She met his gaze solemnly. “Same to you. Just send the call for help.”
They lingered near each other for a second, as if reluctant to part. For an instant, Winter realized that this could be the last time they ever saweach other. He found himself taking in the tangle of her hair, the bloody scrape on her cheek. The stormy blue of her eyes.
“See you there,” she murmured to him, her eyes upturned to his.
He nodded. “See you there.”
She nodded back. Then she sprinted for the hatch, and he tore his stare away to speed toward the nearest steel pillar.
His wound screamed as he began hauling himself up the scaffolding’s ladder.Just like one of your moves during the last tour. Just like rehearsals.His muscle memory kicked in, and he let it guide him through the pain. The world around him seemed to flash as the pillar blocked part of the setting sun’s glare—and if he let himself, he could fall into believing that this was another one of his stage acts, that the whistle of the wind around him was the cheers from the audience, the light blinding him came from the spotlights pointing down at his moving figure. Everything in him trembled. His strength was faltering already.
Down below, he heard the first sounds from arriving guards. Then, the unmistakable ping of a bullet against the steel grid. Up he continued.
He could feel blood leaking from his wound, and when he looked, he could see the bandage underneath his torn shirt turning a deeper crimson.
How had Artie felt when he was shot? Had he been afraid to die, regretted joining these types of missions? Had he felt sadness that he would never see his family again?
Winter looked up, yearning for the top of the grid. Two more stories. His body shook.
Another bullet pinged near him. He heard it in a daze—somehow, the shouts from down below seemed to come from some other timeline, like everything happening around him was merely a movie playing. Maybe nothing that had ever happened to him had been real. His entire life was a stage.
Keep going.He chanced a glimpse down to see two of the men nowattempting to follow him, and a third waving in the direction of the crane that loomed between him and the bridge.
His heart sank as he saw a fourth open the hatch below and head down with two more men.
He’d seen how fast Sydney could move. With the halls as narrow as they probably were down there, she at least had a chance of staving them off.
One more story.
He clenched his teeth as his next pull sent pain jolting through him. Sweat drenched his skin and dripped down the sides of his face. His hands trembled, his grip barely steady. He could feel the wind beneath him, could sense how easily he could plummet right now to his death.
Keep going.
At the horizon, the sun was sinking rapidly into the ocean, and the colors of the sky shifted, the oranges more brilliant, the pinks so exaggerated they looked fake.
He thought of the pier, and Artie at his side, and the way he’d laughed as he kicked at one of the wooden support beams. Winter’s arms moved numbly, pulling him up. His head swam with nausea and fog. The world around him seemed to tilt.
And then—
The steel pillar stopped abruptly, and he felt his hands land on a flat surface, and he was up, up at the top of the grid, the wind blasting in his face. Somehow, he managed to pull himself over the top, and then crouched there, dizzy with life, one hand pressed against his wound.
Down below, one of the men was halfway up the grid. He would be here soon.
Move.
The command rang in Winter’s head, and he turned his gaze in the direction of the bridge. He dragged himself to his feet. And he ran for his life.
The grids were wider than he could have hoped for—even with his unsteady balance and loss of blood, he found himself able to navigate them. Ahead of him, the blinding sun sank further into the ocean, and the colors of the sky shifted yet again, pinks to purples.
He looked over his shoulder to see that the guard chasing him down had now reached the top of the grid and was racing toward him faster than Winter could run.
The pain in his chest now seemed to reach every part of his body, and he felt his head swim from the loss of blood. He tried to force his muscles to move as he’d always been able to, to make the show go on. But he couldn’t this time.
I can’t do this.
The thought seared through his mind with a dreadful finality. He lay where he was, the bridge still out of reach, the sun finally sinking into the sea. Through his blurring vision, he saw the gunman step up to him and stand over his prone figure.
“Artie,” he found himself whispering, the name slipping out as if from somewhere deep in his subconscious. He wondered what his brother’s final thoughts were, and whether he’d felt any fear.
