The Guard Read Free

secrecy. I don’t want to risk having him disappear on me, so instead I load some gear and weapons back into my SUV and drive from Alabama to Ohio for most of the next day. I hate leaving Yellowhammer unfortified, but tracking down this lead takes priority. Besides, I can’t imagine I’ve done anything there to set off alarms for the Mogadorians.
    Not yet, at least.
    Malcolm lives on the outskirts of a town called Paradise. When I arrive, I park down the street and watch his house for a while, trying to get an idea of who this man is. Through my binoculars I see him pass by the windows, along with a woman and young boy, about six or seven years old, if I had to guess. His wife and son, I assume—I remember mention of them in some of his emails. I watch him water some flowers in the front yard, then wash and dry dishes in the kitchen. His existence seems perfectly ordinary—so normal that I’m concerned I’ve got the wrong guy entirely.
    When his wife leaves and the boy runs out into the backyard to play, I make my move. I pull in behind a truck in Malcolm’s driveway and park. A few seconds later I’m standing on his porch, knocking on the door. I keep one of Raylan’s blasters tucked into the pocket of my long, black coat. I’ve taken to carrying it with me wherever I go, just in case.
    Malcolm Goode answers the door with a smile. His hair is a little unkempt, dark and wavy. His eyes are bright, brows raised in anticipation.
    “Can I help you?” he asks, pushing thick glasses up his nose. He’s on the scrawny side, and I’m much taller than he is. Good—if this goes badly and he ends up less than pleased that I showed up on his doorstep, I’ll have that advantage on him.
    I get straight to the point.
    “I’m here about Pittacus Lore.”
    He pauses before responding.
    “I think you have the wrong house.”
    “We both know that’s not true,” I say, but not in English. I use the language of Lorien. It feels so strange on my tongue at first—I haven’t spoken the words of my people in months. Malcolm twitches as I speak. His eyes go wide for an instant, and then he blinks a lot, staring at me in a mixture of confusion and astonishment. This is exactly the type of reaction I’m looking for.
    “What language is that?” Malcolm asks quietly, unconvincingly. “I’ve never heard it before.”
    I switch back to English.
    “I know who you are, Malcolm Goode.”
    He starts to shut the door, but my foot is in the way before he can get it closed.
    “Listen,” I say firmly. “I have no intention of hurting you. I’m only looking for information.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to kick my foot out of the way.
    I put my hand on the door, flexing my fingers and pushing back a little. Malcolm must feel the resistance, because his nostrils flare.
    “I just want answers,” I say.
    “I don’t know anything.” His voice is higher now, verging on panic. “If you don’t leave now I’ll call the police.”
    “And tell them what?” I ask. “That I came asking about a Loric Elder? You don’t want something like that getting into the papers. It’d lead the Mogs right to you.”
    Malcolm’s face goes white. He stops pushing so hard against the door.
    “They’re here,” I continue. “The Mogadorians. He told you about them, right? Pittacus must have known what was going to happen to Lorien if he set up things with you in advance. The Mogs are on this planet. They’ve come to Earth. I just want answers.”
    Malcolm looks up at me. He searches my face. I can see him doing calculations in his head, trying to figure out what to do next.
    “How do I know you’re not a—a Mogadorian?” he asks.
    “Malcolm, if you’d ever seen one of those bastards, you’d realize that’s the most insulting question I’ve ever been asked.”
    He nods a little. “From what I’ve heard . . . I can imagine.”
    “I know about the ones who came from Lorien. The nine Garde and