“How did you break out of prison?”
“James—”
“Last chance.”
She audibly releases, sinking against me in something like surrender. Her head rocks back against my chest and she makes a soft, breathless sound that messes with my heart rate. I’ve got her pressed so hard against my body I can feel every curve of her through this thin, cheap catsuit. She’s dripping wet; the material is suctioned to her skin. I literally can’t ignore the fact that she’s not wearing any underwear.
I swallow, adjusting my hold on the knife.
“Your prisons were built by The Reestablishment,” shesays quietly, and my spiraling mind surges back into focus. “I’ve done hundreds of hours of sim training breaking out of every single one of them.”
“Wait.” Shock rocks through me. “What?”
“James,” she says, sounding almost tired. “You don’t understand how vulnerable you are. Your movement has already been badly infiltrated. I’m the weakest executioner we have and your world offers me no challenge. We have much stronger mercenaries everywhere, so seamlessly integrated into the fabric of your government that you can’t see what’s coming. And there’s no time—”
Footfalls are suddenly louder; soldiers are dispersing deeper into the vast hangar. I hear the clanging sounds of metal, the hush of discreet conversation. I peer around the part cart partially obscuring us from view, and swear quietly under my breath.
“I cut the power to the overhead lights,” she says softly. “The last of the sun should be gone by now. They won’t be able to find us easily.”
My jaw tenses. “You really thought of everything.”
“And you have time to change your mind,” she says. “Make the choice. Let me go. I have a chance to fix things before it’s too late—”
“What do you meanbefore it’s too late?” I cut her off, alarmed. “How much time are we talking about?”
“Under seven weeks,” she whispers.
I go still, even as my heart beats harder. “And then what?” I ask. “What happens in seven weeks?”
She goes quiet.
My fears divide and multiply.
“If you let me get back to the Ark, hopefully nothing,” she says. “But you have to let me leave right now.”
“Stop giving me these cryptic answers,” I say angrily. “You’re talking about my home—my people—the possible devastation of everything we’ve worked for. I need you to tell me something real. You came here to do something horrible, didn’t you?”
She hesitates. “They didn’t tell me what I was supposed to do until I got here.”
I let this sit for a second. “Who’sthey?”
Another clatter.
I look up at the sound, and I can just make out a team searching the aircraft high above us, boots thudding up and down the safety ladders.
“We’re almost out of time,” she whispers. “I said they wouldn’t find us easily, not that they wouldn’t find us at all. Choose your questions carefully.”
My lips flatten into a grim line. “What were you sent here to do? Why did you change your mind about doing it? What was in that vial?”
“I can’t answer these questions succinctly,” she says. “Any answer I give you will just prompt more questions, and I don’t have time—”
“Why do you keep saying that? What’s the rush to get home? You said seven weeks, not seven minutes—”
“If you want so many answers, why don’t you just letyour team interrogate me?” she counters. “Why hold me here, in the dark, under threat of discovery? Why do you seem to be hidingwithme?”
I tense, betraying myself in the process, and she mirrors the action, stiffening against me.
“James?” she says carefully. “What’s going on?”
