The Jump, page 17
I hope he’s wrong.
But… what if he’s right?
Han
I take a deep breath and my eyes flutter awake. My jaw hurts. I think I was grinding my teeth in my sleep. Where am I? What time is it? I’m staring at the roof of my car, and—
What the hell is that obnoxious snoring behind me?
I look in my rearview mirror to find Spider, sprawled unglamorously over my back seat like a wet blanket. I can smell that cheese, warmed by his body heat—disgusting. I reach behind my seat and tap his leg, and he stirs. The snoring stops, but he goes still again.
I jostle him a little harder this time, and he startles awake.
“Ah, what the hell?! Yas, who—” He locks eyes with me in the rearview mirror. “Oh, Han, don’t scare me like that. What… what time is it? Where’s Yas?”
I glance over at the passenger seat, look back up at him, and shrug before pulling out my phone and texting her. No idea where she went, but I know she knows how to maneuver. How to survive. How to hide.
ME: Hey, you okay?
And then I wait.
Spider rights himself, groggily holding a hand to his head. He reaches under his shirt with his free hand and scratches under the elastic of his binder.
“Hey look,” he says with a yawn. “This scanner app finally decided to load.”
He leans over my shoulder and holds the phone about a foot from my face. I read it quietly as he reads it aloud.
YOU’VE PROVEN YOUR WORTH. NOW PROVE YOUR DEDICATION.
TAKE BACK THE TOP. ONE LAST EVALUATION.
COUNTLESS LIVES FOR FORTUNE 5 ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.
KICK A CAN. BURN A BARREL. BANG A DRUM. BE THE CHANGE.
WELCOME TO THE END. YOUR FINAL DESTINATION.
A KNIFE IN THE HEART OF AN EVIL CORPORATION.
“Well, that’s the most ominous shit I’ve ever read,” he says, retreating into the back seat to pore over the puzzle some more.
I’ve got it already, though.
Fortune 5? Gotta be somewhere big. Somewhere in the news a lot lately, probably. After all, the Order thrives off publicity.
It’s gotta be Roundworld. It’s the only place that makes sense. And the heart has to be their headquarters, the epicenter of their… well… evil. Normally, I like to wait for a little more certainty before speeding off to pursue a clue, but these circumstances are more than extenuating.
Jax was arrested.
Yas is missing.
Spider and I are fugitives of the law.
And this is the last clue in a puzzle that might win us enough “power” to escape all of the above.
If we don’t move now, we might never get the chance.
My mind drifts back to Kyler. To his question for Dad. About that employee loan.
And I wonder if the loan would be safer than whatever we’re about to walk into. I wouldn’t have to deal with Jax being mad at me anymore, or another police chase—that shit was ridiculous.
But then I think of Yas, where she might have run off to. I have no idea—maybe she’s been arrested by now. Jax might be dead. Spider hasn’t solved the clue yet. I can hear him mumbling to himself back there, piecing things together while our friends’ lives are on the line.
I guess I’ll need more than just a loan to make sure they’re safe.
…I’ll need power.
I turn the key and throw the car into drive, beckoning Spider to buckle up, which he does.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, man, where are we going?”
I know it’s rhetorical, so I step gently on the gas, easing us around the corner and out of this lot.
“You gotta give me something, man. Are we going to Roundworld?” he asks. “Click in Morse code or something!”
I look up at him, confused. There’s no way he’s serious. Does he think I just know Morse code like that? I nod, though. Yes, we’re going to Roundworld.
“We’re not even sure that’s where it’s pointing us to. There are five corporations in the Fortune Five, and three of them have headquarters in Puget Sound. How do we know it’s Roundworld?”
He’s just going to have to trust me.
I follow the signs for 405 South to I-90, which will take us across the water and into Seattle. I just hope that wherever Jax and Yas are, wherever Team ROYAL is, we’re not too late.
We stop at a red light and I glance at my phone, where my conversation with Yas is still open.
Still nothing.
I hope she’s okay.
I hope after tonight, we all make it out of this okay.
Jax
What if they’re about to give me the ultimatum of my life?
Once I get to the door labeled “Bay 1,” it’s not long before the door swings open and that same guy who was monitoring my phone calls appears in the glowing yellow hallway, hand at his hip.
“Oh, they got you doing all the exciting stuff, huh?” I ask. His face remains stoic as he pulls out a shiny pair of silver handcuffs and motions for me to turn around. Once the handcuffs are back on, I’m escorted down the hallway to a room that looks nothing like an interrogation room—seriously, what kind of interrogation room has potted plants and hideous red-and-blue carpet and… is that a damn turtle in that terrarium in the corner?
And what kind of interrogator looks like the guy sitting in the big black armchair across the desk in front of me? He looks more like a Calvin Klein model than a cop, besides the uniform and the badge and the… gun.
I see it at his hip before he takes a seat across from me and leans onto the desk with a smile that unsettles every last fiber of calm I had left.
“So,” he says with a sweeping tone that ascends into the sky before landing on the ground again, “Jaxon, Jaxon, Jaxon. You’re pretty famous around here, from what I gather.”
I know better than to give these people any information. Mama and Zaza taught me well.
“I want a lawyer before I say anything,” I say.
“Sure, sure,” he says, as if he was expecting that. “I should mention, though, that this conversation is not being recorded.”
He reaches down to his lap and pulls out a phone. Wait. My phone! That’s my phone!
Everything in me is screaming to reach over and take it, to open my messages, to make sure my friends are all okay. But I don’t move.
“I’m sure you recognize this, and I’m happy to give it back to you, along with your clothes,” he says, pulling up a stack of clothes from somewhere behind his desk—the clothes I was arrested in—my sweats, my hoodie, and my T-shirt in a plastic bag. “Your kicks,” he continues, setting my bright red shoes beside the clothes in another plastic bag. “And this,” he says, holding up Mama’s amethyst pendant in a final bag.
He must see something change in my face, because he smiles like he’s won this debate, and I ain’t even said a word yet. I think back to Mama, who gave me that amethyst for protection, because she had a feeling I might need it, because she loves me. I feel tears well in my eyes at the thought that she has no idea where I am right now, that it’s late at night and she hasn’t heard from me.
You better not cry, Jax, I tell myself. Do not. Not here.
“So, if you’d like all of… this back,” he says, motioning to my belongings like letting them reside on his desk is an act of charity, “and if you’d like to get out of here tonight, you can help me identify a few of these faces.”
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small stack of grainy 8 ½" x 11" photos of crowds of people—people with signs that say BLACK LIVES MATTER and FUCK THE POLICE and HANDS UP DON’T SHOOT and DOWN WITH THE REFINERY. I read sign after sign after sign from these snapshots of different upheavals, most of which look like they’re on Pine Street downtown.
THE CLIMATE IS CHANGING. WHY AREN’T WE?
CLEAN POWER TO ALL PEOPLE!
FIGHT TODAY FOR A BETTER TOMORROW!
And finally…
IT’S OIL OVER!
They… want me to identify protesters? That’s what they want out of me? Why? What did the protesters ever do to them? I know I’m not supposed to talk, but… I gotta know.
“Why?”
“Why?!” He chuckles with a smile that makes a chill snake its way up the back of my neck. “Because these people make life so much harder. For you and me, really. They cost my precinct time and money, taking up our resources, putting my boys on the front lines of pointless conflicts. Fools’ errands. They’ve trashed private property and small businesses, damaged vehicles and police property, vandalized buildings and littered their picketing signs and spray paint cans and banners all over the city, and guess who has to clean all that shit up.”
I stare at him, trying to keep my face even, trying to look like I’m not about to shit my pants right now. But this man, with his eyes flashing, his finger still pressed hard against the stack of photos, his other hand somewhere under the desk, where I know he keeps at least one firearm—he must, right? I’m terrified.
I clasp my hands together to keep from shaking and decide I can’t look at him any longer or I might crack and he’ll figure out I’m not as strong as my silence might indicate.
So many faces behind each of these causes, on the same ground. So many people rallying together against tyranny. Against lawlessness committed by law enforcement. Against the inevitable heat death of the planet, at the rate we’re going. None that I recognize. Young people in bandannas, some around their heads to catch sweat, some over their mouths to protect them from tear gas and pepper spray. Many hold what look like homemade shields made of wood and scrap metal, probably to repel rubber bullets, which aren’t really bullet-size at all. Some rubber bullets are as big as pool balls, and they can kill you if fired at point-blank range.
And then I see her face.
My breath catches in my throat before I can realize that this guy is still talking about something. The face I’m staring down at fully sinks in, and I can feel the tension tightening in the room. He knows I recognize someone, and I try to keep my eyes moving fluidly over the pictures as if I hadn’t seen anything noteworthy.
As if Ava’s eyes hadn’t been staring right into the camera.
Her nose and mouth had been covered by a bright orange bandanna, thank the universe and all her treasures, but those eyes. That hair. I’d know them anywhere. That was her determined face, staring at the camera like she was on the front lines in the goddamn US Army.
Ava.
My sister.
I should’ve known. I had clues.
Nobody knows what “be the change” means…. Prove me wrong.
That’s what she’d told me a few days ago. She’d stared right at me as I announced to Mama and Zaza that I wanted to join in and protest against Roundworld and their blatant assault on the environment, and said nothing. She’s quietly been fighting just as hard as I’ve been.
Maybe even harder.
“Oh, fantastic,” says Officer—what’s his name—I check his badge. Hank. Officer Hank. “Charlie to you, as long as you comply,” he says, a bit of spunk in his voice as if he just invited me over for coffee with his wife and kids and not threatened me should I choose not to out my own sister.
“No,” I say before my voice can crack any further.
He looks at me evenly for the longest time. The clock on his desk ticks away as he removes his glasses in disappointment.
“Oh, Jaxon, I didn’t think you’d be this stupid,” he says. “Listen, you don’t even know the terms of the deal yet. You can walk free right now.”
I freeze where I am, refusing to move, refusing to give this man anything he might use to identify and track down my sister, or any of my friends, or anyone else I love. I don’t move a muscle.
“I know you want to get home to your parents, okay? You haven’t got so much as a parking ticket on your record, and you’re probably scared back there with all the… delinquents in here who are accused of… murder and… assault and… various other crimes we won’t get into. And,” he says, resting four tense white fingers over the photo directly in front of me that he caught me lingering on, his index finger right smack over the middle of Ava’s face, “I know you’ve got a game to get back to.”
I look up at him now, my blood racing.
He knows about the game?
“You read my texts,” I say.
“No,” he says, “I never have time to parse out you kiddos’ TikTok talk. There’s a much easier way.”
Have these assholes been following me or something? Following JERICHO? Following the whole forum? I shake my head.
“No,” I say. No to whatever the hell this guy has to say to me, no to whatever he’s about to ask me to do.
“Just give us three names—”
“No,” I cut in, feeling more tears come forth, threatening to overflow.
“Okay, fine. One name—”
“No.”
“Name just one person from this spread, and—”
“No!” I say, unable to hide the bite in my voice.
“You can go free right now and get back to your little game—”
“No!” I holler. The tears roll down my face as I glare at him, my wrists shaking in the handcuffs still behind my back.
He leans back in his chair and sucks his teeth before stroking his chin.
“Jaxon,” he says forlornly, like asking me to out my family to the people protecting the very corporation that’s about to destroy my family’s community is killing him inside, “I’d hoped you’d make the smart choice here. You see,” he continues, scooping up the photos in his hands, the last one being the one with my sister, “without order, there can be no justice. And without us,” he says, reaching under his desk to click a button that I can see is blinking red against his palm, “there is no order.”
It takes me several seconds to realize what he’s just told me.
Without us, there is no order.
Without us…
The door behind me opens, and hands reach down to gently pull me up by my shoulders.
there is no…
They lead me down the hall as I realize how right Ricardo was. About everything.
Order.
Yas
I can see the topmost corner of the flag from down here.
It’s white, and I can see the corner of the eye symbol we’ve all grown so familiar with—the symbol of the Order.
“Let’s do this,” I say, turning to where I expect Sigge to be standing beside me. But she’s gone. I look around frantically before spotting her foot disappearing around the corner of the building. I run after her.
“Sigge?” I call as I round the corner to find her sprinting for the scaffolding. I take off after her, wondering why she’s running so fast. To get away from me?
She reaches the first step and races up, her shoes softly padding the metal as delicately as if she were running in socks. When she rounds the first corner, she glances down at me. My feet clatter like I’m running in steel-toed boots.
“What, did you forget this is a race?” she asks, sprinting on.
I turn and jump up onto the railing, turn again, and launch myself up to the next level of steps.
“Guess I did,” I say, now racing ahead of her. “Must have been your eyes.”
I hope she takes that as flirting.
Because I meant it to be.
I can hear her behind me, and when I round the next corner, I stop, horrified to see her swinging backward over the next railing like they’re uneven bars. Her feet land on the metal, and she turns and leans in close.
“I like you,” she says with a smile. “But not enough to let you win.”
Then she turns and keeps running with the speed of someone on a mission to save her family.
I look up, realizing we have several stories to go, and as I hurry after her, I think of Jax, where he might be right now, probably without his phone, having no idea where any of us are or what we’re doing to get him out. I hope he doesn’t think we just continued with the puzzle without him, just to win.
I don’t care about winning otherwise. Not at the expense of our safety. Abba can sell his store. I can open a parkour studio with money I’ve earned the hard way. There are always other cryptology puzzles to be solved.
But this one just might save my friend’s life. So here I go.
“I’m going to win, Jax,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m going to win, and I’m going to get you out.”
Jax
I should have listened.
I should have listened to Mama.
I should have listened to Zaza.
And most of all, I should have listened to Yas.
She tried to warn me, and now I’ve led my precious team, my friends, right into the hands of the cops. I’ve forced them into creeping around alleyways and through throngs of shopping white women—always risky business—and if they were lucky enough to not get arrested along with me, they’re on their way to the next clue, inching closer to wherever these pigs want them to be.
The handcuffs jingle behind me as this guy walks me down this yellow hallway, past windows into a kitchen-type room with lots and lots of silver, boxy equipment, and I wonder how long I’ll have to be in here, eating whatever comes out of those big silver boxes, and whether they’d be able to accommodate my vegan diet.
I’m guessing not.
I’m guessing in here, I have to eat what I can get. New tears spring to my eyes at the thought of missing Mama’s olive-oil raisin cake, her carrot “bacon” and pulled “pork” sandwiches she makes with jackfruit and homemade barbecue sauce, and—oh my god—her homemade coconut-milk ice cream.
I sigh as we stop in front of the door to the room where I was earlier—the rec room, or more accurately, the holding cell, where I’ll be until tomorrow, when I can have another phone call and another attempt to inform my poor parents and sister that I’m not tied up in somebody’s basement or ready to be identified at the morgue.
