SOFIA

Atlas eyes the place. “No telling when he’ll come back.”

“Then let’s hurry!” Celia urges us, looking both ways as we cross the quiet residential street that flanks a local elementary school. None of us went to it, but we’ve driven by. We were all home-schooled.

I’m excited, not scared like she is. I live for this.

Especially since it will get my mind off the brothers.

For the last week and a half I’ve been dying in that house avoiding Atlas’s secret invitations, and Luke’s watchful eye.

When the elders gave us this tip to check out on our own, I exhaled aloud and said, “Thank God!” grabbing my keys before the others even had time to blink.

First thing we have to do is make sure this guy we were told about is doing what his neighbors think he might be. Ciphers don’t hurt the innocent. We save them when they can’t save themselves.

None among us knows if his neighbors are right about their suspicions. They could be totally off base, as so many tips are.

You can’t just accuse someone of being a pedophile because they seem a little creepy. You’ve gotta have proof. It could ruin an honest man or woman’s life, even if they’re proven innocent.

And yet, you’ve also gotta trust your instincts and say, this fucker gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I’m not going to shrug it off. I’m going to call the Ciphers. I heard they get the job done without anyone knowing.

And here we are. The four of us will search his house and see for ourselves.

In staggered formation—Luke, Celia, me then Atlas—approach a pale yellow, one-story house of the rumored offender. Our rides are hidden around the corner, shut off long before we parked them under a weeping willow tree.

Luke notes aloud, “See how perfect it is?”

But Celia counters with hope, “He could just be tidy by nature.”

“Ceels, look at the homes on either side.”

Her eyes narrow as she scans. “Umbrella dropped by the door, plaid shirt on a rocking chair, curtains haphazardly drawn, dirty shoes on a porch. Leaves on both porches.”

Atlas jerks his chin. “Bicycle on its side behind that fence.”

“Signs of a normal life,” Luke explains with meaning. “Nobody’s perfect, no normal house is a museum. Except that dude’s right smack in the middle.”

We all get what he’s throwing down, but I say it aloud. “Meticulous to a fault.”

Luke corrects me, “Attractive to a fault. Remember the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel? Here little kiddies, what a pretty house made of…candy.” He locks eyes with me.

Atlas sneers, “So safe, I swear. Come on in.”

Celia sighs as we open his white picket fence, “We’re not being sly here.”

“The neighbors are the ones who tipped us off,” he reminds her. “They’re probably happy to see us coming.”

“I don’t like that it’s broad daylight,” she argues.

We tromp across a perfect lawn framed by perfectly trimmed flower bushes, and open the yellow side gate to enter his home through the back. Don’t need to hide our footprints in the grass because what could he do with them when he found them?

“Slow down, Soph, there might be someone else here,” she whispers.

“I hope there is,” I mutter, pulling my gun from the back of my ripped blue jeans, the hem of my shirt drifting into place.

Luke wordlessly takes the lead. He’s got his gun out, too. Celia follows me, and Atlas backs her up in line. They pull out their guns, hold them out but ready. This is protocol, boys flanking us so they can protect from the back or front if need be.

We were taught how to shoot a gun properly by age seven, with tiny twenty-twos. As we grew so did our guns. Normal people would find that dangerous, for children to use weapons, but for the Robin Hoods of clubs, it was just a wonderful part of our life.

No machine guns or stupid, unnecessary shit like that. We’d rather use our fists, and do, when we can. But there is some evil in the world that most people never want to believe is real. We know it is real.

We’re prepared.

Safety above all else, that’s the trick. Knowing the danger of one of these bad boys, and being skilled enough so that the weapon will never do what we don’t want it to, that’s why we trained for so long.

Practice makes a sober head and a steady hand.

Which Celia never has.

I get irritated with how much she worries, because it puts her at risk. Just like how Honey Badger held Luke back to age twenty, but made Atlas a Cipher at eighteen, I want her off the missions. I don’t care about me—I can take care of myself. I care about her being a danger to herself. I wouldn’t want to live if she weren’t on this planet. So I resist bringing her, every time.

I’ve privately and repeatedly told my father that I don’t think she qualifies, that some of us weren’t born for this.

She’s Carmen’s daughter, Dad!

So?

Carmen wouldn’t hurt a spider if it bit her. And Tonk is the softest man among us! You’ve said it yourself to Mom—he was the last to join your crew and he lost his edge when he fell in love with her. I mean, did he ever have it? Just look at Tonk Jr. and you can see it. I don’t want Celia out there if she’s a liability to herself!

There are things you don’t know.

What is that supposed to mean?

My judgment is sound.

But Dad...

You question that?

No.

I don’t want to hear about this again.

But he listened enough to cut back on her assignments, giving her the smaller ones, like this local job.

Stalking around his house, our sides up against it, we round the corner into the yard and head up back steps that need a paint job. Luke tries the doorknob. It jiggles, but doesn’t budge.

I elbow his back. “Look at the yard.”

He nods like he saw it, dark eyes scanning with disgust. “Fuckin’ pig sty.”

“Perfect out front, disgusting in the back,” Atlas points out.

Celia shudders.

The man who lives here has been giving handmade candy to children, when they sneak out past those trees at recess. Too many children in the classroom, mixed with underpaid teachers, there’s no way they can keep an eye on everyone.

So cliché, the candy thing, but his special lure is that he makes the stuff himself and he owns a candy shop in town, so he might be legit. Just a nice guy who likes kids. Or maybe he’s a brilliant marketer, getting them hooked on his candy so they’ll make their parents buy some. But this backyard is foul. High fences have hidden it from his neighbors on both sides. Old chairs covered with dirt, three tipped over. Piles of trash bags ripped open by inclement weather, flies buzzing around and in them. Lawn dead, mostly brown patches of beaten down garbage. Not exactly the yard of a man with a sterile candy shop.

There’s no glass in the backdoor, all wood, so Luke surveys the curtained windows on both sides, sees the locks. He mutters, “Well shit,” and tucks his gun in his jeans, yanking his shirt off so he has something to protect his hand when he breaks the glass.

He cranes to break the window, cotton double-wrapped around his fist. It takes two mesmerizing punches. We all duck our heads as glass shatters, and I swear under my breath at how my body involuntarily responded to everything he just did.

He misreads my cussing and eyes me, “You get cut?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Celia warns him, “Be careful of the jagged glass in the frame.”

“Not my first broken window.”

“I know, I just…” she trails off.

Antsy at having to stay behind with us, while his brother goes inside to unlock the door, Atlas jerks his chin up. “Get on with it. It’s no secret we’re here now.”

“Was it ever?” I smirk.

Luke uses the balled-up cotton to shake glass from the frame. He grabs the side of it, but it’s too high. I tuck my gun away and put my wrists together, palms flat, fingers clawed out. Luke uses my prop to lift himself up, steps in it with one boot like those cheerleader moves to get onto the human pyramid. In two seconds he’s climbing into the house.

Celia whisper-yells, “Arm yourself!”

“Jeezus, Celia, he knows what to do,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“Sorry.”

We hear the deadbolt click free and the door swings open to reveal Luke tucking his shirt in his back pocket. Can’t invite the possibility of invisible glass shards cutting and distracting him now that we’re in. He readies his gun, face somber, and shirtless. I roll my eyes because he’s annoyingly sexy.

We search the shopkeeper’s home. In his kitchen are two filthy machines for candy making. The only spotless places are the foyer, small living room and guest bathroom. His bedroom is just plain gross. Everywhere the curtains are extra thick, impenetrable by light. This house is a cheaply built 1970’s model, falling apart except for the façade he keeps for potential visitors. I’m getting angrier every step I take.

At the basement, Luke and Atlas tell us they’re going down without us.

“Fuck that,” I snap, “We all go,” yanking the feeble door open to lead the way. As soon as I head down the stairs I cover my mouth. “Oh no.”

Luke’s right behind me. “Shit! Celia, stay back!”

She does as he asks, groaning as she catches the whiff, “Noooooo!”

Atlas grimaces, too. “What the fuck are we gonna find down here…”

The unmistakable scent of death assaults us as we gag and cover our mouths. This odor you never get used to when you care as much as we do.

Atlas hits the light switch on an old lamp, illuminating the dank room.

“Video camera,” he says, pointing to it.

Luke digs through shelves of mini-tapes. “I can tell you one thing, I’ll never watch these fucking things.”

“This is what we pay taxes for,” Atlas mutters, picking up a tape and sneering at it. “And why cops get good retirement, poor bastards.”

“Guys,” I rasp, pulling back a curtain and pointing at a well-made bed. Why the covers are so tidily pulled up with a stuffed animal on their pillow is an image that will haunt me for years. I’ve got hundreds of them stored in my psyche, memories I have to live with of things I’ve seen on the road. I find solace in one thing. Knowing we get to make the sick fucks of the world, pay. If it was all pain, I couldn’t do this. But most days I get to bring justice to those who need it.

The brothers stare at the bed with me.

Luke pulls back another curtain, covering his mouth. “Look at all the trash bags.” He and Atlas stand above the nearest one and flick glances to each other before silently agreeing to open it together. They pull the plastic back and shove it closed, gagging.

“We have to call the police this time,” Luke says as he locks eyes with me. “Don’t look in there.”

I sway and press my hand on the wall, feeling ill. “A child?”

“Plural.”

Atlas coughs a sound nearing vomit. He backs away. “There aren’t enough missing kids in town for all of this.”

“Then he must be traveling,” Luke says, “Finding more. Bringing them back here.”

I lose my temper, motioning around us. “How long has this been going on? There has to be what, a dozen bags?! How many children were in that one?”

Luke and Atlas say, “Three.”

“Guys!” Celia screams, “SOFIA!”

We jump to attention, adrenaline pumping as we run up the stairs.

Atlas first.

I’m last.

I hear the gun shot.

My heart jumps into my throat.

I scream her name.

Push Luke from the doorframe.

He’s frozen, staring.

“CELIA!”

He moves and I burst into the foyer, see my best friend standing above the shopkeeper, gun steady in her hand. She releases the trigger as a pool of thick red liquid expands around his fallen torso, half in the living room, legs sprawled around her feet. He’s dressed like a normal person, hair neatly trimmed, but his lungs are heaving as he claws at the fatal wound in his chest, wild eyes darting as he gurgles through blood, “I’m dying! Call an ambulance, I’m dying! Help!”

Celia’s voice is clear and low. “He snuck up. Tried to choke me. Didn’t expect my training.”

Luke walks over to the perverted piece of shit, locks eyes, curls his upper lip as he says, “When you get down there, tell Satan we’re coming for him, one abomination like you at a time.”

Atlas and I flank Celia as she steps back and lowers her weapon. He puts his arm around her. She lays her head on his shoulder, but doesn’t close her eyes. The four of us somberly watch as final breaths are gasped, as eyes glaze over, lifeless. Forever.

Luke nods to Celia. “You say this was self-defense, ya hear me?”

She stares at the dead man. “Defense for all the little selves he hurt. And all the selves who will miss their children.” She removes Atlas’s arm, and walks outside.

We exchange a look and I tell them, “Call the police. I’ll go talk to her.”

The midday sun is jarringly bright as I step onto the porch with her. My soul-sister is staring at the school, hugging herself.

I tuck my fingers in my back pockets, gun between them under my belt. “I owe you an apology, Ceels.”

“Why?” She glances to me.

“I asked for you to be prohibited from our missions, that’s why you don’t come with us very often.” She stares at me, and my returned gaze is unflinching. “Thought you couldn’t handle it. I just wanted to say I was wrong.”

Her shoulders relax. “Oh Soph, I can’t believe you did that.” Long eyelashes slide to the porch. “I’d rather be with you than stay home and worry, okay?”

“From now on, I promise.”

Her frown drifts back to the school. “From now on.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to sit at home when these bastards are out there hurting people.”

“Believe me, Ceels, I understand.”