If I’m going to do this, I’ll only have one chance.
“Soooo, what’s the plan?” asks Kenji. “Are we going to just stand here and stare at her? Because I don’t—”
Warner holds up a hand, and the room falls silent.
He inspects me with a lethal calm that sends a pulse of renewed fear through my body. I blink coolly, keeping my face impassive, but he’s looking straight into my eyes when he says, “Lock down the building, she’s going to run—”
Rosabelle
Chapter 37
I pull the sheet with me as I roll off the table and into a tumble, tripping only slightly as I rip the coat off its hook, whipping it around my body before swiping the vial from the counter, dropping it in my pocket. Warner and Kenji pull guns on me immediately, and I dive out of the way, shots ringing off steel surfaces. Chaos explodes: someone pulls an alarm, an automated voice screeching a security alert through speakers, James shouting my name. The unidentified woman screams, then drops to the floor, body crawling toward the exit. Kenji shouts angrily at James to get Warner out of the room, and I manage to duck behind a counter to catch my breath, buttoning my open coat as I strain to hear Warner’s response, but his quiet words are buried in the blare of sirens. Whatever he says only makes Kenji angrier.
“If anyone is going to die tonight, it’s not going to be you,” he’s shouting. “That kid is not going to grow up without a father. James, I swear to God, if you don’t get him out of here I will shoot you in the face myself—”
I dart past a supply cart, swiping an armful of tools as another gunshot whizzes past my head. The door swings open before slamming shut, and suddenly it’s me and Kenji,and my heart is beating in my throat. I have no idea what I’m up against. He, like the other rebels, might have some unstoppable preternatural power.
Still, somehow, my hands are calm.
“The building is shut down, Rosabelle,” says Kenji casually.
I hear his footsteps, circling.
“Why don’t you come out with your hands up so I can get a straight shot at your heart? Make sure you stay dead this time.”
I dive behind another counter, throwing a brain knife at Kenji before launching myself behind a nearby cabinet. I hear his explosive, muttered curse when the knife makes contact, but there’s no time to experience relief.
My small victory only infuriates him.
He shoots at me more aggressively, the ricocheting sounds of metal all but shattering my eardrums as I run, barefoot, whipping a chisel at his chest as I go. He grabs a steel tray at the last second, using it as a shield to deflect the blow, and the ringing reverberation hasn’t even stopped before he’s unloading rounds at my head again. I duck, forced to take cover farther from the exit. Even with his injury Kenji is blocking the door with his body, refusing to give up his position.
I dart out from behind the cabinet, throwing the hammer as hard as I can, but this time—I don’t see him. In the seconds the hammer hurtles toward the empty doorway, time seems to expand and slow down. I scan the area as if in slow motion,and when I can’t catch a glimpse of him, I decide to make a run for the exit—but he suddenly materializes, like magic, whipping the tray in his hands like a baseball bat. Steel connects with steel, the deafening sound ringing in my teeth. The hammer launches back in my direction and it hits me in the ribs so hard I see sparks, the pain forcing me to cry out.
Grasping my side, I dive for cover.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says. Then: “What’s in the vial, Rosabelle?”
My breaths are coming in harsher, the agony in my abdomen blooming. Kenji, apparently, can disappear.
This is bad.
If I don’t dispatch him soon, he’ll be able to come up on me from an angle I can’t anticipate. The only leverage I have right now is his unwillingness to leave the exit uncovered. That means he’s unlikely to go far.
Still, there’s no way to be certain.
I take inventory of my three remaining weapons: a saw; a skull key; an empty syringe. A gun would be much better.
I take another beat to regroup, then risk a glance at Kenji from behind a steel rack. He shoots at me and I fall back just as a bullet whispers past my head.
“Do you have any idea,” he says, speaking through audible discomfort, “how many people are going to be pissed off when they find out you put a knife in my leg? How am I going to walk to The Waffle’s Waffles in the morning, Rosabelle?” He shoots at me again. “How am I supposed to feed the ducks at the fucking park,Rosabelle?” He fires at me again.
I listen to him shifting in the proceeding silence.
He’s taking a moment to reload his gun, swapping out the magazine with a series of satisfying clicks, and I waste no time bolting behind a counter closer to the exit, whipping the skull key at his shooting arm. The chisel head of the instrument pierces his flesh with a satisfyingthwack, and the gun clatters to the floor, spinning away from him.
“Son of a bitch,” he cries.
I dive for the weapon, skidding sideways as I swipe it, then jump to my feet with difficulty, pivoting toward him. I’m breathing so hard my throat is dry, sticking as I swallow. I raise the gun to his face and he doesn’t even flinch. He just looks at me. Looks at me and shakes his head, disappointed.
