Rosabelle
Chapter 15
James goes rigid. “Coming with me? Coming with me where?”
“To The New Republic.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a fucking serial killer, that’s why.”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re telling me you haven’t serially killed people? For a living?”
“I can help you,” I say, ignoring this. “I can get the chopper to work. I can get you home. But you have to take me with you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He throws up his hands. “Are you joking? You’re clearly some kind of psycho mercenary servant of the fascists. Why would I take you with me? So you could kill everyone I care about? Imagine being invited to a potluck and bringing the plague.” He points at me. “You’re the plague.”
My jaw tenses. “If that’s true, why did you try to save my sister?”
“She’s a kid,” he scoffs. “That’s different.”
“And your arrogance is breathtaking,” I counter. “You came to this island as part of some covert op and slaughtered dozens of people in the process, but you think you’re better than me because you’ve decided your motives are worthy. Well, I think my motives are worthy, too.”
He casts me a sidelong look. “Aren’t you getting married next week?”
“Not anymore.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s true.”
A helicopter opens fire overhead, an earsplittingboompreceding the launch of three warning missiles fired in perfect formation. The explosions rock the aircraft so hard we nearly knock heads. The din is deafening; the heat stifling. I look around to discover we’re trapped in a triangulated inferno.
“Jesus,” says James, wincing. He presses his hands to his ears, shouting over the small firestorm. “They really don’t know how to kill me, do they?”
“They’re not trying to kill you,” I say, coughing. “You’re worth more alive than dead.”
“You know,” he says, squinting at me through the smoke, “beautiful girls are always saying things like that to me. It’s starting to go to my head.”
The careless compliment catches me off guard, nicking an exposed vein. A fragile shoot of pleasure pushes up through the fallow fields of my vanity—chased immediately by shame. It’s embarrassing to discover I can still care about such things.
“All right, okay, fine.” He sighs, glancing at the flames roaring just outside the open door. “Let’s get out of here. But the minute you land on my soil you’ll be locked up and vetted by the authorities. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to turn you in.”
“Okay,” I say. “I accept—”
“I’m not done,” he says. “If you run, I will kill you.”
