JADE



"If they catch you, the mayor will execute you, youknow," the oversized woman says.



My heart is in my throat. The counter-terrorism squadis at the other end of the subway train, their semi-automaticsready, and they're moving fast. Everyone is beingasked for identification, and no one is taking a secondlonger than necessary to show their credentials.



"Official government ID only!" one of the officersbarks at an elderly man holding a cloth shopping bagfilled to the limit in one arm and a tiny dog in the other."Take off your mask. Now!"



The woman leans in closer to me and Amara. Thestench of onions and sweet flowers emanating from hernearly overpowers me.



"Smith's gonna put you on the list to hang just likeshe's done with your friend Eva and that supposed subwaybomber, Moore," she says, keeping her voice low.Before I have a chance to reply, there's a crash anda high-pitched yelp as the elderly man's bag falls to thefloor of the train, his tiny dog following closely behind.The officer grabs the man by the arm, wrenches him tohis feet, and pulls off his anti-pollution mask.



"No ID? You're under arrest!" he barks into the man'spale face. The older man is trembling like a spider in asnowstorm -- that's clear to me even from this far away.His tiny Chihuahua, having regained its composureafter being dropped, begins snapping at the officer's pantleg in an effort to defend its owner.



"Please ... please," the older man sputters, putting hisfree hand up in front of his face. His accent is thick.



"He's an illegal!" a woman sitting across from us shouts.Spittle flies from her lips. "Get 'im out of here!" she says,pumping her fist into the air. I can read her mind. Herthoughts are strong with emotion. She's excited by thedrama unfolding and disgusted by the fact that the elderlyman is an illegal -- at least, that's what she's concluded,even though there's no proof of the man's status. She seemsconvinced he's a climate change refugee who's sneakedinto the city and is possibly a terrorist as well.



With the fluidity of a panther, the officer brings hisbooted foot down onto the diminutive dog's midsection.A single canine screech cuts through the subway car.We both look over. The dog twitches briefly beforebecoming absolutely motionless.



"Oh, my god," Amara whispers. She crams the palmof her left hand against her lips as tears stream down hercheeks, then begins to hum. Not any song or melody,just a low, steady hum. I know she's fragile, maybe evenclose to snapping after losing her twin, Vivienne, earliertoday. Seeing this little dog killed in such a violent mannerisn't helping her state of mind, that's for sure.



"I'm Mary, by the way," the woman sitting beside mesays. She raises an eyebrow at Amara, who doesn't seemto notice. "Listen, youse need to get outta here beforethey recognize you." Her voice is raspy; it's the voice ofa lifelong smoker. "In two, you'll know what to do. It'llbe your only chance to escape." She smiles at me, revealingtwo very chipped front teeth, but her eyes areserious. "Good luck. It's easy to tell that something's notright with the leaders of our governments -- for thoseof us that ain't brainwashed by 'em." She nods her headtoward the woman sitting across from us.



The officer that killed the dog punches the buttonbeside a set of subway doors. As the doors slide open,he roughly pushes the old man, who is now openly sobbing,out onto the platform.



"I can't breathe!" Mary cries out. She clutches at herlarge bosom, hoists herself up, and starts stumbling towardthe officers still on the train, one arm stretched outtoward them. "My heart! Oh, god! The pain!"



Her thoughts come to me. They need to run. This isworth it. I've lived a long life.



The officers point their guns at her. "Stay back!" oneof them warns. "Don't take a step closer."



"Help me!" Mary cries again. "I can't breathe!"



I grab Amara's hand and yank her up off her seat. Shestops humming.



"What the ..." She glares at me as though I've justshaken her from a deep sleep.



"We need to get out of here. Now," I say, keeping myvoice low.



We slide out the subway doors just before they close.Though he's in the process of cuffing the elderly man'shands, the officer on the platform turns to look at us.



"Freeze!" he yells. "Don't move!" He looks back at theelderly prisoner sitting on the bench in front of him andthen at us, clearly unsure which situation to focus on.



The sudden sound of gunfire from inside the traintakes his attention off all of us for a moment. Withouteven looking, I know it's Mary because I can't read herthoughts any longer. There's only dead air when I try.She's dead.



"I've got a bomb," the elderly man interjects. Hisvoice is calm and the word bomb is spoken so softly, it'sbarely audible.



The officer snaps his head back toward the man, whois now slowly rising from the bench.



"What the hell did you just --"



Suddenly, with all the force he's able to muster, theelderly man drives the top of his head into one of theonly unprotected areas on the officer: his crotch.The officer doubles over in pain and shock.



Without a word, Amara and I begin to sprint towardthe stairs at the far end of the station, knowing perfectlywell that our exit might be blocked if an alert has beenissued. If not, we've got a small window of time. Ourspeed is our advantage. We bound up the stairs and leapover the turnstiles just as two TTC workers, accompaniedby a drone, emerge from the ticket booths and lunge at us.



"Stop right there!" yells the younger one, a wiry butmuscular woman with a shock of spiky blue-and-blackhair. She catches Amara by the wrist. "Sound the alarm!"she shouts at the other worker.



Amara glances at me, her eyes wild. The woman isstrong. I know what Amara's thinking. We're supposedto be uber careful using force on anyone but the demons.But she doesn't have much of a choice but to be aggressivewith this woman if we're going to get out of here.



The drone swoops in front of Amara, moving dangerouslyclose to her face. It zooms back and forth likea mosquito on cocaine, trying to distract her. A highpitchedbeeping fills the air. We don't have much timeat all. There are likely extra patrols of counter-terrorismsquads on every street corner right now.



"Get off me!" Amara shouts, swinging her arm forwardand taking the stunned TTC worker with her.Making the most of the woman's shock, Amara donkeykicksher in the stomach and then takes a swing atthe drone. The TTC worker crumples to the floor, butAmara's not as successful with the drone. It swoopsdown and out of her range again, only to be back buzzinginches from her eyes within seconds.



Amara bats at it, but it's too quick. I glance towardthe entrance of the subway station. There are sirens approaching,but I can't be sure if they are for us or anothersituation. Sirens are often the musical backdrop forlarge, urban centres like Toronto. Especially these days.



"I can't move forward," Amara says, frustration etchingher voice. "It won't let me."



I glance at the TTC worker. She's lying completelymotionless on the tiled floor. Her skin has becomeghostly pale. There's no time to check, but I get the sinkingfeeling she's badly injured ... at best.



With a swift, high side kick, my shoe collides withthe belly of the drone, sending it spinning off course. Itrights itself and swoops back, toward me this time. I'mits new target. The lens at the front of the tiny aircraftswivels, directing itself at my face. My image is being recorded.More ammunition for Smith and everyone elsewho believes we're terrorists.



Amara suddenly grasps both sides of the drone. Itsbuzzing intensifies into a high-pitched squeal. With oneswift motion, she tosses it to the ground where it crasheson the tiles.

---

Excerpted from Darkness Rising: Daughters of Light by Mary Jennifer Payne
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.