Burn (32 page)

“I’m not,” she says, arching an eyebrow and looking over her shoulder at the scowling Dr. Ackerman. “But this was important.”

Angus strides in with one of the Core agents, carrying a large stack of portraits to position at the front of the room. Most of them are men I don’t recognize, but after a moment I realize they’re Core agents who lost their lives in our earlier battles. And then I see the last four set in line with the rest:

Peter McClaren.

George Fisher. My heart sinks as I realize his body must have been found.

Charles Willetts.

And my dad.

“These are the heroes whom we haven’t yet mourned or celebrated,” Angus declares, “and we thought it fitting that we do so now.”

My father’s stern, handsome face peers out at me. There’s something defiant in those eyes, a keen, cool intelligence. I stare into them, wishing for the warmth I craved, that I still crave. My mother’s hand slips into mine. “When you were born, he was so scared.”

“What?”

“He told me that he knew he’d make mistakes. He wasn’t sure he knew how to be a father. His own father had been so strict and so stern. But he loved you, Tate.” Her face crumples. “He loved you more than he could say.”

And that’s what does it. So many people have said I’m like him. They’ve told me he would be proud of me. But this, from my mother, breaks me apart. After everything, all the mistakes he made, the mistakes I made, the distance between us that will only be bridged through memory and thought because I’ll never hear his voice again . . .

I let go of her hand and approach the picture. Frederick Archer, my father, the man who figured it out, who put everything in place, who saved the world with a little help from his son. “You did it, Dad,” I say to him quietly, under my breath, words for no one but him. “I couldn’t have done this if you hadn’t prepared me. I’d be dead if you hadn’t done what you did.”

I move closer. I don’t know what I believe, whether he can hear me, but I hope he can. “I love you, too.”

I step back. Nothing’s changed. We’re still grieving terrible losses, people whose sacrifices saved us but whose absence will haunt us always. We’re preparing for an enemy of unknown number and strength, hoping what we have is enough to protect our planet. The Fifty and the Core have a lot to figure out. Things are complicated, and they’ll stay that way for a long time.

But I’m proud of my dad, of what he did, and if he were here, he’d be proud of me, too.

And that much, at least, is simple.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to the incredible team at Penguin for helping and cheering us on. My gratitude goes to Stacey Barney, our editor, for being patient, thorough, and thoughtful. Thanks also go to Marisa Russell for coordinating publicity at Penguin, and also to the team at JKS Publicity, including Julie Schoerke, Samantha Lien, and Grace Wright, for doing everything from getting us interviews with
Publishers Weekly
to snagging me a cab at midnight on Bourbon Street.

A special thank-you goes to the team at New Leaf Literary, but I want to express my intense gratitude to Kathleen Ortiz and Joanna Volpe for providing support of every possible kind throughout this process. You guys set a high bar for agents. Like, up in the stratosphere.

To my friends who never wavered in your electronic (((hugs))) and encouragement—Brigid, Jaime, and Virginia most especially—I am in your debt. And Lydia, not even a mountain of shrimp toast could properly convey my adoration.

Thank you to my family for holding me together, and to my colleagues, especially Paul, for being willing to let me mix book talk with psychology talk.

And finally, to our readers, thank you for hanging with Tate and Christina during the most intense week of their lives. Whether you scan red or blue, I love you all.

—Sarah Fine

Thanks to Melissa, my love and the CEO of our family.

My incredible co-author, Sarah Fine, who somehow juggles four full-time jobs at once!

Joanna Volpe, the Guinness World Record holder for the Greatest Agenting Moves in One Calendar Year.

The entire team at New Leaf Literary and Media, most notably Kathleen Ortiz, Jaida Temperly, and Jackie Lindert for their editorial prowess during the writing process!

Our incredible team at Penguin, including the marketing and publicity teams (Marisa Russell, Erin Berger, and Erin Gallagher); Tony Sahara, who designed our incredible covers; Cindy Howle, copy chief, who oversaw the production process; our copy editor, Wendy Dopkin; and Stacey Barney, who loved this series from day one and made it work through sheer will.

My mom, Nahid Ghaffari, who taught me to read practically before I could walk. My dad, Faraz Shahbazian, who loves books as much as anyone. My entire family and my friends for their support over all these years.

—Walter Jury

WALTER JURY
was born in London, went to high school in Silicon Valley, worked in the infamous agency mailrooms of Hollywood, and currently resides just outside of Manhattan.
Burn
is his second book for teens. Under his real name, he is one of the movie producers of the Divergent series, amongst other films and television shows he is developing.

You can visit Walter Jury at walterjury.tumblr.com
or on Twitter @WalterJury

Photo © Rebecca Skinner

SARAH FINE
was born on the West Coast, raised in the Midwest, and is now firmly entrenched on the East Coast. She’s a clinical child psychologist and the author of the Guards of the Shadowlands series and
Of Metal and Wishes
.

You can visit Sarah Fine at sarahfinebooks.com
or on Twitter @finesarah

MY DAD IS ALMOST TO THE BACK DOOR, HIS CELL PHONE
at his ear, his words staccato and commanding, talking so fast, I can’t catch any of it. Christina is close behind him, pale as a ghost. I look over my shoulder to see all the kitchen workers staring at the door to the cafeteria. The cops are pounding on it, shouting, “Police! Open the door!” over and over again. But I’ve created just enough uncertainty to hold them in place for a few seconds.

I squat low by the heavy metal door to the outside, feeling the breeze at my back as Christina holds it open for me. I wrench the cap off the container in my hands. A few seconds later, I’ve laid a little vegetable-oil welcome mat for anyone who chases us out this way. Again, it will gain us only a few seconds, but I’m thinking we need every advantage we can get.

Christina takes off, and I weave through a set of Dumpsters and recycling containers, hot on her heels. She’s fast as hell and agile, too, and she streaks into the open and sprints behind my father, who’s several strides ahead of us, cell phone in one hand and the scanner in the other. He runs straight up the sidewalk. A few faces are pressed against the classroom windows, no doubt happy for the distraction. A black SUV skids around the corner, from the street at the front of the school, and accelerates toward us. For a second I think we’ve got another enemy, but my dad waves his arms at the vehicle.

He brought a getaway car?

His powerful strides don’t slow as he looks over his shoulder, as if to gauge our distance from him. As soon as I see the expression on his face, I know the cops are closing in. I don’t even turn around to look. Instead, I kick it into overdrive and close the distance between me and Christina. We’re a few car lengths from the SUV, and whoever’s inside has thrown the passenger-side door open. We’re going to make it.

My father doesn’t dive through the open door like I expect him to, though. He turns back and runs toward me as Christina sprints past him and ducks into the SUV. Before I have a chance to wonder why, I hear a series of echoing cracks and the windshield of the car next to me shatters. A voice back by the Dumpsters yells something, but I can’t make it out. My dad is right behind me a second later, shielding me with his body. The police are firing at us like we’re terrorists or criminals, like we’re a threat, and I have no idea why. They’re not supposed to shoot at unarmed civilians, right? Especially right next to a school?

My brain is a soupy fog of questions and fear as we stumble the last few feet toward the SUV while the world explodes around us. My dad flinches and falls against my back with his full weight, nearly knocking me over. The groan that rolls from his throat is pure, animal pain. He reaches around me and presses the scanner into my chest. “Take this,” he says, sinking to one knee.

I turn toward him, the scanner dangling from my fist. The back of my father’s pressed white shirt is blossoming with red.

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