need to be with her, because when I’m not, I’m plagued with a sense of revulsion toward my own future.
I always knew the plan: graduate from Kingmakers, take a position under Danyl Kuznetsov, pay off my two years’ service, then work my way up in the Moscow Bratva until I’m Pakhan.
But now when I picture going back to Moscow, battling with Vanya Antonov for ascendency, forcing the rest of the Bratva to respect and support me, I just feel . . . blank.
I never liked Moscow. I always hated living there.
I ask Snow, “Did you like St. Petersburg?”
He shrugs. “Well enough.”
“But you wanted to go to America.”
“I wanted to fight at Madison Square Gardens. To me, that represented the ultimate achievement in boxing.”
“And you stayed in New York after.”
“That’s right.”
He’s taking me through a heavy bag workout with intense three-minute rounds. I can only question him during the brief rest period, because otherwise I’m panting too hard to speak.
I pound the bag with all my might until Snow clicks his stopwatch, letting me know I can rest again.
“What’s New York like?” I puff.
“Loud. All the time. Horns, sirens, subway trains, people shouting when they think they’re just talking. It’s constant stimulation—the color and diversity and the scent of the food. You could eat a different kind of food every day and never have the same thing twice. It’s safe, too—surprisingly safe. You can walk around any time, day or night. It’s always busy, always people around.”
He clicks his watch again, prompting me to launch myself at the bag once more, punching, ducking, circling, hitting again, until my three minutes are up.
I flop down on the mats, taking a hefty swig of water. I’m pouring sweat and I’ve got four more rounds to go.
“My mother was from Chicago,” I tell Snow.
“I’ve been there,” he says. “Great city.”
“I was born there. But I haven’t seen it since I was little.”
“Maybe you should visit,” Snow says, clicking his watch once more.
I always thought of Chicago as the place from which we’d been exiled. Forced out by the Gallos.
But it is my heritage just as much as Moscow.
I have American citizenship, not just Russian.
I pound the heavy bag with both fists, enjoying the satisfying thud as it gives way before me.
The second round of the Quartum Bellum takes place in February. The Sophomores have already been eliminated, so I don’t have to worry about Lola Fischer endangering Cat again.
Instead, I have to endure the fiendish creativity of Professor Penmark, who organizes the competition for maximum discomfort. Usually Professor Howell sets up the challenges—this one has a sadistic flair that could only come from the master of Torture Techniques.
Professor Penmark orders the three remaining teams to form a horizontal line along the Moon Beach, with our asses in the sand and our feet facing the water.
Then he strings a chain all the way down the line, looped around our wrists and ankles, with several different types of padlocks between each student. The challenge is to pick the locks before the tide comes in and drowns us.
This would be difficult enough if the water weren’t freezing and the waves random and vicious, trying to tug us out into the ocean.
To add to the fun, each team receives only one lock pick that has to be passed along the line student by student.
As soon as Professor Howell fires his starter pistol, the pick begins to move down the line. Progress is spurty, with some students easily popping their padlocks, while others struggling for an agonizing period of time. Several of the locks are in hard-to-reach positions, and the padlocks quickly become jammed with sand and bits of seaweed.
The waves start washing over my knees before the pick is even halfway down the line. Each rush of frigid, salty water makes the students shiver until the chains clatter like castanets.
“I can’t do it,” Coraline Paquet sobs on my left. “My fingers are ice.”
“Pass me the pick,” Motya grunts. “I’ll help.”
Kade, Leo, and Claire have all stationed themselves at the very end of their respective lines, so they’ll be the last to be unchained. Unlike most years, I’ll be sorry to see any of the Captains eliminated, because I know how badly they all want to win.
The water is up to my chest by the time I get the pick. I have to work blind, trying to feel the tumblers when my numb fingers can hardly grip let alone sense.
“I dropped it!” a hysterical Freshman girl shrieks. “I dropped the pick!”
“Find it!” Kade cries. “Comb the sand.”
Chained where he is, he’s incapable of assisting.
“It’s too late!” she cries. “The waves took it!”
I can see Kade gritting his teeth, furious and helpless.
“Find something else!” he cries. “Who has a Bobby pin?”
“I do,” another girl says, further down the line.
“Pass it along,” Kade orders.
The girl pulls the pin from her bun, straightens the minute metal rod, and passes it down the line.