False Memory by Dan Krokos Read Free Book Online Page B

can’t see his face through his helmet visor. “In case one of you gets lost in a mall.”
    We ride on, only stopping to fill up our tanks, or to grab a quick meal. The five-hour trip will be closer to four; we can’t help racing each other when the road is clear and straight. As we get closer, silence reigns. I know he’s thinking about what we’ll find in Indianapolis. So I’m left alone with my thoughts, and one thing in particular just doesn’t fit with what I’ve been told so far.
    At the next gas station, I sit next to the pump eating a hot dog. Peter stands next to the bikes, watching the road like he’s expecting company.
    “Peter?”
    He keeps looking down the road. “Hmm?”
    “You said before we were meant for good, to end conflicts without bloodshed.”
    He shoves the last of his hot dog in his mouth, rubs his hands on his jeans. “Yeah,” he says through a full mouth.
    “I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but the mall was pretty chaotic. People got hurt.” My throat is dry and dusty. “People died.” I don’t add because of me .
    “It’s better than bullets, right?”
    I stand up. “Yeah. But how do we know we’ll be used for good?”
    “That’s like anything. Anything can be used for evil. A gun can be used to murder, but in the right hands it can also protect.”
    I straddle my bike, feeling the heat from the engine seep into my thighs. My back aches from being hunched over. “I know. I just . . . I feel like a weapon.”
    Peter drops his hand on my shoulder. “I trust Dr. Tycast. He would never let someone use us. Whatever Noah and Olive are up to, we’ll know soon enough.”
    It’s enough to calm me. Again, I’m calm because he is. But I doubt anything will completely erase the worry chilling my skin.
    We start our bikes and take the road back to the highway. Indianapolis comes into view soon after.
    Once we’re in the city, Peter is stricter with the rules of the road. We obey the speed limit. We ride around construction. The police officer directing traffic eyes us the whole time. I lift my visor and smile at him. After a second, he smiles back and returns his attention to the cars.
    Peter lifts his visor just to roll his eyes.
    The signal leads us to a Holiday Inn on the edge of downtown. The building is four stories of pale brick, boring, the perfect place to hide, I would guess. Not too cheap, not too expensive.
    Two bikes identical to ours share a space in the back. We park in the next space, hidden behind a huge van in case Noah and Olive are watching their bikes from a window. Peter lifts the seat off his bike and pulls out two small semiautomatics —Walther PPKs. He tosses one to me; I snatch it out of the air, then snug it against my lower back. I pull my shirt over it.
    “They’re loaded,” he says. “I hope you remember how to shoot.”
    “Me too.” The confidence isn’t there, not yet. It always comes the second I discover I can do something.
    We enter the hotel like we belong there, not acknowledging the desk clerk. Really I’m just following Peter’s lead; all I can think about is the hunk of metal pressed against my spine. Hoping against hope I won’t have to use it.
    In the elevator, Peter checks his watch again, which he’s clearly using to track them. My hands shake. I don’t know if I’m afraid, or if I’m nervous about meeting Noah and Olive. The anger is a sure thing, though, thanks to Noah. I still can’t believe the boy I kissed in the video is the one who took away my memories.
    Peter leads me to room 496, and checks his watch a final time. He stands off to the side, holding his gun against his thigh, then nods to the other side of the door. I take up a similar position, listening for any signs of life over the pounding of my pulse.
    He knocks three times.

8
    Nothing, no response.
    Peter knocks three more times. “Room service,” he says. We share a grin despite the situation. “C’mon. Noah, Olive. Open the door.” After a few