I want to live.
I want to live.
I have to live.
“Ruby,” I croaked out.
O’Ryan turned slowly. “What was that, three-two-eight-five? You ready to talk now?”
“My name,” I said between clenched teeth, “is Ruby.”
I overturned my chair, knocking myself over onto the ground, and an aftershock of pain lanced up my leg. I played the scene out in my mind, and heard the reality on a half-second delay. The PSF in the corner of the room lifted his gun and fired three times, missing O’Ryan on the first shot and shattering a section of the glass behind him, but hitting his mark on the second and third attempt. Chest. Head.
O’Ryan got one shot off, hitting the PSF’s throat before slumping down against the wall beneath the one-way window.
I must have passed out—for a few seconds, maybe minutes. The Control Tower was eerily silent, and the only sound I heard as I surfaced back to reality was my own heart’s slow, steady beat.
Move, I ordered myself. Move, Ruby, move.
My progress across the floor to O’Ryan’s body was slow and agonizing. I needed the knife on his belt to cut the ties on my feet and hands, but it meant dragging the chair through the puddle of congealing blood beneath him. I sawed frantically, nicking my palms as I worked the knife blindly behind me.
I sucked in a harsh breath and looked down; the strange, tented skin on my shin made me gag, the sight reminding my body all over again that it was in pain. I hopped and hobbled over to the door, but I’d been right—there was no handle, and the hinges were on the other side.
I picked up O’Ryan’s pistol and positioned myself against the opposite wall, using it as a brace for the gun’s recoil. The reverberations raced up my arms and shoulders as the glass shards fell in waves. I switched the safety back on and went to work knocking the remaining pieces out of the window frame. Bracing my hands on the ledge, I dragged myself up and over it. The jagged teeth caught and tore at my arms and legs as I collapsed into the hallway.
The gun flew out of my hands. I reached for it through the halo of glass around me. My fingers closed around the grip, just as the squeak of rubber against tile reached my ears.
I rolled onto my back, lifting my torso up just enough to aim at the dark figure running toward me. I fumbled with the safety, switching it off. The barrage of gunfire outside heated my blood, focusing me in the moment. I saw the black uniform and my finger curled around the trigger. I was getting out of here—I was getting out—
“Don’t shoot!”
The power snapped off, throwing the building into darkness, but I’d seen his face as he pulled up his helmet. I thought at first, that I was seeing a ghost—and somehow, the reality was almost more impossible.
Liam.
“Stop doing that!” I cried, dropping my gun in terror. “I almost killed you!”
His face was so thin, practically worn down to the bone. He rushed toward me, dropping to his knees and sliding the last bit of distance between us. His hands were everywhere at once, and he was kissing me—lips, cheeks, forehead, wherever he could reach—and I was breathing him in, clinging to his sopping-wet shirt, unable to process the simple fact that he was here, that he was okay.
He shifted, jarring my leg, and I couldn’t keep the scream from escaping my throat.
“Shit—shit, I’m sorry, Jesus—” Liam fumbled for the radio clipped to his jacket. “I found her—Dad, I need your help!”
It almost happened too quickly. Footsteps pounded against the ground behind me, and when Liam looked up, it was as if his helpless anger solidified, grew teeth. He reached for the gun in the holster strapped to his leg and a shudder ripped through me. I recognized the darkness in his expression; I’d seen all too many times in his brother. My hand flew out, slamming down on his, keeping his weapon in place.
Not Liam. Not now. Not ever. He wasn’t a killer. Losing himself in a single moment would fracture him at his core. It would be a bone that healed crookedly inside him, until it changed his shape.
I saw the moment he came back to himself, the way his nostrils flared and his eyes cleared. When he looked up at the PSF running toward us again, this time he threw a hand out, sending the soldier crashing back into the nearest wall. Knocking him out cold.
He released a shuddering breath as he looked down at me again. Gently, with a level of care that seemed at odds with his actions only a second ago, he inspected the cuts on my arms and swore. I was trembling, but he must have mistaken the pain for cold because he ripped his jacket off and drew it around me, zipping it up my throat to trap the warmth inside. I bit back the sob welling up in my chest.
“Why did it have to be you?” he demanded. “Why did it have to be you?”
“Sorry,” I whispered. For Cole, for making him come here, for everything, in case the darkness came back and I couldn’t say it then. “Sorry, love you, love you so much...”
Liam kissed me again. “Can we get the hell out of here now?”
Another figure in black appeared at the head of the stairs, his shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. I scrambled for my gun, but Liam gripped my hand. “Over here—”
I saw a flash of black skin, a handsome, grizzled face as he rushed toward us. “Is she all right?”
“Not...really,” Liam said, leaning back so his stepfather could see my leg. To me he insisted, “but you’re going to be fine, you hear me?”
“Ouch, darlin’,” Harry said, crouching down to examine it. “We’re going to get you out of here, all right?”
“I have to walk out of...I have to walk out of here,” I told him, mind fogging over with the pain. “I have to walk out of here. My own feet.”
He exchanged a tense look with Liam.
“We need something to brace it with,” Liam started, looking around.
“There’s no time for that,” Harry said. “They’ll have medics at the meet point.”
“I have to walk out.” I didn’t care how crazy it made me sound, they needed to understand. Cole would understand—would have understood. Cole was past-tense now. I squeezed my eyes shut.
When I opened them again, Harry reached over to a radio clipped onto his left shoulder. “This is Stewart. We have her. Proceeding to exit. ETA three minutes.”
There was a flurry of static responses.
“Okay, darlin’, I’m gonna get you up,” Liam said, rising to his feet. “Put your arms around my shoulders, that’s right, just like that.” True to their word, once they had me up, they adjusted me so I could stand on my good leg.
I don’t remember the hallway as it passed us, only how it felt each time my right leg swung forward. The frigid air on my skin as we stepped out into the night, the first touch of rain. I smelled smoke. The air hung heavy with it.
Up ahead, there was a river of green and blue moving out of the camp’s front gate. The kids walked quickly, waved on by figures in black, their white bands stark against their sleeves. I was proud of how calm they were, the way they listened to the instructions they were given, even half-terrified or in shock. Thurmond, at least, had trained them to do that much.
“Reds—” I tried to say. I saw the warm glow of a fire at the far end of the camp, where the Factory was burning.
“They’re secured,” Harry said, giving the hand I’d hooked around his neck a gentle squeeze. “Put up one hell of a fight.”
“Hurt?”