Chapter 15 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
Chapter 15
James goes rigid. “Coming with me? Coming with me where?”
“To The New Republic.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a fucking serial killer, that’s why.”
“I’m not a serial killer.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re telling me you haven’t serially killed people? For a living?”
“I can help you,” I say, ignoring this. “I can get the chopper to work. I can get you home. But you have to take me with you.”
“ No. ”
“Why not?”
He throws up his hands. “Are you joking? You’re clearly some kind of psycho mercenary servant of the fascists. Why would I take you with me? So you could kill everyone I care about? Imagine being invited to a potluck and bringing the plague.” He points at me. “You’re the plague.”
My jaw tenses. “If that’s true, why did you try to save my sister?”
“She’s a kid,” he scoffs. “That’s different.”
“And your arrogance is breathtaking,” I counter. “You came to this island as part of some covert op and slaughtered dozens of people in the process, but you think you’re better than me because you’ve decided your motives are worthy. Well, I think my motives are worthy, too.”
He casts me a sidelong look. “Aren’t you getting married next week?”
“Not anymore.”
“How convenient.”
“It’s true.”
A helicopter opens fire overhead, an earsplitting boom preceding the launch of three warning missiles fired in perfect formation. The explosions rock the aircraft so hard we nearly knock heads. The din is deafening; the heat stifling. I look around to discover we’re trapped in a triangulated inferno.
“Jesus,” says James, wincing. He presses his hands to his ears, shouting over the small firestorm. “They really don’t know how to kill me, do they?”
“They’re not trying to kill you,” I say, coughing. “You’re worth more alive than dead.”
“You know,” he says, squinting at me through the smoke, “beautiful girls are always saying things like that to me. It’s starting to go to my head.”
The careless compliment catches me off guard, nicking an exposed vein. A fragile shoot of pleasure pushes up through the fallow fields of my vanity—chased immediately by shame. It’s embarrassing to discover I can still care about such things.
“All right, okay, fine.” He sighs, glancing at the flames roaring just outside the open door. “Let’s get out of here. But the minute you land on my soil you’ll be locked up and vetted by the authorities. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to turn you in.”
“Okay,” I say. “I accept—”
“I’m not done,” he says. “If you run, I will kill you.”
“Fine.”
“If you try to kill me again, I will definitely kill you.”
I blink slowly. “Fine.”
“And if I find out that any of this”—he twirls a finger to indicate the general disaster of things—“is part of some sick plan to get close to my family, I will take you apart. Do you understand?” His eyes flash with barely concealed fury. “You hurt my family,” he says, leaning in, “and you will meet a very different version of me, Rosabelle. I will take you apart. And then I’ll feed you, one piece at a time, to the vultures.”
At this small speech, a part of me dissolves.
His words generate within me the opposite of fear; instead, I find my thoughts dipping into the absurd. I wonder, briefly, what it must be like to be loved by someone like him. To have someone always in your corner, someone willing to fight for you. James was ready to risk his life for a little girl he’s never met; I can only guess at what he’d do for his own family. I wonder if they have any idea how lucky they are. How many of us would kill for that kind of fierce, unshakable loyalty.
“I understand,” I say quietly.
He holds out a hand, ostensibly to shake on it, but for reasons I don’t fully understand, the idea of touching James scares me. I steel myself before finally slipping my hand into his, neutralizing my expression as I grow uncomfortably, acutely aware of him. His skin is warm and calloused and streaked with dried blood, large and rough against mine.
I look up. We lock eyes.
He smiles a strange, amused sort of smile, and suddenly the cabin is overcrowded, the distance between us too small. He lets go of me slowly, his fingers sliding against my palm, and I experience a shocking spasm in my chest—the same terrifying spark I did the day I killed him.
“Truce,” he says.
“Truce,” I agree.
My skin seems to be buzzing. I ignore this unwelcome development by flattening my hand against the cracked monitor without further delay. The aircraft hums to life, and the screen unlocks, greeting me.
“Good morning, Unfinished Profile. Please update your information. Otherwise, enter destination.”
I experience a modicum of relief. Only yesterday did Sebastian grant me small-aircraft authorization; Klaus must’ve anticipated this moment. Quickly, I zoom out on the map. Ark Island is located off the northwest coast of what used to be North America; there are a cluster of other islands nearby, many of which remain under the control of The New Republic. I make a selection at random, choosing a set of coordinates on an enemy island closest to us.
“Your destination does not exist,” says the vehicle. “Override or enter new destination.”
“Override,” I say.
“Battery is dangerously low,” says the vehicle. “Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or enter new destination.”
“Shit,” says James.
“Override.”
“Rear-left wheel underinflated. Tire pressure dangerously low. Override or call for assistance.”
“Override,” I say again.
“Okay,” says James, “this thing is more messed up than I thought—”
Another explosion rocks the chopper without warning, the impact nearly blowing out my eardrums. I’m thrown back in my seat, grimacing through the pain. I blink my eyes open, peering through the remains of the shattered windshield, and I can just make out the familiar lines of Sebastian’s figure, fast approaching.
Panic clears my head.
“Override,” I say again, tapping the screen. “Override.”
“Safety belts nonfunctional,” says the vehicle. “Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“ Override. ”
“I thought you were supposed to be helping me,” says James. “You’re making things worse.”
“Be quiet.”
“Airbags nonfunctional. Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“ Override. ”
“Maybe we should steal a different one?” says James. “A better one?”
“There’s no time—”
“Camera sensors nonfunctional. Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
I throw the chopper in manual, climb over James, seize control of the steering wheel, and floor the accelerator. The vehicle pitches forward violently, throwing me back against James, who unleashes a string of expletives as I land hard against his injured legs.
There’s no time to apologize.
I can hardly see through my good eye, much less through the broken windshield as we bolt through flames ten feet high. I keep my foot planted on the accelerator even as the low-battery signal screeches dire warnings. We head directly toward the cliff, careening wildly on two unbalanced wheels as circling helicopters machine-gun rounds of ammunition at us, taking out the remaining wheels one by one.
Suddenly, we’re sliding.
The trike spins wildly out of control, clipping trees and bushes, branches and brambles scraping painfully along the outer body. I hit the brakes, hard, and we stop spinning only to skid backward off the cliff, launching badly into the air. I hear James shout something profane and then—
And then we’re free-falling, spiraling toward the sea.