Chapter 9 #4
“I don’t know. Must’ve been the way I was raised.
Maybe you can ask my father before you brutally beat him to death.
Besides, do you think Lady Leather is going to care if I end up dead?
She doesn’t care about me. The Order doesn’t care about me.
You don’t care about me. I’ve never been more than collateral, to you or to her. ”
Taylor stalks forward, forcing me to step backward in tandem. “You think you’re collateral?”
“Oh no. I’m not collateral, I’m bait, how could I forget?
Bait for my father, bait for Thorne. Bait for whatever disgusting man you want to throw me at.
” The dreadful silence that falls between us, coupled with the look in her eyes like I’ve slapped her in the face, makes my stomach churn.
But not enough to stop. “You only care if I live because I’m still useful, isn’t that right?
That’s what your little girlfriend told me—you only care about someone when they’re useful to you. Did you throw her under Thorne too?”
Taylor advances on me and shoves me against the brick wall, pinning me there with her forearm across my chest. She’s so close, I can’t tell if she wants to kiss me or punch me.
Anger is funny that way. “I do not have the time to stop and stroke your ego every time you feel insecure, Miss Piccolo. I offered you the choice and you took it.”
“Yes, based on the fact that I thought you were looking out for me! Instead, you told Thorne to kill me.” My eyes narrow in anger, but my voice is broken. “You had your shot and you told him to kill me.”
“What if I missed? You think I would let something happen to you? If so, you are quite dense.”
“I’m not dense, Taylor, I’m scared! You didn’t show up for so long, and he was gonna—” I glance away. “You made it clear in there what I am to you.”
“Did I?” The chilling voice she uses has the same effect on me as it did on Thorne. I gulp. Any anger in her expression is swept away by agitation. “It was a distraction. One would think the daughter of a region leader, with your fancy education, might have more sense.”
“Not all of us can be raised by a megalomaniac and groomed into an emotionally stunted murderer.”
“No, some of us are coddled by a megalomaniac and groomed into an emotionally volatile narcissist.”
Hurtful, but impressive. I turn my hurt outward. “Pardon me for actually having parents to coddle me, instead of leaving me in the woods to die.”
What follows is the most worrisome silence I’ve ever endured.
Of all the barbs and insults we’ve thrown each other’s way, I finally managed to hurt her feelings.
To make matters worse, she doesn’t fight back.
She wipes the devastation and hurt from her face, and forcibly turns me around to zip me into my dress.
When she slides her jacket off and hands it to me, I offer no resistance and put it on.
“Let’s go.”
“Taylor—”
“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 the unlit 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.”
It’s a struggle to remain upright in the van, but I brace myself on the sidewall, detach the pistol from my calf, and shoot out the back. My heart batters my chest, but I keep shooting. I am not hitting much, but I am participating.
Mason barrels through guards, truck bouncing over their bodies with a nauseating crunch and slush. We swing around another street and come to a dead stop.
I glance between Mason and the open back door. “What are you doing? She said to leave without her.”
He rolls his eyes. “She always says that shit. She’s got thirty seconds, then we go in. You good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Thirty seconds is agony. Each imaginary tick heightens my anxiety. I’m about to storm out of the van when the ceiling goes convex with a loud thud.
“Go!”
Blowing out black smoke, the van hurtles down the road with alarming speed.
Again, I nearly fall through the open door.
We take a sharp left turn, which throws me into the right side of the van, and my pistol bounces out of my hand.
Once the car straightens out and we are heading in one constant direction, Taylor swings in from the roof and sprawls out on the floor of the van, face down and groaning.
After securing the doors, I crouch next to her prone form.
She’s covered in blood, and clearly some of it is hers.
She turns over on her back and looks up at me, every part of her a bloody mess.
“I jumped.”
I push hair away from her face and chuckle. “I heard.”
Passing streetlamps illuminate her concerned face in flashes. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I—I’m fine. You’re covered in blood, are you okay?”
“I got stabbed,” she says. Before I can react, she laments, “I cannot believe I let myself get stabbed. What an amateur.”
“You got stabbed? Where?” My eyes traverse her body but there’s so much blood, fresh and dried, that I cannot see a wound.
“It was only a little stab, I will be fine. I need to sit up.” She shuffles her palms to try and brace her weight.
“Absolutely not. Stay put. My ‘fancy education’ tells me it will be painful for you to move. Lie here until we get back.”
“I am fine. It’s a cut.” She tries to sit up and gasps in pain, then eases back down. “You know what? I’ll lie here until we get back.”
“Good idea, hero.”
“Thank you.”