Mister Impossible, Maggie Stiefvater [uplifting novels txt] 📗

obviously idolizing this Bryde. He doesn’t get ideas on his own. That sounds bad. Remember I said I loved him. I mean it in the best way. I mean it this way: He’s not your problem. Take away Bryde, and Ronan’s just the same as he always was, a kid who’s going to go back to Virginia to play with cars and mud and cowshit. Who was running the show when you saw them together? It was Bryde, wasn’t it? Not my brother. Not Jordan Hennessy. Whose name has been whispered subversively for weeks? Bryde’s.”

She tilted her chin. “We’re in agreement. Bryde’s the target.”

“Are we in agreement? Because I want to be sure you know why I’m sitting at this table.”

A coworker at Alpine Financial had told Farooq-Lane once that, neurologically, most people saw their future selves as a totally different person, and so treated them with less empathy, like a stranger. High achievers, though, saw their present and future self as one person and accordingly made wiser decisions. Farooq-Lane had immediately decided that her job as a financial adviser was to close the gap between these two selves.

She closed the gap for Declan Lynch.

“You’re here to make sure your family gets a chance to have meaningful adult lives,” Farooq-Lane said, with quiet surety. “You’re here to make sure there’s actually a world for them to have those lives in. You’re here because what you saw in Bryde scared you and you want your brother far away from him, because that’s not what your brother stands for and you don’t want his life to be defined by a single decision. You’re here talking to me because you’re aware you don’t have the ability to do this on your own. You’re here because you’re a good brother.”

Declan’s mouth worked. He was slick enough to know she was also being slick, but he didn’t disagree with her.

“My brother isn’t to be harmed,” he said. “I want to see you say it.”

The promise wouldn’t have meant anything if she were with the Moderators, but she wasn’t with the Moderators. “You have my word,” Farooq-Lane said.

Seven Three Park Drive, Boston, MA. That was all that was written on the card Declan slid across the table as he stood up. “That’s where they’re meeting Matthew. Bryde mentioned last night he doesn’t have another of the dreams he uses to confuse people and he can’t get any more until they’re out of the city. Is it true you killed your own brother?”

She was taken completely by surprise.

“You’re not the only one who has access to information,” he said in that bland way.

“My brother was a serial killer,” she said. “He was also a Zed. I didn’t pull the trigger, but yes, I helped find him. Your brother’s not a serial killer. He’s just a Zed.”

Declan Lynch narrowed his eyes. For just the barest second, he did not look at all like he belonged in this nice, civilized café.

“Don’t forget your promise,” he said. “And don’t call my brother that.”

Six. That was the number of scenarios Farooq-Lane ran through as she looked at the Park Drive address on various satellite maps. It belonged to a rose garden in the Emerald Necklace, a series of green parks chained through the Boston area. It was a bad location for an attack. Right in the middle of the city. Right up against the swampy fens that gave Fenway its name. Surrounded by the trees that gave Bryde his information.

But Liliana said Farooq-Lane only needed enough time to draw Jordan Hennessy’s sword.

“I’m trusting you,” Farooq-Lane told Liliana.

One sword draw, one second, one death. When it came to it, she could kill someone, she thought. To save the world. She had stood by and helped the Moderators kill many others, after all. She couldn’t erase that, just try to make it matter. One person, one Zed. One sword. She could do it.

It wasn’t twenty-three people. It was one.

“It will turn out all right,” Liliana said gently.

“What happened in the vision?” Farooq-Lane said. “What did I do? Where was it?”

“It will turn out all right,” Liliana repeated.

Five minutes after Farooq-Lane got to the James P. Kelleher Rose Garden, the Moderators found her.

“Did you think we weren’t having you followed, Carmen?” Lock rumbled with disappointment. It was hard to tell if he was disappointed in her working without them or not covering her tracks. He held a take-out coffee from the café she’d met Declan at, and Farooq-Lane couldn’t stop staring at it. She’d been careful. She was sure she’d been careful. “You’re a lot easier to track than a Zed in an invisible car. You know why? You obey the law.”

“I have a plan here,” Farooq-Lane said. “We want the same thing.”

Lock cast a heavy glance at Hennessy’s sword. It was hooded safely away in its shoulder scabbard but its identity was clear, the hilt shouting from chaos. “And it’s a plan you think you could execute better cowboy style? I respect what you did here, Carmen, but we can’t risk you taking point on this. We’ll take it from here. The team’s all here. Thanks for the good work.”

“I made a promise that I’d only take down Bryde,” Farooq-Lane said desperately. “I intend to keep that promise.”

“You’d risk the world on that?”

Farooq-Lane repeated, “I intend to keep that promise. Let me do this. Please.”

“How about this,” Lock offered. “How about you let us help you keep that promise? Like you said. We want the same thing, and you need our eyes anyway.”

It wasn’t as if she had a choice. There was no time. She was outnumbered.

We want the same thing. But it was only past Farooq-Lane who truly believed this now. Present Farooq-Lane wasn’t sure. And future Farooq-Lane—unclear.

“Okay,” Farooq-Lane said.

She explained the plan. It was a hasty thing, constructed with very few data points. Declan’s address and time. Liliana’s description of her vision. Farooq-Lane’s understanding of what Hennessy’s sword could do if wielded