Shock pierces straight through my deadened skin, penetrating my heart like a blade. Suddenly, I can hear myself breathing, feel myself shaking. Suddenly, I’m freezing.
I know, somehow, it’s him.
James.
Warped memories of the past twenty-four hours rise, like bile, to the surface of my mind, reminding me of all that I’m meant to do, the mission I’m meant to complete.
I can’t remember how to care.
I want to know what they’ve done with Clara.
A murmur moves through the crowd, heads turning all together toward something out of view. One of the soldiers loosens his grip on my arm just enough that I’m able to crane my neck to see—
A dented mini chopper is careening toward us.
The windshield is cracked, obscuring James’s face from view, but he’s only half inside the cockpit; his boots are visible through the open door, footfalls hitting the ground in faster and faster strides. The small, damaged aircraft is hurtling up a slight hill, wobbling on three wheels at a dangerous speed, and when he gains enough momentum he jumps back inside and drives directly into the crowd.
Rosabelle
Chapter 14
Everyone rears back.
A detachment of soldiers charge forward, forming a barricade in front of the oncoming aircraft. They lift their weapons, an electric thrum zipping through the air just as Sebastian bolts ahead, aiming his gun at the broken chopper barreling toward us.
“Stand down,” he shouts, his voice booming. “Stop the vehicle immediately.”
James pops his bloodied head out the open door. “What’d you say?”
“I saidstop—”
James leans farther out the door, revealing a sophisticated automatic rifle. “I was just kidding, dumbass,” he calls back. “I heard what you said.”
James opens fire.
The crowd screams.
Sebastian dives out of the way; the soldiers don’t hesitate. They shoot over and over at the trike, glass shattering everywhere.
“Steady your fire!” Sebastian bellows, clambering to his feet. “Don’t alter course! We have fifteen minutes left in the script—”
James steers the broken chopper directly into the fray, people diving for cover as he unloads round after round. Occasionally he runs alongside the battered aircraft to give its slowing momentum a boost, risking his life in the process. I watch him get shot three times; twice in the legs and once in the shoulder, each assault punctuated by a colorful epithet. It’s clear they’re not trying to kill James, and I wonder if he can tell.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
I have no idea what his intentions are. I don’t know whether he’s here for revenge, intent on killing me along with everyone else for what we did to him. I can’t find the energy to concern myself with his motives, not now that Clara’s been taken from me. I’ve never cared less to live. Without Clara, I have no worth as a person.
Without Clara, I am a killer, nothing more.
I watch the impossible scene melt around me from a cold distance, disappearing further and further inside myself with each passing second. It’s not until two shots explode right next to my head—one for each of the soldiers restraining me—that I’m jolted back into my body. Only then do I realize what’s happening.
James came here with a plan.
“Get in,” he shouts, steering the dilapidated vehicle in my direction.
I don’t hesitate.
My arms ache, screaming now that they’ve been released from their tortured positions, but the torment feels distant: a photocopy of a photocopy.
