Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

was obvious Tripp was on edge since Marcus had advised us about Haja and Hasin’s murders. Guilt had a funny way of surfacing. I’d dissociated myself from their deaths for the last day, but as we boarded the private jet, the pressure built, and I wondered how many more allies would fall prey to the cult’s obsession before we’d completed our search for the Tokens.

“Everything good?” Marcus asked, taking the seat across from me. A private charter was so far removed from the regular coach flights and connectors we were used to, but Marcus acted like this was an everyday occurrence.

I peered behind me as the flight attendant chatted with Veronica near the cockpit doors. “Any word on the Objects?”

His computer was already out of his bag, and he opened the laptop. I watched Veronica as he checked his favorite sources, and smiled as she conversed with the Japanese woman in English.

“Nothing to speak of, but we may encounter some issues in Paris,” he said.

“Protests?” I asked.

“Looks like some group is rallying people into a frenzy, and the church is admonishing their claims. From the posts I’ve seen, things are about to get dicey.” He turned the computer around and set on the table between us, positioning the screen so we could both view it.

The video followed a small group of people, holding signs, and walking toward Avenue des Champs-Elysées. They repeatedly chanted in French, and I attempted to decipher the phrase. “I think they’re saying ‘Come and save us.’ These people hope aliens are heading for Earth?”

“You know the type. They’re probably blowing off steam, desperate for a movement to stand behind. I dated a girl in college… she was always trying to drag me to some stupid event or another. Mostly it was a bunch of lonely kids using random causes to meet people. This is probably like that. See… wine bottles, lots of laughing.” Marcus indicated another group joining up with our protesters.

“It’s not like they have any foundation for a viable protest,” I said.

“Don’t they?” Hunter asked, appearing from nowhere.

“Not really. What good is jabbing placards into the air?” I waited for his response. Hunter took a seat at a couch between us, and the motion appeared to pain him.

“Rex, it’s always them versus oppression. The youth against war, famine, the royals, the government. Throughout time, there have been anti-establishment factions, and nothing’s changed. People do things differently in Western cultures, but as we’ve seen in our own country in recent years, no one is willing to stand by quietly while they feel a disservice is occurring.

“These Parisians want their voices heard, and it likely has naught to do with the mysterious Objects. Not directly. The Objects give them a reason to gather, their own deep-rooted issues the cause for protest, even if they don’t know it.”

“Subconscious protest?” Marcus queried, a smirk on his face.

“Of sorts,” Hunter said. “This is peaceful.” We watched the video, finding the group had increased to well past a hundred people. Some were laughing, others dancing and stalking the famous avenue, surrounded by glitzy storefronts. Men in expensive suits and manicured beards watched the procession from the sidelines; women in exquisite dresses cringed at the youthful mob storming their streets. “Do you see how they always go to the wealthy areas, knowing that they will undoubtedly receive media coverage? They also want the rich to take notice, to see that they exist. They want the government to remember that they pay taxes, that they have pulses and value to society.”

I laughed as Veronica arrived with Tripp in tow. “What’s so funny?”

“We’re getting a lesson in civil rights by Hunter Madison in a private jet, en route to Paris from Japan. If that isn’t a punchline to a bad joke, I don’t know what is,” I told her.

“Heed my warning, Rex. Paris may be calm at the moment, along with the rest of the cities around the world, but when these Objects are closer to our humble little planet, the story will progress from a walk in the park to a hike into hell.” Hunter squinted as the lights dimmed inside the cabin.

Marcus closed the laptop, and we settled into the most comfortable airline seats I’d ever encountered and waited for takeoff. The flight was long and I, for one, was ready for some sleep.

“Any luck decoding the final location?” I asked Hunter quietly.

His eyes were closed, and I saw his lip flinch at my question. “Let’s worry about locating the Tokens we know of, and deal with that another day.”

He’d already suggested that the sixth would go unfound, but I was beginning to understand Hunter better. If he had the Case and five Tokens, nothing in this world would prevent him from solving the last piece of the puzzle.

I took the cue as we lifted from the airport runway and started our journey to the third Token in Paris, France.

7

Paris was one of my favorite cities, but I’d only visited it twice, and the second trip had been a quick stop. My mother had brought us when we were teenagers, telling my sister and me that we needed to experience culture, something more diverse than the bedroom community outside of Boston.

My mother was a shrewd woman with an English degree and an insane work ethic. She was always busy with a book in her hand, or working on a crossword puzzle in the years after my father vanished. The way Beverly described her was far different than my memories. Bev had been eight when Dad left, and I was three years younger.

Her perspective of things was always opposite of mine. She recalled the last time Dad was home with resentment. She’d overheard our parents fighting, arguing in their bedroom, and even swore Mom threw a vase at him, breaking their armoire mirror—whereas I remembered him picking me up, taking a break from loading a suitcase into his truck. He’d rubbed my head, mussing my hair, and crouched down, slipping