Page 7 of Empowereds

7

I t was midday before Enzo reached the farm compound. He’d been dropped off a few miles down the road, far enough away that no one from the farm’s surveillance tower would see him get out of a car. He hiked the rest of the way.

His shoes looked sufficiently dusty, and his clothes were rumpled and sweaty. He carried a backpack with the sort of provisions one would expect from someone who’d struck out on their own from the city. Food. Cash. Clothes. Insect repellant. A solar charger for his phone. Some electronics he would claim he’d taken to barter with.

Headquarters had given him a master key that could unlock most doors or safes—tech that only the government had. That would be harder to explain. He’d hidden it inside a sandwich and hoped harvesters didn’t search people’s food that closely.

His watch had a phone function and tracker to let Schmitt know his location. Another tracker had been embedded under his skin near his armpit.

He was just here to gather intel, he kept telling himself. Shouldn’t be important enough to raise a psychic’s suspicions.

He rang the bell at the gate, and a humorless security guard asked what he wanted. When Enzo told him he was looking for harvesting work, the man did a quick and useless search of his things—really, whatever the farmer paid him was too much—and directed him to the first bunkhouse to speak with Ben Huntington, the co-op leader.

Enzo tromped that way, automatically making note of the row of rundown bunkhouses on the rise bordering the fields. They were made of weathered wood with tin roofs. A half a dozen small shacks were huddled close together—most likely the housing for married couples. Four much larger but still just as dilapidated buildings lined up next to those. That’s where the single workers slept, no doubt stacked one on top of each other in rickety bunk beds. Three cinderblock buildings broke up the line. Those would be the restrooms and a kitchen.

Animals grazed in a pasture behind the bunkhouses. Crops covered multiple fields. Melons, tomatoes, and peaches, headquarters had told him. A large storage shed faced the row of bunkhouses as though keeping watch on them. Several dented and scratched trucks lined a dirt road that ran in front of the bunkhouses. A few men and women in dirty work clothes wandered around the area, carrying boxes. They all appeared to be in their twenties. Music blared from an open doorway.

Two men working on a Jeep noticed him, got up, and ambled over to intercept him. Enzo recognized one from the pictures he’d seen in Schmitt’s office—the man who defeated the raiders at the market. A possible telekinetic. He wore a glove on his left hand, probably the hand that had been wounded. It wouldn’t be all the way healed yet.

The other man was taller and had a thinner build. A cowboy hat hid most of his dark blond hair, but the two men’s features were similar enough that they might be brothers.

The man from the market eyed Enzo. “Can I help you?”

Enzo smiled. “I hope so. I’m looking for work.”

The man’s gaze went over him again. “Harvester work?”

Did Enzo look that out of place? Wrong sort of shoes? He nodded. “Yes. The security guard said I should talk to Ben Huntington.”

The taller man spoke. “Today’s our last day here picking melons and peaches.”

Enzo adjusted his backpack. “Right. But the guard said you’d be moving on to another project, and I figured if you needed help there, I could go with you.”

The taller man cocked his head and checked behind Enzo. “We’ve already got twenty-six people on our crew, so we don’t have room for many more. Are you alone, or are you asking for some companions too?”

“I’m alone.”

The guy from the market folded his arms. “You’re traveling these roads by yourself? That’s a mite dangerous. Where are you from?”

Time to see if his story held up. “Yeah, it’s dangerous. I started out from Kansas City on a bike and had it stolen from me an hour ago. I really need some work so I have a safe place to stay. I can’t walk much farther.”

Enzo knew the tells people had when they lied. He’d spotted them often enough as an officer. People licked their lips, swallowed, and rubbed their noses. They either stared intently at you to see if you were buying their story and their blink rate completely dropped, or they nervously blinked in quick succession.

Enzo fought not to do any of those things. “I’m a fast learner. I’ll do whatever you need.”

The market guy looked unimpressed. “What job did you hold before?”

Enzo dropped his gaze to the ground and hoped he looked sufficiently abashed. “Data entry. I worked with records.” He shrugged. “I made a mistake and erased some material. Nothing essential. The computer glitched, and I hadn’t backed things up. My boss was so angry, he threatened to have me arrested for sabotage. I decided an abrupt change of career was in order.”

The taller guy folded his arms as well. “So you’re saying you were incompetent at your last job, and you want to hire on with us?”

Really, Enzo hadn’t expected them to be so particular. He was clearly strong enough to do manual labor. The story about getting in trouble for a data entry mistake showed he too was in trouble with the government and not likely to turn them in for anything. “I’m more than capable of picking crops, pulling weeds, and fixing fences. I used to do that sort of thing at my grandma’s place.” That wasn’t a lie. His mother’s mother had a large garden, and anytime Enzo visited, she put him to work.

“As you pointed out,” Enzo went on, “it’s best not to travel by yourself, so I’d like to find a workers’ co-op.”

The taller guy wiped his hands on his jeans. Grease stains already spotted them. “We don’t need more hands right now, but we’ll have our father talk to you, in case you … in case he wants someone else. If he doesn’t hire you, we can at least send you on your way with some food and water.”

Well, that was progress. Enzo would just have to convince Ben Huntington of his capabilities. I can shovel manure with the best of them. “I’m much obliged.”

The brothers marched to the bunkhouse. “By the time we train him,” the taller brother said in a low voice Enzo probably wasn’t supposed to hear, “he’ll decide his chances in a city aren’t so bad and head back.”

“Desk dwellers,” the other agreed.

Desk dwellers? Enzo’s friends in the force would never let him live it down if the harvesters rejected him for not appearing strong enough.

After a few minutes, the two returned with a middle-aged man. He had a sturdy build and a three-day beard. Despite his long-sleeved shirt and the cowboy hat he wore, his skin was tanned and weathered.

Ben stared at Enzo, eyes narrowing, then as he grew closer, he smiled. Friendly. Welcoming. Not the sort of reaction he’d have if the man was a psychic who knew Enzo worked for the government.

Enzo let out a relieved breath.

Ben nodded in greeting. “Hello, son. I hear you’re looking for work.”

“Yes, sir,” Enzo said.

“You’ve come to the right place. We can always use a hard worker.”

For the first time, the taller brother smiled at Enzo. The one from the market scowled. His gaze bounced from Enzo to his father. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. What’s your name, son?”

It had been a long time since anyone had called Enzo son. Ben had done it twice now. The familiarity felt odd. “Lorenzo Smith. I go by Enzo.” Smith was such a common last name, no one would bother trying to find out information about him through a records search. He kept Enzo because he didn’t want to make the mistake of not responding to his own name.

Ben turned to his sons. “Milo and Gregor have introduced themselves already, I suppose.”

“In order to keep us straight,” the tall one said, “just remember the good-looking one is Gregor.”

Milo rolled his eyes. “Good-looking in this case meaning, tall and scrawny.”

“Do you have any weapons on you?” Ben asked Enzo.

“Just a pellet gun,” Enzo said. “It’s empty.”

Ben held out his hand. “You’ll need to turn it over to me anyway. Co-op rules. I lock them up until you decide to leave.”

Enzo had expected as much. He pulled the gun from his belongings and handed it over. Ben slid the gun into his pocket. “I’ll also have to make a note of what’s in your backpack. That way we don’t have disputes between workers as to who owns what.”

Enzo gave his backpack to Ben and tried not to appear tense as he went through it, taking pictures of the items. Headquarters had anticipated that someone would check his phone for anything incriminating, and might even take it, so it was completely clean. But the master key hidden in his sandwich—there was no good explanation for that.

Ben didn’t even scan the phone, let alone check his food. He returned the pack, and Enzo gratefully slipped it on his shoulders.

Ben motioned to Milo. “Why don’t you show the new hire where he can put his things and have him help you?” Ben turned back to Enzo. “In a few hours, we’ll head to another farm. Once we arrive, you’ll sleep with the other single men in a bunkhouse and take your meals with the group. When we finish that job, we split the proceeds from the harvest equally among the workers. That sound okay to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Enzo said. He was in.

“The boys will tell you more about the rules while you pack up the trucks.” He winked at Enzo. “The most important rule is don’t get on my wife’s bad side. Maretta is in charge of all the food.” He gave Enzo one more smile before heading back to the bunkhouses.

Milo surveyed Enzo again, still unenthusiastic. He didn’t wait until they were packing to tell him the rules. “You’ll be given a work assignment every evening. We’re up at dawn for breakfast, and we work until the day’s job is done. You pull your weight or you’re out of a job.

“Everyone gets one day off a week. On Sunday, if you’re religious, you only have to do the day’s essential chores. As you can imagine, we’re all religious. That means you have to listen to the preacher’s sermons, but fortunately, he’s not longwinded. Lights are out at nine-thirty. Showers are required every night, or the men won’t let you sleep in the bunkhouse. If you bother the women, you’ll find yourself dropped off, none too gently, on the road. Any questions?”

“Not so far.”

Milo continued to eye him. “Did you really run off because of your job?”

Enzo fought not to gulp. “What makes you think I’d lie about that?”

“There are lots of reasons to strike out on your own. For example, some men might run off to avoid unwanted responsibilities with women. You look like the sort who might break some hearts.”

Oh. Milo didn’t suspect him of being an operative, just a womanizer. “I’ve been too busy with my job to have time for women.”

Gregor lifted an eyebrow. “The job you left to become a farmhand?”

“Yeah.” Enzo shifted his backpack. “That makes my forced departure all the more tragic, doesn’t it?”

Milo folded his arms, muscles flexed. “All right, I’ve never been good at beating around the bush, so I’m going to say this outright. We have a younger sister, and when you talk to her, it had better be with only the purest of intentions.”

Sheesh. Talk about overprotective. Well, Enzo could steer clear of their sister. “Fine.”

Gregor smiled, not the friendly sort of smile, though. “And you’d better not do anything beyond talking to her. Around here, we don’t believe in shotgun weddings. We just believe in the shotgun part.”

Enzo held up his hands. “Look, I don’t know who your sister is, but she’s safe from me.”

“I’ll point her out to you.” Milo turned Enzo so he faced the other way. He nodded toward the bunkhouses where a leggy blonde in cut-off shorts stood talking to Ben Huntington and a middle-aged woman. “That’s our sister, Charity.”

Well, okay, Milo had a point. She was pretty enough to worry any brother. And worse, she was the girl from the market. Of course, it would have to be her. Now Enzo wouldn’t be able to get within five feet of her without Milo and Gregor jumping down his throat.

“You can talk to her,” Milo said, “like a gentleman. That’s all.”

“Understood.” Maybe the brunette woman who’d been at the market would be easier to access. He’d see what sort of intel he could get from her.

As though his thoughts had summoned her, the brunette appeared around the side of the truck, carrying a box.

Milo gestured to her. “That’s Zia, my wife.”

Nope. She wasn’t going to be easier at all.

This might take longer than Headquarters hoped.