I barrel down disordered aisles, racing through a maze of scattered cereal boxes, my boots crunching through bran flakes. My eyesight is adjusting quickly but I still can’t make out distinctive shapes from afar. I dive down another aisle, taking in the chaos of broken housewares, several boxes of dinner plates tossed to the floor, shards of shattered bowls glinting in the dim light—
A masked figure rushes at me and I shoot, taking out the assailant’s legs; they get off a few shots as they stagger back and I duck, then dive, tackling them to the floor, ripping the rifle out of the attacker’s hand before tearing off their mask.
Blond hair, brown eyes.
She looks vaguely familiar. I feel certain I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t remember her name.
“Who are you?” I say to her, breathing hard. “What are you doing here?”
I watch her jaw work in response. I think she’s going to speak but instead she appears to dislodge something from inside her own mouth. She bites down, hard, and too late, I realize my mistake.
The woman goes limp, her eyes rolling back in her head.
“Fuck,” I force out.
My heart thunders in my chest, panic rising through my body. This was a setup.
Something is happening here—something much bigger than I imagined. I can’t even fathom the scope.
Rosabelle was right.
Rosabelle.
I rush down aisle after aisle, searching for anything that might give me a clue, and I nearly slip on a heap of dry rice in the process, catching myself badly against a metal shelf. As I stabilize, trying to breathe, I notice the bullet holes riddling industrial-sized bags of white and brown rice, grains exhaling softly onto the floor. Bullet holes, I realize, have torn through nearly everything. There’s already been a showdown here.
Someone already tried to get through.
One ofus.
My heart speeds up.
Broken jars of pasta sauce gleam just ahead of me, pools of red merging ominously, the scents of basil and oregano cutting against the sharp tang of too much tomato. It makes my stomach turn.
I hear another aborted scream.
Then another.
I rush toward the sounds, cursing as my boot connects with a box of fallen flatware, knives and forks crashing together across the floor. The sounds of Rosabelle’s screams continue to echo in my mind.
I can’t focus. I’m losing composure. I keep imagining someone handling her—hurting her—
I spot a dark figure dart down an aisle up ahead and I chase them into a refrigerated bay, firing off shots as I enter the alcove, the sudden cold raising goose bumps along my skin. I manage to hit my mark once in the arm, but not enough to take them out. It’s harder to shoot in the half dark with the intention of disabling, but I have to keep at least one of these assholes alive for questioning.
The assailant takes cover behind a massive crate of strawberries and fires back; I dive out of the way, a bullet grazing my torso, and crash into a heaving pile of packaged mushrooms, my elbow slamming into a metal shelf as I land. I hiss through the pain, fighting to get to my feet, and manage to land a shot just as the assailant nearly escapes back into the central building. The figure goes down with a muted cry, one leg collapsing beneath them, and I rush forward, shooting the gun out of their grip before I fall into a crouch. The assailant screams, staring, horrified, at their semi-detached hand. I rip off their mask.
This time, I rear back in shock. I can’t find my voice at first. “Allie?”
She looks at me with wild eyes, shaking her head, and I’m trying to remember how long I’ve known her, trying to remember the last time I talked to her—
A couple of hours ago?
At the diner. Allie has high-tier security clearance; she has access to The Waffle. To my family. She’s been privy to a thousand confidential conversations—
“What the fuck?” I say, my head spinning. “What are you—How could you—”
I watch her jaw move in that familiar way as she dislodges something from inside her mouth and I’m too stunned, reeling from the betrayal, to move quickly enough to stop her. I can’t believe she was willing to die for this. They’ve all been ready to die for this—forthis—
For what?
