“Kenji,” I say. “How did you get up there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember what happened. I think I’m the only one who woke up.”
And I suddenly understand his voice—
He’s groggy.
“Get out of here,” he says again. “I have no idea what’sabout to happen, but you need to—”
I lift my gun, narrowing my eyes in the near dark as I scan the area. I feel the beat of my heart from far away, tell myself I’ll try this once, maybe twice, see how it goes.
There’s no time.
Rosabelle.
“James,” Kenji says, his voice rising in panic. “Don’t you dare fucking shoot me—”
I aim, then fire.
The shot hits a steel rod just above his head, the metal sparking, then groaning, the bullet burying itself in the ceiling.
“What the fuck is wrong with you—”
I fire again, and my second shot finds its mark.
The bullet ignites the steel anchor, causing a small explosion that briefly lights the dark, releasing the metal apparatus and dropping Kenji, without warning, from nearly fifty feet in the air. I hear his strangled cry and I dive across the room, catching him badly as he nears the ground. We collide with the floor, our heads nearly knocking, the wind gusting from my lungs.
Kenji groans, rocking from side to side.
As I sit up I realize the knife in my pocket has somehow gone clean through my leg, burying half the hilt with it. The pain is so intense I nearly give in to the impulse to pass out. I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into the wound, unburying the hilt in order to yank it free. I make a choked, violent sound as the blade comes free, then get to my feet unsteadily,feeling my head swim. Kenji levers himself upright, and he looks as unsteady as I feel.
We both look drunk.
“I think you were put unnaturally to sleep,” I say, breathing through the pain, grimacing as my body slowly heals. “Get everyone else free,” I tell him. “I’m guessing you don’t have much time to wake them before something bad happens—”
I hear another desperate scream, then a staccato burst of gunfire.
Rosabelle.
I don’t think.
I just run.
“Wait—Bro—Where are you going—”
I really shouldn’t put weight on my leg yet, but I can’t stop long enough to have the conversation with myself. I drag my bad leg with me, clenching my jaw so hard the pain radiates up my temples. I’m breathing too hard; my head is spinning. My body is moving almost without my permission; my wounds stitch themselves together as I go, and I run as fast as I can push myself, leaping over displays and launching myself across stacks of picture books. I knock over a display of chocolates, tumbling boxes of shoes to the ground. I stumble into a mountain of children’s toys, robotic animal voices jangling to life on an ominous tune. My lungs are burning. My legs are burning. My body is working harder than I’ve ever—
I come to a sudden, disorienting halt.
Rosabelle.
The sight of her rocks me like a shock wave; I’m so relieved to see her alive that my relief nearly blinds me to the details. She’s running from yet another masked figure, so drenched in blood she’s almost unrecognizable. I watch, horrified, as she yanks a knife out of her own arm and flings it, badly, at the figure chasing her. Her hands are shaking. She’s losing speed.
I bolt toward them both, giving myself a running start before I launch myself at the figure, tackling the assailant to the ground. I tuck my head as we hit the floor, then roll badly into a stand of baked goods.
I hear Rosabelle’s sudden, choked cry.
Boxes of muffins come crashing down all around us, the scents of sugar and cinnamon infusing the air. I hear a volley of gunfire in the distance, shots ringing out, and I leverage the moment of distraction to pin the asshole to the ground, punching them in the face so hard the impact nearly breaks my hand. The assailant cries out, lifting an arm, too late, as if to stop me.
