Page 9 of Empowereds

9

E nzo went with Milo and Gregor back up the slope toward the vehicles. He should’ve been mad at them for not telling him how to catch a chicken, but all in all, things hadn’t turned out badly. Now he was on a first-name basis with one of the possible telekinetic suspects.

His first impression of Charity Huntington had been right. She was sweet and kind, and judging by the way her brothers protected her, probably naive too. A far cry from most of the jaded women he met in the city.

It was hard to imagine her being a telekinetic who killed a bunch of slavers, but even the gentlest people did extraordinary things to protect their families. Still, right now, his money was on Milo.

“So,” Enzo said to Milo and Gregor, “are you going to give me boxes to pack with, or just stand back and laugh while I stack dishes into a pile that flies off as soon as the truck moves?”

“We wouldn’t do that,” Gregor slowed to let Enzo catch up. “That would ruin too many good dishes.”

Milo patted Enzo on the shoulder. “Don’t take your stint as chicken-catcher the wrong way. We were checking out your problem-solving skills. You managed to overpower one small, flightless bird. Not bad for your first day.”

Gregor adjusted his hat. “The first thing you’ve got to learn about farm work is that if you don’t know what you’re doing, you better ask someone how to do it correctly.”

Great. The two were a bunch of alpha males bent on showing him his place in the hierarchy. “Sorry,” Enzo said. “I just figured you would tell me the right way to do things to begin with. Lesson learned.”

“Good,” Milo said, not remorseful.

Were all the harvester men this cocky? Enzo wouldn’t mind busting Milo at all.

The three reached the row of bunkhouses. More vehicles had lined up on the road in front of them. Four large, beat-up pickup trucks, two newer-looking ones, a van, and a Jeep. Each of them towed storage trailers.

Gregor motioned to the largest of the cinderblock buildings. “You can help our mother pack up the kitchen, or if you’d rather, you can haul stuff out of the shed with Milo and me.”

In other words, did he want an easy job away from them, or did he want to join in their contest of who could carry the heaviest, grimiest objects to the trucks?

“Toolshed.” Enzo might be from the city, but he could out-bench press either of these two punks. Strength training was mandatory for police officers.

“Fine. Follow us.” Milo’s tone indicated he expected Enzo to be wheezing after ten minutes.

As they headed to the shed, Ben came out of his bunkhouse, phone in hand. He waved them over. “What are you three up to?”

A competition in which Enzo was going to prove that not all city folk were muscleless desk dwellers.

“We’re going to unload the toolshed,” Gregor said. “Do you want us to pack up your house too?”

“Not yet,” Ben said. “I don’t want my things left unattended in the vehicles.” He slid his phone into his pocket. “I’m going to speak to Mr. Carper and get our pay. He’s four hundred short and wants to give us the equivalent in produce.”

Milo scowled. “What a surprise. Carper is always short.”

Ben nodded, unperturbed. “Which is why I insisted he give us five hundred worth. We’ll either find a market or spend a day canning and freeze-drying it at our next location.”

He ignored Milo’s groan. “That last row of trees he told us to leave alone earlier—that’s ours now. A team is already there. Help them get those peaches picked and loaded onto the trailers, then we’ll fit our equipment around it.”

Ben headed to the farm, and Enzo hiked toward the orchard with Gregor and Milo. “Freeze-drying and canning take forever,” Milo grumbled. “And that will put us a day behind on our schedule.”

“Short on cash,” Gregor agreed. “He could’ve at least told us before we were packing up to leave. He’s given us all sorts of stuff in trade already. With the size of this farm, the man must have plenty of money. He just doesn’t want to part with any of it.”

After a few minutes, the three reached the end of the orchard. A dozen men and women stood by the trees with baskets draped around their necks to hold fruit. When the baskets were full, workers placed them into wooden crates in the middle of the rows.

Gregor grabbed some baskets from a stack and tossed one to Enzo. “Pick all the fruit. What isn’t ripe now, will ripen in a few days. And don’t bruise the peaches or damage any of the trees.”

Well, Enzo shouldn’t have expected detailed instructions. Picking peaches probably wasn’t too hard. They wouldn’t flee from him like the chickens had.

Enzo ambled over to a tree. The air here smelled fresh. He’d forgotten that scent—the sweet smell of fruit trees and soil. He’d picked apricots from his grandmother’s tree and knew you twisted the fruit off, not yanked it from the branch. He did the same here.

Before he filled half his basket, his eyes froze on a curly-haired teenage boy. The kid couldn’t have been older than eighteen and wore a slave collar. Yes, that was definitely a slave collar. Anger roiled in his stomach.

So, apparently not all of the harvesters worked here willingly. Enzo had heard rumors that some of the smaller farms used slave labor instead of hiring workers, but he hadn’t expected to see a slave with the harvesters. Did the farmers who hired this group know? Enzo wouldn’t have thought a legitimate farm would risk such illegal behavior.

He forced his gaze away from the teenager and made himself continue grabbing peaches. He had to keep his expression impassive, although he couldn’t quite unclamp his jaw.

Enzo’s mission was the most important thing. He came here to catch an Empowered. Maybe two—not to free a random slave. His superiors would tell him to ignore the boy.

Enzo ripped off a peach too hard, and the branch swished up and down in rebuke.

He couldn’t just ignore the kid’s plight. If Enzo waited until he’d figured out the Empowereds’ identities, the co-op might have sold him off. The harvesters couldn’t risk every farmer turning a blind eye to slavery. One would report them. They were already looking for a market for their extra crop and would likely sell him at the same time in some dark web deal. And then the boy’s face would haunt Enzo for the rest of his life.

He would have to rescue the kid. If that meant abandoning the mission, so be it. Enzo hadn’t willingly signed up for this stint anyway. Headquarters could send somebody else to investigate and do the accompanying manual labor.

Enzo emptied his basket into the crate and turned to the worker next to him, “I’ve gotta use the bathroom. If anyone asks, I’ll be right back.” He left the field with a fast stride. For all the other harvesters knew, it was that sort of bathroom emergency.

Once out of view, Enzo ran. Ben was up at Mr. Carper’s house now but probably wouldn’t spend much time there collecting payment and tying up loose ends. Enzo needed to break into his bunkhouse and find the collar’s controller and a loaded gun. They must be there. Ben had said he had things in his house he couldn’t leave unattended.

After Enzo had the controls and was armed, he’d call the police station. It would take a while for an officer to get here, but with any luck, the harvesters wouldn’t realize what Enzo had done until reinforcements arrived.

He reached the bunkhouses. Noises floated out of the kitchen, people talking as they packed up. No one stood outside. He went straight to Ben’s place. His master key opened the locked door without a problem.

He slipped inside. The room was small with stained walls and only one window glowing behind a thin curtain. A bed and beat-up dresser hugged the walls. Not many places to hide things. A couple of suitcases waited, open and half-empty on the bed.

He searched through them and rifled through the dresser drawers. Nothing but clothes. A few personal items sat on top of the dresser. A wallet, a digital frame, and a worn black book. Odd that a harvester would take the space to lug paper books around.

He knelt on the floor and peered under the bed. Score. A long flat safe lay there. He pulled it out. This one had a fingerprint lock on it. No way for him to bypass that. But since the safe wasn’t big, he ought to be able to break into it with a pry bar. The shed should have the necessary tool, and it wasn’t far away.

A glance out the door showed a clear path. He raced to the shed, counting off the seconds. Would Ben come straight to his bunkhouse or go to the fields?

Enzo flipped the shed light on. A series of tools hung from hooks on the wall. Shovels. Post-hole diggers, cutters, hammers, pliers, screwdrivers, and there was a pry bar.

He grabbed it, hurried back to Ben’s quarters, and tipped the safe on its side. It made a noise like gravel clunking inside. No, not gravel. Those were bullets. The guns must be there too.

He tried to force the end of the prybar into the space between the lid and the bottom. The crack was too small. The motion only scratched the metal. He swore and tried again. Still no luck.

Behind him, the door swung open.

Blight. He’d run out of time. He spun, gripping the pry bar.

Milo and Ben stood in the doorway. Milo’s expression grew so dark, Enzo almost expected the dresser to lift off the ground and fling itself at him.

Ben’s countenance was one of astonished disappointment. “What are you doing?”

Enzo held up the pry bar, brandishing it like a weapon. “Don’t come any closer.”

Milo’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe this. He’s nothing but a common thief.”

“Not a common thief,” Ben said with too much calmness. “He didn’t take my wallet.” Ben tilted his head at Enzo. “What do you think is in that safe?”

Milo didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Maybe he just wants a bigger haul than what’s in your wallet. Can’t say I blame him.”

Ben shook his head. “If he wanted a big haul, he’d have broken into the Carper’s house. They’ve got better stuff.”

Were these two mocking him? All the more proof that Milo was a telekinetic and knew he could disarm him. “I’m looking for the controls to the slave collar I saw on one of your workers. The thing is, I’ve never been a fan of slavery.”

Ben visibly relaxed, and a smile grew on his lips. To Milo, he said, “See, I told you he was trustworthy.”

Milo waved a hand in Enzo’s direction. “I don’t think you’ve actually proved your point. Seems a trustworthy person would, oh, I don’t know, check with the kid in question before breaking into your stuff.”

“Callum isn’t our slave,” Ben said. “We’ve already disabled his collar, but he’ll have to go to a specialized clinic to have it removed. Since he’s underage, the authorities are looking for his parents so they can oversee his care and take custody of him after the procedure. Unfortunately, the wheels of bureaucracy move slowly. He’s staying with us until his procedure is scheduled.”

Enzo was used to criminals making excuses. He didn’t see the nervousness of a liar in Ben’s expression or the hard sell of a person trying to be convincing. Had he been wrong about all of this?

Ben stepped into the room. “The safe contains guns, and I would thank you not to break it as having unsecured weapons could prove dangerous.”

Milo ran his thumb along the lock on the front door, examining it. “How did you get in here?”

Enzo lowered the pry bar but still kept a firm grip on it. “The door was unlocked.”

Milo frowned, and at first, Enzo thought he didn’t believe the story. Then Milo said, “Dad, you really have to remember to lock your door, even when you’re only leaving for a few minutes.”

Ben took a step toward Enzo. “Hand me that pry bar, son, and you can go speak to Callum about his situation. He’ll confirm everything we’ve said.”

Enzo hesitated. As soon as he put down the weapon, he’d be outnumbered. But their expressions and relaxed postures gave no indication they were gearing up for a fight. Ben had even seemed pleased that Enzo was trying to free a slave.

So perhaps he had blown the mission for no reason. He handed the pry bar to Ben. “If what you say is true, I apologize profusely.”

Milo pressed his lips together. “Are you sure your boss fired you for a data entry mistake? There weren’t any random slavery accusations or break-ins involved?”

Milo was downright smug, another sign they were telling the truth. He moved away from the door and made an overexaggerated sweep of his hand, inviting Enzo to go out.

Enzo sighed and trudged outside. The good news was he probably wouldn’t have to single-handedly save a slave or fight off a telekinetic anytime soon. The bad news was he’d have to tell headquarters he’d put a slave’s freedom in front of the mission and had been fired on the first day of work.

The walk back to the fields seemed to take a long time. He spotted Callum with a few others in the middle of the row of trees. One of the men called to him, “Hey, city boy. There’s a porta-toilet in the field. You didn’t have to go all the way back to the bunkhouses.”

Another called, “And if you get thirsty, there’s a water tank here too.” A few laughed at that. He’d passed the water tank to get to his row.

Gregor gestured to a tree at the end of the row. “We saved that one for you. When you’ve filled your box, take it to the truck.” He pointed to a pickup that sat near the edge of the field. “That one over there. Not the ones by the bunkhouses.”

“Right,” Enzo said. They all thought he was incompetent. Walking over to Callum instead of going to the tree would not help with that assumption, so he added, “Ben wanted me to talk to Callum about something.”

He slunk over to the teenager, casting furtive glances around to see if everyone was watching him. They seemed to have gone back to their work.

Callum brightened, suddenly full of hope. “Has he heard from the authorities? Did they find my parents?”

Well, those questions alone were probably enough proof Ben had told the truth. Enzo still had to make sure, though. “No.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I saw your collar and thought you were being held here against your will. Are you? Do you need help?”

Callum deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he went back to picking peaches. “No, the collar is disabled. The Huntingtons rescued me from slavers. Once the authorities find my parents, I’ll have it removed.”

Sometimes victims lied about being abused because they feared worse consequences if they didn’t, but their lies were usually easy to spot. Callum only showed disappointment that Enzo hadn’t brought better news.

Enzo might still get some useful information about what happened at the market, though. “How did the Huntingtons manage to rescue you?”

“About a month ago, Milo, Zia, and Charity drove to a market site that the slavers had just taken over. They got caught, but an unexpected fire distracted the slavers. Milo tackled one of them, grabbed his gun, and shot a bunch. The rest of the slavers took off.”

That didn’t make sense. An unexpected fire? And slavers weren’t easily distracted. “Did you see it happen?”

“Nah, although I wish I had. Would’ve been nice to see that sewage sludge get theirs.”

“If you didn’t see it, how do you know what happened?” Perhaps it was too much to hope that Callum had a detailed memory of the crime scene.

Callum looked at him like he was stupid. “Milo told me about it.”

That was more information than any of the three gave the group of slaves who’d gone to Kansas City. No doubt, the Huntingtons refused to tell that group what happened because they hadn’t had time to come up with a plausible explanation. With Callum, they’d had longer to get their story down.

Callum glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one stood nearby. “Don’t talk about it around Charity. It upsets her.”

“Why?”

Callum lowered his voice. “Things were pretty grisly, with the burned bodies and all. Charity worried they’d accidentally killed one of the captives.”

“Did they?”

He scanned the area again and didn’t speak. The kid didn’t know how to lie at all.

“That’s a yes,” Enzo said. “If the answer was no, you wouldn’t have to debate telling me.”

Callum scowled. “The dude wasn’t worth her feeling guilty about. He would rat out the rest of us for an extra cracker. Don’t ever tell Charity he was a slave. He wasn’t worth her concern.”

Callum went back to picking peaches, yanking one from the branch with too much effort.

Enzo didn’t want to let the subject drop. “How come you went with the Huntingtons instead of the other slaves?”

“I knew two things for certain about the Huntingtons. They could defend themselves, and they had weapons. Couldn’t say that for the slaves. Besides, I’d worked with them and knew a couple of them would happily leave me on the side of the road or sell me back to slavers if it helped them out.”

“So why are you still here with the harvesters?”

“I’m from Topeka.”

Well, that explained a lot. The entire city had to be evacuated six months ago when the Southern Plain States overtook the border.

Gregor approached the two with a hopeful spring in his step. “Any word about your parents?”

“Nah,” Callum said. “The new guy was just making sure you all aren’t using slave labor to pick these.” He dropped a peach into his basket.

Gregor nodded in understanding. “Yeah, my dad doesn’t need to buy slaves. That’s what he had children for.” He gave Callum’s shoulder a playful nudge. “And if that doesn’t make you want to join our family, nothing will.”

Callum grunted and moved to another branch.

“They’ll find your parents,” Gregor assured him, the teasing gone from his voice. “The Slavery Recovery Department is always slow. Your case is probably still sitting in someone’s email behind twenty other cases. But as soon as they get to it, your parents will be on their way to the clinic, and you’ll be left with nothing but a scar and an aversion to peaches to remind you of your time with us.”

Callum nodded, and despite the determined press of his lips, his eyes grew wet. He tromped over to the crate to empty his basket.

Gregor watched him go. “Poor kid. We told him if something happened to his parents, we’d adopt him, but a life of farm work isn’t much of a consolation.” His gaze flicked to Enzo, and he cleared his throat. “Not that I’m saying this isn’t a good life. It is. Sunshine and orchards beat an office any day. I’m sure you’ll learn to love it, or at least…” his voice drifted off as though he’d said more than he’d intended. “I’ll stop yammering and let you get back to work.”

He strode off toward the crates, hefted a couple into his arms, and took them to a truck.

Enzo probably didn’t need to pick his assigned peaches since he’d undoubtedly be fired as soon as he saw Ben again. He picked the fruit anyway, then headed to the bunkhouses to face the music.

This would be another botched mission to add to his suddenly growing list. His superiors were going to be furious, and no doubt send him off for a stint fighting breakaway soldiers.

When Enzo reached the bunkhouses, he saw Ben and Milo loading a pile of boxes into a trailer. Milo carried things one-handed so as not to put much pressure on his healing hand.

Best just to get this over with. Enzo marched over to them, his hands shoved in his pockets. “I talked to Callum, and he corroborated your story.” Corroborated. He shouldn’t have used that word. It was police lingo, not something a data entry clerk would say. He hurried on, hoping they didn’t notice his mistake. “I’m sorry for everything, but when I saw the collar … no one warned me about the kid’s situation. So of course, I assumed?—”

“It’s okay,” Ben said.

Milo huffed and flicked his hand in Enzo’s direction. “That’s not nearly the profuse apology he promised us. I think he should grovel for a few more minutes.”

“He meant well,” Ben said.

Milo tossed a bag onto the trailer. “Enzo should at least show us how sorry he is by doing my jobs for the next week.”

Ben wedged the bag next to some boxes. “I’m sure he’ll have his hands full with his own work.”

Enzo’s head snapped up. “You’re not firing me?”

“You wanted to help Callum,” Ben said, “and I believe in second chances. My thoughts on third chances aren’t as generous. In the future, if you have an issue, talk to me instead of trying to break into my safe.” He gestured to the pile. “Now you can help load these.”

Without further comment, Enzo picked up a box and hauled it into the trailer.

He couldn’t afford to make another mistake.