Jackson Ford - The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind

On second thoughts, throwing myself out the window of a skyscraper may not have been the best idea.

Not because Im going to die or anything. Ive totally got that under control.

It wasnt smart because I had to bring Annie Cruz with me. And Annie, it turns out, is a screamer. Her fists hammer on my back, her voice piecing my eardrums, even over the rushing air.

I dont know what shes worried about. Pro tip: if youre going to take a high dive off the 82nd floor, make sure you do it with a psychokinetic holding your hand. Being able to move objects with your mind is useful in all sorts of situations.

Ill admit, this one is a little tricky. Plummeting at close to terminal velocity, surrounded by a hurricane of glass from the window we smashed through, the lights of Los Angeles whirling around us and Annie screaming and the rushing air blowing the stupid clip-on tie from my security guard disguise into my face: not ideal. Doesnt matter thoughIve got this.

I cant actually apply any force to either Annies body or mine. Organic matter like human tissue doesnt respond to me, which is something I dont really have time to get into right now. But I can manipulate anything inorganic. Bricks, glass, metal, the fridge door, a sixpack, the TV remote, the zipper on your pants.

And belt buckles.

Ive had some practice at this whole moving-shit-with-your-mind thing. Ive already reached out, grabbed hold of the big metal buckles on our belts. Were probably going to have some bruises tomorrow, but its a hell of a lot better than getting gunned down in a penthouse or splatting all over Figueroa Street.

I solidify my mental grip around the two buckles, then force them upwards, using my energy to counteract our downward motion. We start to slow, my belt tightening, hips starting to ache as the buckles take the weight

and immediately snap.

OK, yeah. Definitely not the best idea.

Rewind. Twenty minutes ago.

Were in the sub-basement of the giant Edmonds Building, our footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The lighting in the corridor is surprisingly low down here, almost cosy, which doesnt matter much because Annie is seriously fucking with my groove.

I like to listen to music on our ops, OK? It calms me down, helps me focus. A little late-90s rapsome Blackstar, some Jurassic 5, some Outkast. Nothing too aggressive or even all that loud. Im just reaching the good part of So Fresh, So Clean when Annie taps me on the shoulder. Yo, take that shit out. We working.

Ugh. I was sure Id hidden my earbud, threading the cord up underneath the starchy blue rent-a-cop shirt and tucking it under my hair.

I hunt for the volume switch on my phone, still not looking at Annie. She responds by reaching back and jerking the earbud out.

Hey!

I said, fucking quit it.

What, not an OutKast fan? Or do you only like their early stuff? I hold up an earbud. I dont mind sharing. You want the left or the right?

Cute. Put it away.

We turn the corner, heading for a big set of double doors at the far end. My collars too tight. I pull at it, wincing, but it barely moves. Annie and I are dressed identically: blue shirts, black clip-on ties, black pants and puffer jackets in a very cheap shade of navy. Huge belts, leather, with thick metal buckles.

Paul picked up the uniforms for us. I tried to tell him that while Annie might be able to pass as a security guard, nobody was going to believe that the Edmonds Building would employ a short, not-very-fit woman with spiky black hair and a face that still gets her IDd at the liquor store. Even though Ive been able to buy my own drinks like a big girl for a whole year now.

I couldnt be more different to Annie. You know how some club bouncers have huge muscles and a shit-ton of tattoos and piercings? You know how people still fuck with them, starting fights and smashing bottles? Annie is like that one bouncer with zero tattoos, standing in the corner with her arms folded and a scowl that could sour milk. The bouncer no one fucks with because the last person who did ended up scattered over a six-mile radius. We might not see eye to eye on musicor on anything, because shes taller than mebut Im still very glad shes on my side.

My earpiece chirpsmy other one, the black number in my right ear. Annie, Teagan, says Paul. Come in. Over.

Were almost at the server room, Annie says. She sends another disgusted look at my dangling earbud.

Silence. No response.

You there? Annie says.

Sorry, was waiting for you to say over. Thought you hadnt finished. Over.

Seriously? I say. Were still using your radio slang?

Its not slang. Its protocol. Just wanted to give you a heads-upReggies activated the alarm on the second floor. Basement should be clear of personnel. A pause. Over.

Yeah, copy. Annie says. Shes a lot more patient with Paul than I am, which I genuinely dont understand.

The double doors are like the fire doors you see in apartment buildings. The one on the right has a big sign on it, white lettering on a black background: AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. And on the wall next to it, a biometric lock.

Annie looks over at me. Youre up.

My tax form says that I work for a company called China Shop Movers. Thats the name on the paperwork, anyway. What we actually do is work for the governmentspecifically, for a high-level spook named Tanner.

For some jobs, you need a black-ops team and a fleet of Apache choppers with heat-seeking missiles. For others, you need a psychokinetic with a music-hating support team who can make a lot less noise and get things done in a fraction of the time. You need a completely deniable group of civilians who can do stuff that even a special forces soldier would struggle with. Thats us. We are fast, quiet, effective and deadly.

Go ahead: make the fart joke. Tanner didnt laugh when I made it either.

The people we take down are threats to national security. Drug lords, terrorist cells, human traffickers. We dont bust in with guns blazing. We dont need tonot with my ability. Ive planted a tracking device on a limo at LAX, waving hello to the thick-necked goon standing alongside the car while I zipped the tiny black box up behind his back and onto the chassis. Ive kept the bad guys safeties on at a hostage exchangegood thing too, because they tried to start shooting the second they had the money and got one hell of a surprise when their guns didnt work. And Ive been on plenty of break-ins. Windows? Cars? Big old metal safes? Not a problem. When you can move things with your mind, theres not a lot the world can do to keep you out.

Take the lock on AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY, for instance.

Youre supposed to put your finger on the little reader, let it scan your fingerprint, and youre in. If youre breaking in, you either need to hack off a finger (messy), take someone hostage (messy, annoying), hack it locally (time-consuming and boring), or blow it off (fun, but kind of noisy).

My psychokinesiaPKmeans I can feel every object around me: its texture, its weight, its relation to other objects. Its a constant flood of stimuli. When I was little, Mom and Dad made me run through exercises, getting me to really focus in on a single object at a timea glass, a toy car, a pencil. They made me move them around, describe them in excruciating detail. It took a long time, but I managed to deal with it. Now I can sense the objects around me in the same way you sense the clothes youre wearing. You know theyre there, youre aware of them, but you dont