Children of the Underground

PRAISE FOR

CHILDREN OF PARANOIA

“A generations-long war that's claimed thousands of lives, waged in perfect secrecy beneath the clueless noses of people like me? Oh, hell yeah.
Children of Paranoia
is a claustrophobic, relentless, fascinating ride that will have you eyeballing everyone you pass in the street. I can't wait for the sequel.”

—Marcus Sakey, author of
The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes

“Trevor Shane's
Children of Paranoia
is a gripping journey into a secret war where literally anyone could kill you. Like
The Bourne Identity
turned inside out, his protagonist navigates a world where banal choices like going to the ATM have life-and-death consequences. Filled with sharp plotting and vivid action, this book will stay with you long after you've raced to the end.”

—Chris Farnsworth, author of
Blood Oath

“What keeps the reader relentlessly glued to
Children of Paranoia
are the unrelenting suspense and complex characters. It is definitely a roller-coaster ride that one won't soon forget.”

—New York Journal of Books

“Shane's work here is impressive. He certainly knows how to stage an action scene and how to ratchet up tension. If you're in the market for an exciting, propulsive read . . .
Children of Paranoia
would make an excellent choice.”

—
The Saturday Evening Post

“
Children of Paranoia
functions neatly as a surreal variant on the noir thriller where evil lurks in every shadow and happiness either remains tantalizingly just out of reach or could be snatched away in an instant.”

—Shelf Awareness

“An action-packed story of war, intrigue, and twists and turns.”

—
The Parkersburg News and Sentinel
(Parkersburg, WV)

“[
Children of Paranoia
] is an interesting but poignant metaphor for the senselessness of killing, be it by rival street gangs, feuding families, or entire countries . . . a powerful story.”

—
Suspense Magazine

“Well-written and exciting. . . . The plot takes some interesting and unexpected turns.”

—Geek Speak Magazine

“Fast-paced . . . a thought-provoking, enjoyable read that will stay with readers when the last page is done.”

—Monsters and Critics

“An exceptional story.”

—Fresh Fiction

“[
Children of Paranoia
] will please lovers of adventure and action.”

—Examiner.com

“
Children of Paranoia
, the first installment of a planned trilogy, never flags, and kept this reader's attention rapt until its end, by which time Irene's winds had died down and the rain had long since stopped.”

—
Psychology Today

CHILDREN
OF THE

UNDERGROUND

THE CHILDREN OF PARANOIA SERIES

TREVOR SHANE

N
EW
A
MERICAN
L
IBRARY

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

First published by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, April 2013

Copyright © Trevor Shane, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE HARDCOVER EDITION OF THIS TITLE AS FOLLOWS:

Shane, Trevor. Children of the underground / Trevor Shane. p. cm.—(The children of paranoia series) 

ISBN 978-0-451-23929-7 (pbk.) 1. Mothers of kidnapped children—Fiction. I. Title. PS3619.H35465C48 2013 813'.6—dc23 2012032443

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61508-9

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

“And then what happened?” the young girl asked the old woman sitting across the table from her.

CHILDREN OF PARANOIA

BOOK II

Dear Christopher,

I finally found him. It took me almost nine months, but I finally found him. Now he's gone again. All I have left of him is the blood-soaked washcloth in the bathroom sink. Let's pray that he comes back. Let's pray that he agrees to help me find you.

Love,

Mom

One

I remembered the smell
of blood. When there's enough of it, it's a pungent smell that you can never forget. When the scent hit me, so many memories came flooding back.

I drove into Grand Case before noon. I brought a magazine with me, imagining that I could hide behind it as I searched strangers' faces for the man that I saw on the pier. I was excited, not only at the prospect of finally finding him, but at the prospect of playing the game. For the first time in months, I felt like I had a chance to win.

Grand Case is small enough that I knew I would find Michael if he showed up. What I didn't know was how he'd react to meeting me. I knew that there was a chance that he would blame me for your father's death. There was a chance that he wouldn't want anything to do with me. I didn't know how I was going to react to meeting him either. I'd spent nine months without the War, without violence or blood or terror. I'd need courage to go back. Sometimes life doesn't give you choices, Christopher. I made fun of your father for telling me that once, but he was right. Even if you have choices, sometimes you have only one worth making. I had to go back to the War. It's the only way that I can save you from it.

When I got to Grand Case, I parked my car and walked toward the water. It was a quick walk from the street to the beach. The beach at Grand Case coils its way around the bay in an almost perfect semicircle. From where I stepped onto the sand, I could see every bar, every restaurant, every sunbather, every ounce of sand as they all wrapped themselves around the blue water of the bay. I took off my shoes and began to walk, digging my toes into the soft white sand. I walked the length of the beach twice, checking the inside of each restaurant and bar to see if Michael was already inside. When I didn't see him, I found a spot in the sand that afforded me a clear view of everything. I sat down and began scanning the faces of the people around me.

I sat in that spot for four hours before I saw Michael. When I did, it was as thrilling and as frightening as it had been the day before. I had so much riding on this man that I'd never met. I spotted him coming out of the water. I recognized his face. I noticed the deep scar on his side from where someone had driven a knife into his abdomen while he was saving your father's life. It was shaped like a pair of eternally silent lips. I recognized his taut, muscular frame from the docks. Michael wasn't big, but he looked strong and agile. Watching him gave me faith that he could help me. I thought for a moment that everything was going to work out. I didn't know that the next twenty-four hours were going to dissolve into a nightmare.

The beach was quiet and uncrowded. Michael was fifty yards from me, but only a few people stood between us. I could hear the cries of the seagulls and the wind blowing through the flags on the boats anchored in the bay, but I didn't hear any other sound. The water was calm. Michael stretched out in the sand and slept. Other than the rise and fall of his chest, his body didn't move. While he was sleeping, I took a cigarette out of my bag and lit it to calm my nerves. I was in the middle of my third cigarette when Michael sat up, put on his shirt, and walked toward one of the restaurants overlooking the beach. I tossed my half-smoked cigarette in the sand, dusted myself off, and followed him. My plan was to let Michael get three drinks into him before I confronted him. I planned on telling him who I was and then telling him how often and how fondly your father spoke about him. I was ready to tell Michael that your father's last wish was that Michael could have a chance to meet you. I was ready to lie. I was ready to do whatever it took.

By the time I walked up the steps leading from the beach into the shade of the restaurant, Michael was already sitting at the bar with a drink in front of him. I did my best to avoid staring at him. I sat down at a table overlooking the water. The waiter asked what I'd like to drink. I'd learned from your father's journal that he was never supposed to drink on a job. I remembered the stories where your father and his friends ordered club soda so that they could look like they were drinking. I needed a drink, though. I ordered a margarita, thinking it would at least make me look like I was on vacation.

The restaurant was about half-full when I walked in, but it was quickly crowding up. The day was slipping slowly into night. Men came in wearing loud Hawaiian-print shirts, and the women came in wearing airy, spaghetti-strap dresses. Michael ordered a second beer. I ordered a salad so that the waiter wouldn't kick me off my table. I tried to eat some of the salad, realizing that I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, but my throat closed up. I couldn't swallow. One drink down, two to go, I told myself. Then I saw one of the others for the first time.

He was sitting at a table in the corner of the restaurant. He appeared to be alone. He had a glass of wine on his table but it looked full, not even sipped. A plate of untouched seafood-strewn pasta sat in front of the man. He was doing what I was doing. He was watching Michael. At first I thought that I was imagining things. I've had fits of paranoia before. When I was on the run with your father, they were frequent. I would suddenly feel every eye on me and think that that everyone was out to get me. Maybe my brain could sense that I was near the War again. Your father taught me to trust my instincts, so I kept one eye on Michael and one eye on the man in the corner. I wasn't imagining things. He followed every move that Michael made with a measured ease, turning away only when Michael turned toward him. Unlike me, he was no amateur. Michael didn't seem to notice him.

My mind raced. I tried to think of what I should do. I felt like I was trapped in one of your father's stories, only I was unprepared. The man in the corner glanced at his watch. He reached out in front of him and appeared to take a sip of wine. He was older than me but younger than Michael. He had a thin face. His hair and eyes were dark. He looked at his watch again as if he were waiting for someone.

I put my half-empty margarita back down on the table, vowing not to drink another drop. I'd thought that the only thing I had to fear was Michael's reaction to meeting me. I'd been naive. I never thought I had to be afraid that someone else would get to Michael before I did. If anything happened to Michael, I was lost. He was all I had.

That's when the second man walked through the door.

The second man and his partner were about the same age. I noticed the second man walk into the restaurant and glance at his partner in the corner. They made eye contact, and the man in the corner tapped on his watch and shook his head as if to admonish his partner for being late. The second man was bigger than the first. He had broad shoulders and deep-set eyes. He glanced at Michael and began walking toward him. He was only a few steps away. I wanted to shout. I wanted to warn Michael, but I couldn't find the courage to speak. The new guy reached Michael and kept walking. He eventually found a place at the end of the bar. I began breathing again. The second man ordered a beer, though I would have bet my life that he wasn't going to drink it. I looked at Michael again. He seemed oblivious to it all. He drank his beer alone. The only person Michael spoke to was the bartender. He wasn't nearly as alone as he thought he was. I felt frozen, trapped, watching everything that was happening like it was a movie. Your father taught me how to run. He never taught me how to fight. I had to do something. I had to warn Michael. The restaurant was getting louder, and the bar was getting more crowded. It was growing harder to keep an eye on Michael, let alone the others. I tried to think about what Michael would have done if our roles were reversed.

I stood up from my table and began walking toward the bar. At first, my legs nearly gave out beneath me. I ignored the others as I walked. I pushed my way through the bodies of some revelers on the way to the bar. They smelled like a mix of red wine and coconut oil. At last, I got past the final person and saw that the barstool next to Michael was still free. I hadn't had time to plan what I was going to say to him.
Run
or
They're after you
was all I could think of. Before I sat down on the stool next to Michael, I glanced at the thin-faced man in the corner. He was staring at me. He looked nervous. He wasn't expecting me. I turned away from him, trying to ignore the unease in my stomach.

I sat down on the barstool and turned to face Michael. As I did, the waiter who had served me my drink and my salad called out, “Miss,” and held the check in his hand. “You forgot to pay.” As he spoke the words, Michael turned and stared at me. Our faces were only inches apart. He was looking into me, through me. I wanted to say something, but I froze beneath his stare.

Without looking away from me, Michael yelled to the bartender, “Jerry, I gotta run. I'll get you next time. Okay?” Then Michael stood up and began walking away.

The bartender laughed. “Sure thing, Michael. I'll put it on your tab.” Michael walked toward the door leading to the street. I never opened my mouth. I never warned him. I never had a chance. I froze for a second and then looked over at the man in the corner. He had taken out his wallet and was dropping money on the table to cover his bill. I looked back toward the man at the end of the bar, but he wasn't there. He was already gone. He must have gone out through the entrance to the beach as soon as he saw Michael leave. The man in the corner rushed toward the door to the street, leaving a wad of bills on the table. I sat there frozen with panic.

“Miss, your bill?” my waiter called out to me again, waving the paper above his head. I didn't have time for him. I turned and ran to the door. I wasn't going to lose Michael. I was too close. I didn't care that the thin-faced man stood between me and Michael or that the man with the sunken eyes was lurking somewhere in the darkness.

I made it out of the front door just in time to see the thin-faced man disappear into a crowd to my right. I followed him, moving as quickly as I could through the throngs of bodies now littering the street. I could hear the dissonant mix of reggae and jazz music echoing out of the restaurants as I passed them. I wove through the crowd. I heard tourists laughing and bellowing out to each other. It was safe amid the people. All Michael had to do was stay in the crowd and he'd be safe. He didn't have to run. I couldn't see the thin-faced man anymore. I kept moving, searching the faces of the people as I passed them. I came to a vacant little street that led away from the water. Dark, quiet buildings lined the street. The gaps between the buildings were empty except for shadows. I looked down the street. The only thing I saw was the silhouette of a man walking slowly away from the crowds. He was alone. It was Michael. I could tell by the way that he moved. He was walking away from safety and into the darkness. I didn't know where the others were. I'd lost them. All I knew was that they were out there. Michael was walking right into danger and he didn't even know it. I watched him until he turned down a smaller, darker alleyway branching off the side street. I broke into a run. I ran toward Michael. My feet stamped hard on the ground as I tried to follow the direction that his shadow had moved. I followed him into the darkness. I turned down the second, darker alley. Then I froze. Everything around me became quiet. The alley was empty, lit only by the half-moon reflecting off the broken windows around me.

I remembered to be afraid. I ducked into the shadow of one of the buildings. I didn't dare move. I listened. I heard the murmuring sound of people whispering to each other over the faint sound of music from the restaurants only a few blocks away. Then I heard footsteps, light footsteps, running away from the whispers. I couldn't figure out what was happening. I needed to save Michael. Without him, I had no way to find you. I moved. I jumped from one shadow to the next, from one gap between buildings to another. Each time I stopped, I listened. I heard nothing but silence.

I breathed slowly, deliberately, trying to control my anxiety, trying to remain hidden. Sheltered in the deep darkness between two buildings, I leaned forward and peered around the corner. All I saw was moonlight shining down on the street. Then I heard a noise. It took me a moment—one horrible, frozen moment—to realize where the noise was coming from. Something was behind me, hidden in the shadows. I didn't hear any footsteps, only a whooshing sound, like the wind. I saw a quick flash of light in front of me, the moonlight reflecting off a metal object as it moved by my face. Before I had a chance to react, I felt the hot blade of a knife pressing deep into my neck. I inhaled, trying not to breathe, knowing that any movement and the knife might break my skin. Then I felt an arm move across my body, clenching my arms at my sides in one strong, viselike grip. The arm pulled me backward until I was pressed up against a body. I couldn't move. I closed my eyes, trying to remember you one more time, thinking that it would all be over soon.

I couldn't see anything in the darkness. “You've got ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't kill you,” a voice whispered into my ear. I recognized the voice. I would have fallen if Michael hadn't literally been holding me up with the arm he had wrapped around my torso.

“People are following you,” I whispered back to him.

“I know,” he replied. “You're one of them.”

I became confused. In my rush to warn Michael, I'd forgotten that he didn't know who I was. “No,” I stammered, “I'm not one of
Them
.” I said the word
Them
like your father used to say it, like it was the world's greatest insult.

“Then who are you?” Michael asked. I could feel the pressure on my neck from the blade of the knife ease up slightly. My eyes were getting used to the darkness. I could almost see the knife blade now.

“I'm Joe's girlfriend,” I answered.

Michael took the knife from my throat and spun me around until I was facing him. He kept a powerful grip on both my arms. For a moment, he just looked at me, staring at me through the darkness. We were close enough that I could see the expression on his face. He looked confused, surprised, and angry all at once. Your father had never been easy to read, but he wore only one emotion at a time. In one look, Michael wore hundreds.