When I do, the last of my strength nearly leaves my body.
James is charging toward the plane, dragging a rolling safety ladder behind him. It takes me a moment to fully comprehend what I’m witnessing: he’s shirtless and bloodied, illuminated in the ghostly red and green nav lights of the aircraft. A makeshift sling is wrapped around his right arm. Rain is pelting him, streaking through dried blood, rivers of red snaking down his torso. I see the shape of his plan immediately, and my throat constricts as I assess the risk, the improbability—
There’s no way he’s going to make it.
He shoves the ladder in the direction of the aircraft, then sprints to catch it, jumping onto its bottom step, grabbing the safety rail and hauling himself up the stairs as it careens toward the moving plane, crashing against the far side of the body with a destabilizing tremor.
I hit the brakes on instinct.
James jolts.
The chocolate bar skitters.
I hold my breath.
He has less than seconds to move, and he launches himself onto the wing badly, nearly slipping, the reverberations rocking the aircraft. I watch in horror as he loses his balance, then his grip, trying to climb up with only one arm onto the slick, rain-soaked surface.
I’m now dizzy with fear.
I look down, feel the weight of my foot on the wheel brake; then stare at my hand on the throttle.
I could take off now.
I could push the throttle to its maximum position, then generate lift at a steep incline, which would all but guarantee flinging him off the wing; I’d risk airflow disruption, but at least I’d be airborne, with a chance to correct the maneuver in flight.
James, on the other hand, would not survive.
I swallow.Maybe he would.
No, he would not.
Taking into account the storm, the winds, his injury, and the height from which he’d fall, the force of collision would almost certainly break his neck.
He’d die on impact.
Maybe.
Probably.
Panic grips me with both hands, my indecision costing me precious seconds. I hear shouts carrying on the wind,soldiers running toward my stalled jet. The truth finds me here, in my weakest moment, in my trembling heart: I want to destroy Klaus to save Clara, to demand retribution; but there’s another part of me, a quieter part of me, that wants to spare this pathetic world and its simple dreams. I want to kill The Reestablishment so that these soft, loud people might continue to live.
So that James might continue to live.
My hand shakes on the throttle, heat searing my eyes. I’m staring at the ruined chocolate bar, its paper exterior separating from the foil. Its spine is broken, segments shattered like bones.
I can still feel that frail shoot pushing up through the ashes of my soul, a green tendril of new growth.
The promise of change.
I thought you might want to give this to your sister.
The costs of death are catching up to me, revealing the cracks in my skin, my spirit. Maybe it’s too late to die a better person than I lived. Maybe it’s selfish to ache for a ray of light after a lifetime of darkness.
Clara.
Clara.
I’d have to kill James to get to my sister. One more body on my conscience. Another strike upon my soul. I could do it. I could do it right now.
