Chapter 3
Sydney
Thwunk-Thwunk-Thwunk-Thwunk. The chop of helicopter blades cuts through the howl of wind and drags me from sleep. I feel the sound in my soul.
The clang of metal. I don’t hear or smell rain, but something like thunder rattles the walls of my new prison—an unused office in an abandoned warehouse, I think. Don’t remember how I got here.
The man who torments me stands with his back to the wall beside the gray metal door and glares at me.
“He’s too early. I was supposed to be gone,” he snarls.
The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker in the otherwise dark space. I strain to sit up, but collapse within seconds, my muscles spaghetti. Too much of the drug he gives me. Too many bumps and bruises to think or move.
The human cockroach scuttles closer.
Squatting behind me, he hooks his elbow under my armpit and shoves something hard against my temple. “Stand up. We’re walking out of here. You’ll be my shield.”
When I remain as floppy as a rag doll, he drops me. The drugs muddle the pain of my head cracking against concrete. Float. Float. Float.
The storm grows closer. It stomps and pounds with heavy boots. Kicked-in doors in the distance. Oddly distorted voices. My name.
“. . . Sydney . . .”
This is bad. Not safe. “He’ll kill you . . .”
The steel door explodes inward, metal shrieking as it ricochets against the wall. Don’t move. Stay still. A silhouette fills the doorway, backlit. Weapon in both hands.
I close my eyes. Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe. He can’t see me.
“Hands in the air.” A man with a voice like a blade.
I don’t listen to orders. My name is Sydney Walsh McRae.
“She can die the same way McRae killed my mother,” Asshole shrieks.
Boots scuff. Weight crashes down on top of me. Slams into me. Curls over me.
Time slows. My eyes fly open. The big man looks down at me, but all I see is a warped version of myself reflected in the visor of his black helmet.
The stranger wraps one arm around my head and pushes my face into the rough fabric of his shoulder. I still haven’t managed to inhale.
Time speeds back up with the crack of fireworks.
The body on top of me jolts with an “OOF” hard enough to shove both of us into a roll across the floor.
He holds on to me. Forces me back onto the bottom, grunts, twists, and stretches out his arm.
He jerks with a BOOM so loud it steals every other sound and leaves ringing in my ears.
Another noise from across the room. I barely hear it, but I feel it shake the air.
A man’s shout, impossible to understand through muffled ears. The copper-penny odor of blood.
The pressure eases off me. My vision doubles. More thudding feet.
I close my eyes, trying to be invisible. I’m not here.
The rustle of fabric. The man explores my neck and head. Pats down my body. Fingers on the pulse at my wrist.
A shaking hand cups my face. “Open your eyes for me, sunshine.”
The voice sounds strange. Some words are shards of glass, others a whisper.
“You’re okay,” the man says. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Get her a blanket. Now!” he yells as the ringing in my ears slowly subsides.
I stay silent as the grave. Someone covers me with crinkling fabric.
“Back off, Henry. Worry about her, not me,” the man says.
“If you’re hit, we take care of both of you.”
“I’m fine. The vest did its job.”
Gentle fingers pry my eyelids open. Tall man on his knees beside me. Helmet gone. Jade-green eyes under frowning brows. Shines another light. When he lets go, my lids drift closed once more. He continues to lean over me and blocks the worst of the glare seeping through from the overhead fixture.
“Get her on the board,” someone says.
My eyes fly open. “No straps. Please. I’ll be good.” No matter how hard I try to scream, my voice emerges as a painfully halting whisper.
The others back away, but the green-eyed man stays and shows me his palms. “I’ll carry you, okay? I’ve got you.”
Another man, dressed the same way, steps closer. “Let me. If your ribs are cracked from the bullet, you could puncture a lung.”
“They’re bruised, not broken. I’ve got her.”
He grunts as he lifts, then holds me against a hard body. My face presses against the sturdy fabric covering his shoulder.
“You don’t need to do that,” someone says.
“Yes, I do. Get the fuck away from her.” Hard words grated through clenched teeth.
He carries me through the door, across rattling grates of metal and the long expanse of a building, until we emerge into fresh cold air. The world expands around me, huge and confusing. I drift, lost in space. No. An ocean, floating on top but directionless, unanchored, and unmoored.
Frigid wind cuts through the blanket. Nips at my toes. Wait. Wait. “Don’t kill me. I d-don’t know anything.”
“You’re safe now,” the man says.
“Liar,” I whisper.
Despite the chill in the air, fat warm droplets of water fall from the sky and onto my face. I touch my parched tongue to wet lips . . . and taste the sea.