Page 127 of Renegades

Nova bristled, glowering at her, but then Adrian started to laugh too. “I know,” he said, massaging his brow. “You’re right. It’s just… what else do we have to go on? Anything?”

“Nova,” said Oscar, glancing at her, “you used to work at Cosmopolis Park.”

It sounded like such an accusation that Nova stood straighter, ready to defend herself. “So?”

“If there is a connection between Nightmare and the park… I don’t know. Did you ever see anything suspicious?”

Immediately her defensiveness started to retract. She exhaled. “You mean, did I ever see some girl walking around in a metal face mask? Um, no, can’t say that I did.”

“Not surprising,” said Adrian. “If she does frequent the theme park, which I’m still really doubtful of, but if she did, she wouldn’t be going there in full disguise, would she?”

“Still,” said Ruby, “maybe Nova can talk to her old boss or something? Encourage people to be on the lookout?”

Nova forced a smile, trying to remember the name of her so-called boss and hoping no one bothered to ask. “Yeah. Sure. That wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“Okay,” said Adrian, scratching his jaw. “I’ll get a transcript of the interrogation sent to each of you this afternoon. Let’s all take the night to think on it, and discuss more tomorrow.” He sighed. “He was obviously hiding something, but… I don’t know. Something tells me he gave up more than we realize.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

NONEOFTHEMhad come up with anything new or concrete the next day, or the next.

By the third night after the Puppeteer interrogation, Nova was beginning to relax. This might largely have been because she felt like she was making progress, learning things that might actually hold value, thanks to the cataloging job.

She found that she liked headquarters best at night. It was so quiet, after most everyone had gone home. Not entirely empty—there was always security staff monitoring the building, and late-night patrol units coming and going in between jobs, but the difference when compared with daytime was striking. The tranquillity was refreshing.

Nova had long had mixed emotions when it came to those most still hours of the night. The suspension of time in which all the world became lonely and shadowed. There had been periods in her childhood when she would frequent twenty-four-hour diners for no other purpose than to feel a sense of connection to whatever other sad souls were sleepless that night, where she would eat her stacksof blueberry pancakes and concoct life stories for the delivery man slurping black coffee at the bar, or the waitress who made up for her tired eyes with effusive perkiness. Eventually, though, someone always asked where Nova’s parents were, and once their gazes turned to pitiful assumptions, she would have to leave.

There were other nights, though, when she craved that solitude. Nights when she would spend hours staring at the moon and imagining she was the last person alive on this planet. Imagining there was no one left to cause war or strife. No one struggling to claim power. No one left to fear or hate prodigies. No prodigies left to hate.

Being inside headquarters at three o’clock in the morning felt like a wholesome mix of both. The tranquillity that came with being alone, but also the knowledge that she wasn’t, not really. Even if she was surrounded by her enemies, there was a strange sort of comfort in that thought.

She had been set up with her own little cubicle on the third floor, with a window that looked down onto the vast open lobby and a desk that she was told she could decorate with personal items, but so far all she’d thought to bring was a poster of the constellations that she picked up at a cheap print shop a few miles away, and then only because she worried they would think it was weird if she didn’t bring in anything at all.

The assignment she’d been given wasn’t exactly thrilling. She had spent three straight nights reviewing photographs that their forensics department had taken of all the destroyed artillery in the library, cataloging model numbers when they were available or otherwise scanning for identifying characteristics and comparing them with known weaponry in a global database. It wasn’t exciting work, but it did give her an excellent opportunity to alter the metadata when she came across scans of a series of gas bombs thatshe recognized from Cyanide’s laboratory, but which would now forever live in the Renegades’ files as amateur-crafted explosives from an unknown source.

The assignment also gave her ample opportunity to delve further into the Renegades’ system. Over the past nights, she had mapped out the locations of all security cameras and alarms within the headquarters building. Downloaded a full list of the weaponry and prodigy artifacts kept in their storerooms. Discovered the complete directory of current Renegades, with aliases, abilities, and even home addresses (including her own). And she had even, to her delight, found a folder titled “Concerns—For Future Consideration,” which turned out to be full of public complaints lodged at the Council’s ongoing failures and disappointments.

Nova finished entering the data on a box of ammunition—one of the few that hadn’t exploded when exposed to the heat from the fire—and took a moment to stretch out her spine. A flicker caught her eye and she glanced out the window to see that the lights inside Max’s quarantine were on, lighting up his glass city in a pale shade of yellow. She was sure it had been dark in there before. Was he having trouble sleeping?

She scooted closer to the window but could see no sign of the boy beyond the walls of his enclosure. Her eyes scanned the rest of the lobby. She could see one security guard pacing in front of the main entryway, but otherwise the place seemed as abandoned as it always did this time of night.

With a curious grunt, she leaned back in the sleek office chair, pulling her legs up until she was seated cross-legged. Checking the data list that had been provided for her, she decided to enter just three more items, and if Max’s light was still on when she was done, she would go check on him.

Nova rolled her shoulders and pulled up the next batch of photos, showing a simple handgun taken from multiple angles. She discovered the serial number near the base of the barrel and punched it in to the database.

A window popped into view—ONE MATCH FOUND.

She clicked on it, pulling up the profile of the weapon, its manufacturer, and the year it had been produced, and at the bottom, a list of known criminals and gangs this or similar guns had been connected with over the years. Often this list was blank or contained only vague notes from the field when there was a match between a gun’s serial number and a bullet casing found at a crime scene.

There was only one connection listed—not of this exact gun, but to another handgun of the same model. Reading the words felt like a kick to Nova’s gut.

IN CONNECTION WITH MULTI-VICTIM MURDER—KINGSBOROUGH APARTMENTS. SEE SUMMARIZED REPORT.

Kingsborough Apartments.

Shehad lived in the Kingsborough Apartments.

Her hands were shaking as she opened the report.

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