Sneak (Swipe Series)

him into using this IMP army of his in a big way—well, it would clean Acheron out. It would pull all those IMPS right out of their cage.”
    “And since the IMPS are Acheron’s guards—” said Peck.
    “No IMPS means—” continued Tyler.
    “No security.” Jo nodded.
    “That’s right,” Erin said. “Leaving Acheron vulnerable . . . and giving us the opportunity we need to break our friends out.”
    “But what could we possibly do that would prompt Cylis to use that kind of force?” Jo asked. “Even if every last Markless in this community agreed to it . . . there’s just no way to mobilize a movement of that size and importance . . .”
    And now Hailey smiled, two rows over in the control room, swiveling smugly in an old rolling chair. “I think I have it,” she said. “I think I know what we can do.”

    The group laughed when Hailey suggested it. But it was a nervous laughter. The kind that showed they knew she was right.
    Blake sighed sharply when the room’s jitters died down. “There’s no coming back from this, you know. We’re stirring up a hornet’s nest here. This is a masterstroke, and we can’t undo it once it’s done.”
    “If it really is a masterstroke,” Hailey replied, “then we won’t ever need to.”

ELEVEN

FOXHOLE
    1
    D ANE HAROLD WATCHED THE SETTING SUN, and he smiled sadly.
    For dinner that night, he’d caught a fish from the Potomac, and he had cooked it himself to share with Hans and Tabby. It was the first fish he’d ever caught. It was the first fish he’d ever cooked. And neither Hailey nor Logan was there to taste it.
    He wondered about them as he walked along the valley ridge, preparing for his radio show, shivering just a little in the cool winter evening. They must have made it to Beacon by now. He wondered if they’d come any closer to finding Acheron. He wondered if they’d stayed out of DOME’s grasp. He wondered if he’d ever see either of them again.
    Things in the valley had been fine. Dane was the youngest resident by a large margin, but he’d been taken in kindly, he got along well with Hans and Tabby and the neighbors, and most important, he had his broadcast. Every night, he’d make the trek up to that little hut by the tower, carrying Tabby’s guitar in one hand and his own griptone in the other. He’d sit at that hut’s rickety wooden desk. And he would chat with Mrs. Phoenix and Sonya. Right there on the airwaves, though without names or specifics. He’d listen to their news, he’d give them his own, he’d answer their questions and they’d answer his . . .
    And every night, once that was over and Mrs. Phoenix had officially signed off, Dane would play. He’d play everything he’d ever written for the Boxing Gloves, everything he’d ever learned or meant to learn growing up . . . he’d figure out tunes live on the air, make up chords, improvise melodies, try out lyrics . . .
    Every night, he’d do this until the early morning hours, when Hailey and Logan were most likely to be listening, and then he’d repeat Mrs. Phoenix’s news from the day. He’d add details of his own. He’d wish his friends good luck.
    And in this way, Dane did bridge the gap between Hailey and her mom, between Logan and his grandmother, just as he’d promised he would do, despite the thousand miles in between.
    Then, tonight, just minutes before he went on the air, something happened that was so unexpected, Dane knew right away that this new life of his was over for good.
    “ Dane ,” his griptone suddenly said in an electronic, auto-tuned middle C. “Dane. It’s me—Erin. I’ve hacked your griptone. Hailey told me you said it would be possible. And you were right. Pretty cool, huh?”
    Dane stared in disbelief at the instrument in his hand.
    “Dane, listen. Lily betrayed us. Logan is captured. We need your help.”
    Dane couldn’t answer—there was nothing he could do to reply through the griptone—but he leaned forward, holding the instrument reverently, listening carefully to its faint, auto- tuned words.
    “If you’re listening, Dane . . . here’s the plan . . . and here’s what you can do . . .”
    2
    Dane ran the rest of the way up the ridge. He sat in the plain wooden chair at the plain wooden table, and he spoke quickly into the transmitter.
    “Markless. It’s me. Dane-o-rino. No music tonight, though. Just listen. It’s story time. And I know some of you might already know this one. But bear with me all the same.”