Not now.
Not now.
My head is pounding, my palms growing slick as my feelings spiral out of control. I grip the gun more firmly in my hands, reading its ridges with my fingers. I’m here, where my feet are; here, where cold winds sweep mist and rain into the open hangar, where the air is fresh and bracing, chilling my damp clothes. I steel myself and fall back on logic, hold fast to reason—
I need to get home.
Just because I need to get home doesn’t mean I have to murder everyone on the way there.Killing is no longer my job.I don’t know who these people are; they might be James’s friends. They might be his family members.
I don’t know when that began to matter to me.
I hear boots before I see her, the giveaway granting me the second I need to pivot just as a soldier comes up on me from behind. She’s inexperienced; I can tell by the way she hesitates, the way her eyes widen in surprise when she glimpses my costume.
I never hesitate.
I shoot her in the arm, then the leg, then order myself to stop, physically forcing my finger off the trigger. My right hand trembles dangerously, my breaths coming in fast. I clench my teeth through the moment, shutting out her screams as she falls, as I retreat. I remind myself that they have healers. She’ll be all right as long as she doesn’t bleed out for too long. She might make it.
Don’t kill.
Don’t kill.
The words echo in my head as I move soundlessly, ignoring the spasms branching up my leg. I duck into the shadows, pressing myself flat against the side of a boom lift, and attempt a fresh scan of the situation. From this vantage point I can’t be precise about how many fighters I’m up against; based on the shadows I’m seeing I think I can safely estimate that there are about twenty-five soldiers roaming the hangar.
That means I have to be patient.
I’ll need to maintain a defensive position, retreating over and over, taking them out only as they seek me out. Unlike the citizens of the Ark, some of the rebels still have preternatural abilities. I can’t know what kinds of powers they have at their disposal until it’s too late, which means I can’t risk assuming an offensive position until their numbers winnow. Only when I’m certain I’ve cut down enough of their fighters can I risk making my move toward the center of the hangar—where the jet remains untouched and exposed.
Shafts of ghostly moonlight illuminate the two rolling safety ladders on either side of the open doors, which were left unlatched by soldiers doing their initial scans.
There’s no time for a new strategy.
I was never going to be able to fly this jet all the way back to the Ark. That was never the plan. I was only going to use it like a weapon: take advantage of its bullet-resistant heft to get myself out of here. I only need to get far enough into the sky and over open water so I might safely eject myself. The plane would be lost to the ocean; I would parachute-land as best I could.
Best-case scenario, they assume I’m dead.
Worst-case scenario, I buy myself time to find a new bolthole, lose my shadows, scout out a new airbase. There’s no point getting back to the Ark without the vial. Stealing a plane is a small task compared to what I know awaits me on a hunt for that glass cylinder—because I have to imagine the rebels were at least smart enough to stash it in a secure location.
The trouble is, I don’t know enough about this place to hazard a reasonable guess as to its whereabouts. I need time to do reconnaissance before I can even compile a list of probable locations—
A soldier surges up on my left, making no effort to hide his footfalls, and he shoots before I even have a chance to lift my weapon. I dive for the ground, bashing my elbow into a steel cabinet, pain ricocheting up my arm. I glimpse him in my periphery and push through the agony, flipping onto my back to shoot him in the thigh, then the foot. He buckles, his cries echoing, but even as he falls he manages to get off a few well-aimed shots. I roll over but not fast enough, hissing through my teeth as a bullet nicks my right arm.
I take a fraction of a second to catch my breath.
I drag myself upright as the soldier struggles to regain his feet, catching the glimmer of an unusual, puzzle-piece pendant hanging from a chain at his neck. He tries to stand but I get to him first, striking the side of his head with the rifle, and I watch, chest heaving, as he slowly slides to the ground with a grunt.
I rock back on my feet, grimacing as fresh pain blooms through my injured ankle, but when I see his fingers still twitching for his weapon, I kick it toward me and grab the strap, looping it quickly over my head.
Then I shoot him in the arm.
He chokes out a fresh cry and I tense, my finger uncertain on the trigger, wondering if maybe I shot him too many times.
Slow down, I tell myself, alarm constricting my chest. You can be gentle. You can be better. You—
I hear a storm of footsteps—fighters following the sound of their comrade’s cries—and I compartmentalize my own pain as I push deeper into the shadows. I duck down behind a generator, take a breath, then take a position. I peer up over the ledge, my gun poised at my eye line, searching for a target.
“Hey, this is fun, right?” someone whispers. “I think everyone is having fun. I love team-building exercises.”
I stiffen at the sound of his voice, my heart beating so hard I feel the ground shift beneath my feet. I pull back my position, equal parts agony and fury as I turn to face him.
