“I said let’s go.”
Outside Thorne’s complex, darkened city blocks stretch as far as the eye can see. And, as we near the first block, conveniently swarming with Dusters. Taylor puts her finger to her lips and I roll my eyes. Because, of course, she thinks my first instinct is to shout like an idiot.
The sturdy brick crumbles, exposing plumbing lines and creating a tragic backdrop for the specks of life that remain. We crawl into the corpse of an office building, slithering through its furniture intestines. A cone of yellow light peeks into the room and we crouch behind a cubicle. On the desk is a dusty photo of a family taken on vacation somewhere. Pre-Rift, when Underclass could afford vacations. Before Underclass existed, I suppose. Ordinary people. The qualifications for ordinary change so quickly.
Footsteps grow louder and Taylor readies her bow with two arrows. She kills both officers before they can fire a bullet. The two thuds of their bodies signal us to continue through the office, stopping at each doorway to make sure it’s clear. Taylor is effortless in how she moves, confident in each step, steadfastly guiding us in the right direction. I hope it’s the right direction. She’s yet to look at that map again but I have to trust her. There is no other choice.
Gracefully, she scales up the side of the next building and stands on an eight-inch-wide remainder of a wall. With one foot in front of the other, she picks off guards from above, clearing out a path for me on the ground floor. Plucking the arrows from their bodies as I walk, I plunk them back in her quiver when she returns to me.
“Almost there,” she whispers. “One more block.”
When she opens the door to the next block, we both stop short. The buildings are gone.
Any former edifice has been blown to nothing but mangled fences and brick walls a few feet high. Dark figures skitter in theunlit streets, laser sights sweeping across the ruins. Taylor closes the door and opens her watch.
“Mason’s gone to the next point. The buildings there still stand, if we can get to them.” Her eyes move across the map. “Probably at least thirty Dusters.”
“Thirty against two, great,” I say. “Good odds.”
Taylor huffs out a laugh. “More like thirty against one-and-a-half, but yeah.” Her eyes travel the map like one of Papa’s accountants poring over a spreadsheet, with purposeful, mathematical concentration. “I will climb to the roof of this building and eliminate enemies. I will whistle when it is safe, and you should move forward in a straight line toward Mason. Do not move forward until you hear my whistle.”
“What will the whistle sound like?”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Like a whistle, Miss Piccolo.”
“And how am I supposed to know that’s not how Dusters communicate? What if I mistake their whistle for yours?”
“I promise you it will be obvious.” She unhooks her watch and clips it around my wrist. “If, for some reason, we get separated or you get lost, open this. It will show the map to you so you can get to Mason and get out of here.”
“What do you mean ‘get out of here’? Where will you be?”
I’m routinely ignored as Taylor climbs the deteriorated walls inside the building. Eventually she disappears from view and leaves me alone with my gun and my fright. I swing the strap of the assault rifle over my head and ready it. I’m someone who can load and cock an assault rifle, which is an interesting life development I did not see coming.
The winter air is silent when suddenly a Duster falls near me, an arrow lodged in his neck. A few yards away another Duster drops to the ground, making a clatter as her weapon hits the sidewalk. Then, a short, clear whistle. Okay, so, she was right. No mistaking that.
Sucking in a deep breath, I venture into the open, staying close to the buildings and their natural shadows. There’s about ten yards between me and the next alleyway, so I scramble and duck into it to wait for her next signal. More Dusters drop dead on the streets and a high, sharp whistle pierces the air. Again, I advance, as silent as possible in these stupid heels. Dusters are jogging back toward where I came from, and it occurs to me that the whistle is giving away her location. She’s intentionally bringing attention away from me at her own peril.
Up on the rooftop, Taylor masterfully keeps herself hidden. An arrow soars out of nowhere and strikes a Duster through the neck in front of me. I wait for the two remaining Dusters to go down. They don’t, remaining stubbornly alive. Voices crackle from their radios, prompting both Dusters to take off in Taylor’s direction. Panic grips my heart with five fingers. My worry is confirmed when I spot Taylor on the roof, struggling with an enemy.
Running to Mason would be easy, since everyone deserted the streets in favor of the building, but what would we do? If they capture her, they’ll kill her. Even without Thorne’s guidance, someone will turn her over to a region leader. Either way, I’ll never see her again.
That is not an option.
I emerge from the shadows, aim my gun, and stop.
I’m going to kill this man. This stranger. I’m going to put lead in him and hope his heart stops forever. And why? Because I don’t want him to kill a woman who despises me? Because I’m an opportunist with shady morals who will justify killing someone if it means I live?
Or.
Or, the voice in my head says, because you know she’d do the same. Fight for her and she’ll fight for you.
I exhale and shoot the back of one of the guards nearest to me, dropping him immediately to the ground. The noise startles the other guard whose laser-pointed rifle scans the area. I duck behind a dumpster and bullets race past me. Pivoting outward, I shoot again, but I miss and hide once more. Taylor’s voice teases me in my head as I try to calm down to focus my aim.
Nice shot, princess. Focus. Breathe.
After more bullets come my way, I swallow my fear with a big gulp. Three quick breaths. My focus partially returned, I swivel out and riddle him with lead. If I don’t kill him, at least I’m causing enough distraction maybe Taylor can escape. Glancing up, I catch her looking down at me, but then she disappears behind a wall.
Mason backs up the van to my position, tires squeaking and smoking. He leans out of the window. “Get in.”
