“No,” Harcourt agreed. “You’re the version who walks away. Which is exactly why Suarez won’t see you coming.” Three days later, Kurtis Smith found himself crawling through a ventilation shaft beneath the Aerie One ruins, wearing a modified EOD suit that smelled like Chris’s sweat. In his ear, Economos guided him.
Suarez hesitated. That was the opening.
Three weeks later, a postcard arrived at the Frewild Trailer Park, addressed to “Christopher Smith, The Loud One.” On the front: a picture of a lake. On the back, in neat handwriting:
“A surviving queen,” Harcourt said. “Suarez is building a new hive beneath the old Aerie One base. If he succeeds, he’ll control the island’s military. Our intel says he’s using a sonic resonance device to attract dormant Butterflies. Only one person has ever disarmed that device.”
Kurtis didn’t take the card. He took the envelope, then slid half the cash back across the table. “Give that to Chris. Tell him… tell him the other Smith says peace doesn’t have to sound like an explosion.”
Across the muddy yard, in a single-wide that smelled of stale motor oil and regret, another Smith watched the same broadcast. Kurtis Smith. The older brother. The one who got the grades, the quiet temperament, and the restraining order. While Christopher— Chris —was off decapitating people with helmet-mounted lasers for “peace,” Kurtis was fixing alternators and pretending his last name wasn’t a felony.
Kurtis felt the old shame crawl up his spine. The basement. The screaming. Auggie forcing them to strip and reassemble sonic rifles blindfolded. Chris had loved it. Kurtis had thrown up.
“No,” Harcourt agreed. “You’re the version who walks away. Which is exactly why Suarez won’t see you coming.” Three days later, Kurtis Smith found himself crawling through a ventilation shaft beneath the Aerie One ruins, wearing a modified EOD suit that smelled like Chris’s sweat. In his ear, Economos guided him.
Suarez hesitated. That was the opening.
Three weeks later, a postcard arrived at the Frewild Trailer Park, addressed to “Christopher Smith, The Loud One.” On the front: a picture of a lake. On the back, in neat handwriting:
“A surviving queen,” Harcourt said. “Suarez is building a new hive beneath the old Aerie One base. If he succeeds, he’ll control the island’s military. Our intel says he’s using a sonic resonance device to attract dormant Butterflies. Only one person has ever disarmed that device.”
Kurtis didn’t take the card. He took the envelope, then slid half the cash back across the table. “Give that to Chris. Tell him… tell him the other Smith says peace doesn’t have to sound like an explosion.”
Across the muddy yard, in a single-wide that smelled of stale motor oil and regret, another Smith watched the same broadcast. Kurtis Smith. The older brother. The one who got the grades, the quiet temperament, and the restraining order. While Christopher— Chris —was off decapitating people with helmet-mounted lasers for “peace,” Kurtis was fixing alternators and pretending his last name wasn’t a felony.
Kurtis felt the old shame crawl up his spine. The basement. The screaming. Auggie forcing them to strip and reassemble sonic rifles blindfolded. Chris had loved it. Kurtis had thrown up.
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