The pain in her voice shatters my heart.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak.
An intense pounding crescendoes down the stairs. I twist to look behind me and see the crude outline of a figure in the darkness—through the smoke that starts to drift in. Ambrosia releases a bloodcurdling cry and the figure rises into the air, smacking into the ceiling, before falling onto the cement in a piercing crunch. Whoever that was could’ve been one of us. Vomit rises in my esophagus, threatening to splatter the visor of this helmet.
“Ambrosia—”
“These suits have night vision, Co. They were a soldier,” Atlas says.
“I can’t feel him,” she stutters.
I have no idea what she means, but the longer we sit here, the higher the chances are we’ll be caught.
“I can’t feel him!” she screams.
“We need to move,” I say and push past the two for the armory. “Help her up.”
The armory’s already looted, but my HK remains clasped to the wall. I punch in the code, feeling the weight tug down on my shaking arms. The strap falls onto my shoulders. Once I’m situated, I search for a weapon to give Atlas. Ambrosia’s abilities are a weapon of their own, so I don’t worry about her, though I’m not optimistic she’ll be useful at the moment. And for good reason, too. When the two inch into the room together, I extend a SIG Sauer to Atlas in hopes he’ll take it. He eyes it warily but doesn’t protest as he hesitantly grabs it.
“We need to find Ezra. Where is he?”
“I don’t know, but he’s alive.”
“What happened?” I ask, growing impatient. “Weren’t you with him?”
“I—I was with him! Callum intervened and took Ezra. I’ve never seen Callum before, but that scar . . . Ezra’s not dead yet. I can still feel him.” Atlas quivers.
I don’t need to see his face to know he’s crying, but he’s much more composed than Ambrosia, who leans against the threshold, clutching her emblem.
“Do we have one for him? When we do find him?” I say, indicating the one on my chest.
“Yes,” he says.
“Let’s go find him. Maybe he escaped.”
The distant cracks of bullets being fired ring close. More and more smoke collects in the basement—a window must be open somewhere.
“Go on without me,” Ambrosia sobs.
“We’re not leaving you here to die,” I say firmly while everything inside me falls apart.
I’m reining in every last drop of energy and adrenaline I have to remain composed, but I feel myself bursting at the seams. Not having Ezra here with us is making me lose my mind, but if I fall apart before we can do anything about it, I just may never get to see him again. And that’s not going to happen.
“Please,” she says.
“No,” I say. If this makes me the bad guy, then so be it. “We have Angelics out there counting on us. And forgive me if I don’t want my friend to die.”
Ambrosia leans against the outline of the exit, then slowly straightens to her full height. Her visor is directed toward the floor. Seconds later, it finds Atlas, and then me. She nods. Asliver of hope wedges itself inside me. We’re going to do this. Ezra will be fine.
“Let’s move.”
I lead the way while Atlas takes the rear. Boots bang against the linoleum over us and I prepare the HK for inevitable confrontation. The first black-clad soldier takes a step down. I fire, releasing a stream of ammunition into the helmet. A cherry-red stream sprouts from the exit wound and cakes the cement behind the fallen soldier. More arrive—I’m about to send another flurry of bullets their way when I get shoved to the side. Ambrosia’s dreads spill out the back end of her helmet, her gloves gripped tightly into fists. The second soldier takes the place of the first—they have barely any time to react. Ambrosia releases her fingers, splaying them out wide, and fills the hallway with her screams while she furiously sends the lineup flying down the hall.
Atlas teleports to the end, where Barbara’s blood stains the entrance’s glass. I climb the last step, watching him put a bullet through the head of every Barclay soldier. Each shot rings in my head—each shot reminds me of Mara’s fallen body, of the man whose life I ended at the warehouse—Matt’s fractured skull. The soldier whose crimson life force scatters the wall below me—another testament that I’m a murderer.
I can’t see Atlas’s expression behind the visor, but each bullet to the brain is another puncture to the heart, another reason to fear for him. If he’s okay. If he’ll be able to live with himself.
“Atlas—”
