Omen Operation (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Static energy shot into the tip of Brooklyn’s fingers. Her chest lurched forward, her stomach twisted into a ball, and her lungs burned with the urge to scream. But she didn’t move—she didn’t say a word. She stared wide-eyed past the far traffic light down the street and focused on Porter’s uneven breathing as her silence took its toll.

She expected him to ramble on. She expected him to cave.

But Porter stood at her heels, unmoving. The stillness was an eerie shadow cast over the two of them.

“Omens,” her voice came out weak and breathless as she finally spoke, repeating what he’d said.

He still didn’t move, but his hand kept its place curved over her shoulder, and his grip was tight.

“Don’t touch me,” the words came stumbling out of her mouth, loud and piercing. Brooklyn felt a few pairs of eyes shift over to where they stood.

Porter withdrew his hand.

“How much do you know?” Brooklyn asked.

“Enough.”

“You’ll tell them everything,” she snapped. Her hair whisked around her shoulders when she finally spun to face him, eyes stone cold. The bridge of her nose was pinched. Her lips shook. Adrenaline and anxiety made homes out of the holes in her heart that Porter had blown open with only a few words.

Every fleck of anger that sparked inside her was accompanied by a memory of the last two years. Of the way Porter’s head fell heavy on her shoulder by the fire. Of the exhaustion that coated his voice in the middle of the night, and how even the tiniest stir from her bunk would have him at the edge of her bed, sharing whispered words of comfort that chased the nightmares away. She looked at him, and he looked back. Porter’s eyes seemed younger than ever under the grey Oregon sky.

Brooklyn wanted to wrap her arms around him almost as much as she wanted to crush her fist into his cheek. The whirlwind of different emotions had her heart galloping in her chest.

His lips were chapped. It looked painful when he tried to catch his breath.

“I will tell them everything,” he whispered.

“You…” Brooklyn almost choked, but she swallowed down the lump in her throat. “You—” she shoved her index finger against his chest “—are an asset. Once we stop to make camp, you will sit down and explain. That’s the only reason
I’m
not killing you.”

“The only reason?” Porter leaned in against her hand and reached up to clasp it firmly in his own. “I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

Brooklyn’s heart sputtered, her throat closed, and she felt the blood drain from her face. The back of her hand struck his cheek before Porter noticed the crack in her already worn reserve.

Julian’s head peeked over the top of the truck to see what was going on.

Brooklyn walked away, almost stumbling to escape the situation. She left Porter there, standing on his own, staring at the concrete with a patch of deep red blooming over the left side of his face. She hoped his pride felt the sting just as much as his cheek did.

Julian reached for her and she shrank against him. “What happened?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it yet,” she mumbled.

“We’re getting ready to go. Are you gonna be all right?” Julian was testing, edging forward as he opened the back door of the truck and watched her slide in. “I’ve never seen you hit anyone outside of training before.”

Brooklyn bristled and turned her head away to look at Gabriel through the window.

“I’ve never had a reason,” she said.

She readied herself for an onslaught of questions, but none came. Julian leaned his arm against the top of the door and rested his forehead against his wrist. He sighed. She thought maybe she heard him start a sentence, but it faded away when Dawson called out to everyone.

“We’re on the edge of Washington.” Dawson’s voice boomed between the bus and the truck. “We’ll set up some of the emergency tents in a campsite just outside Seattle.”

Rayce stood on the step stool on the driver’s side of the bus. He nodded to Dawson before he climbed in.

Gabriel squeezed in beside Brooklyn, and Julian followed.

“Can you drive?” Dawson asked when Porter walked up to the truck. “My head’s pounding.”

The sound of her teeth grinding down against each other echoed between her ears. Brooklyn stared long and hard at Porter until he cleared his throat, shaking his head.

“You know, maybe Julian should drive. I’m still…” Porter held up his hand which gave a slight tremble. “I’m still, ah, a bit shaky from earlier. Go ahead and ride in the back with the girls. I’ll stay up here.”

“You up for it?” Dawson shrugged as he held the keys out to Julian.

“Yeah.” Julian nodded, crawling over the center console.

Dawson slid in next to Gabriel and kicked one of his feet up on the center console.

Gabriel smoldered at him with her nose in the air.

With everyone in place, they left. The lights of Portland fell dark behind the winding freeway and the wall of trees that kept it sheltered. The chill of the glass window felt nice on Brooklyn’s cheek. She counted the lights on the barricades as they passed them. One. Two. Three. Four. One right after the other. The only thing that distracted her was the reflection in the side mirror, the shine of Porter’s glasses. His eyes gazed somewhere far away, tracing the outline of comets that lingered in the night sky.

“Come on,” Dawson huffed under his breath, glaring at Gabriel. “You’re exhausted. Lie down.”

He moved over, bundled up a jacket, and put it in his lap for her to lay her head on. Gabriel gave a dismissive glance out of the corner of her eye. She blinked, looked from his lap to his chest and then to his face.

A slender finger poked Brooklyn’s hand. “How’s your tummy?”

“It’s fine, Gabriel,” Brooklyn smiled fondly and shifted, lifting her arm so that the other girl could curl up against her chest.

Gabriel rubbed her warm cheek against Brooklyn’s shoulder. Green eyes narrowed at Dawson, who huffed in return. Her legs lifted and draped over his lap. She dug her heels into the side of his thigh until he scooted in closer to her.

“I don’t like being away from you,” Dawson mumbled.

Gabriel didn’t say anything in return. She just looked at him with her face resting on Brooklyn’s collar bone and reached out to touch his hand.

Brooklyn could feel how tight his hold was on Gabriel. How his hands smoothed up Gabriel’s legs and held them against his chest. Brooklyn didn’t move, she didn’t say a word, just stroked Gabriel’s hair and listened to the rain begin to pelt against the windshield.

***

“Hey.”

Porter’s voice was a cool breath on the back of her neck. Brooklyn felt something pull in her abdomen. A startling jolt. An electrifying pulse. She swung around too quickly for her own good and jumped back when she realized how close he’d been.

It was the first time she’d seen him.

Her hand was in front of her, fingers stretched out like she was trying to woo a wild animal.

“I’m in your cabin,” Porter clarified. He lowered his head, and his glasses slid down to rest on the tip of his nose.

Brooklyn still hadn’t said a word.

He’d been wearing one of those long sleeved flannels, the soft ones that reminded her of Christmas. The black beanie he was so attached to clung to the back of his head.

His eyes looked like the honey that she used to pour into the bottom of her cup before she filled it with tea. The bundles of moles that crawled down his body started on his jaw. He was a little taller than her, shifting back and forth in his boots. His smile was nice, curving up more on one side than the other.

“I’m Porter.” He reached out and opened his hand. “Porter Malloy.”

His hands were soft. Softer than she’d expected.

“My name’s Brooklyn.”

Julian yawned loudly from the front seat. The scene dispersed behind Brooklyn’s eyelids as she woke from the short nap.

Gabriel was up, leaning over the center console.

“It stopped raining. We should set up here for the night,” Julian said as the truck entered a vacant campsite equipped with a rusty barbeque and a tiny fire pit.

Dawson nodded sheepishly as he pawed at his eyes.

The campsite was quiet and unenclosed. A couple long logs served as seats on either side of the rain-soaked fire pit and a large patch of dirt was a few feet behind the barbeque where they could hoist up the tents. Trees stood tall overhead, and some bushes were lined prettily along the dirt road where they parked the bus.

It was hard to concentrate on getting things done, on mundane but necessary tasks, when Porter was in her line of sight. He beat the dust out of one of the tents while Rayce hammered posts into the dirt. Brooklyn hated how hard it was for her to align the words just right in her head. They didn’t seem to fit. Even as she placed them one right after the other in perfect synchronism, as soon as she went to whisper them to herself, they vanished.

“You should have Porter check on your stitches when we’re done,” Gabriel said.

They unrolled sleeping bags from the compartments beneath the windows on the passenger’s side of the bus.

“They’re fine,” Brooklyn lied. Her stomach was itchy and tight.

“Still—” Gabriel shrugged “—just to be sure.”

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was easier to pacify Gabriel than to argue with her.

“Can you believe all this?” Gabriel sighed. “I mean, I just don’t get it. Do you think it’s the whole fight-or-flight thing? I’ve read about mothers who lift entire cars up to get to their babies and people who can crush concrete with their fists, but what we did was kind of crazy…kind of scary.”

Kind of
was an understatement.

“We’re all primitive at our core. I think we just did what we had to do.”

Gabriel’s lips were parted, and she scoffed. “Do you know how much torque it takes to snap a human neck?”

Brooklyn chewed on her lip.

“A thousand pounds, Brookie.” Gabriel narrowed her eyes and slid one of the sleeping bags over her shoulder. “And you did it like it was nothing.”

They walked together toward the three tents that were now fully upright, ready to be occupied. Some of the group opted to sleep in the bus, which was probably a bit warmer, but Brooklyn didn’t mind the tent as long as she would be sharing it with Gabriel.

They spread out their sleeping bags, topping them with thick quilts.

“Hey, Julian? Rayce was looking for you and…” Porter’s voice fell away when he peeked inside the tent and saw the two girls sitting down next to their duffle bags.

“Oh, hey!” Gabriel flashed a wide grin. “We were just about to come looking for you. Brookie needs her stitches looked at.”

Brooklyn shook her head and stammered, “I-I’m fine, actually. I’m good. They’re just kind of sore, a little. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“They’re sore?” he asked as he leaned further into their tent.

“She was limping a little,” Gabriel chirped.

Brooklyn scoffed. “I wasn’t limping.”

“You were, actually. I’ll go help Amber start the fire.”

Gabriel was up and out of the tent before Brooklyn could continue protesting. That left her alone with Porter, which was the one thing she’d been trying to avoid since they fled Portland.

“Can I please help you?” he asked.

“No.”

“C’mon, Brooklyn, the stitches probably just need to be taken out.”

“It’s too soon,” she croaked, glancing down at her stomach. “There’s no way it can be done healing by now.”

Porter took a step toward her, and she shimmied away from him.

“I’m fine!”

“I know you are, but if you don’t let me clip those stitches, the pinching is only going to get worse. The skin will tear back open, and it’ll be a mess. If you would just listen to me—” he paused and took a minute to catch his breath “—I can make you more comfortable.”

“I doubt it,” Brooklyn gritted.

“I would doubt me too if I were you, but I’m still a doctor. You’re healing at an accelerated rate; I’m assuming you’re used to that, aren’t you?”

He held his hand out to her and took the opportunity to kneel down so he could look at her eye to eye. He sat back with his shoulders hunched and sighed, heavy and tired. His question took her by surprise. Brooklyn froze in place. All the muscles in her legs tensed. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. He wasn’t wrong. She bit down on the inside of her cheek and decided to stay quiet.

“Bruises? Bumps? Scrapes? They all seemed to disappear after a night or two, didn’t they? You told me about a time on the soccer field when you swore you heard your own ankle break, but by the time they’d gotten you to the hospital the doctor only saw a small fracture? And then training at camp, all that fighting and conditioning, yet none of you ever had an injury that took longer than a day or so to heal. It’s not a coincidence.”