18. Louise
“ F rank, that’s not a fucking graze!” I shout, my stomach tightening at the sight of so much of Frank’s blood spilling onto me.
“Yeah, well—there’s not a whole lot we can do about it right now,” he grits out, weaving us through the sparse traffic entering the tunnel.
The station wagon is doing its best to keep up as we make our way toward the line of wooden sawhorse dividers topped with flashing lights that separate the artery for tunnel construction and maintenance workers from the main transit line.
Frank slows, allowing the other Saints to take the lead; the station wagon blasting through the flimsy wood and plastic barriers without any difficulty—Frank weaving through the debris as we zoom after them.
Seeing that we’ve had no direct pursuit down the service artery, Caz pulls over to the side less than a half mile into the sub-tunnel; his tires screeching as he comes to an abrupt halt—Frank sliding sideways into a stop just behind the stopped Volvo.
I move to holster my guns, to steady him as he dismounts the motorcycle.
“Eyes up!” he yells at me, slumping awkwardly off the bike with a wince—his left arm hanging limply at his side as blood runs from his fingers.
“Get him in the car and someone fucking stop that bleeding!” My sigma bark carries over the loud ambient noise of the tunnel—Seb and Q scramble from the car to collect the bleeding Frank as the echo of rumbling engines begins to crescendo—a sure indication that we were not yet out of the woods.
I dismount the bike, half-crouching behind it—arms propped on the black leather seat to steady my aim as I lay in wait.
As two more nondescript black sedans with ballistics glass windows make their way down the amber-lit tunnel corridor, the greasy orange lights flickering over the dark glass and mirror sheen paint job, Seb scuttles in beside me, taking what shelter his broad, muscular frame can take behind the sleek motorcycle.
“Get down, cover your ears,” he warns me, reaching into his bag of exploding tricks to retrieve a nearly spherical looking device.
Sébastien springs to standing, throwing the mysterious orb like a shot put down the tunnel toward the rapidly approaching cars as a hail of sloppy gunfire issues from both shining black vehicles.
I’ve seen what kind of damage Seb’s little homecraft bombs can do, so I hit pavement, putting my belly on the ground, squeezing my shoulders up to my ears and covering my head with my arms, guns still in hand—a sliver of visibility beneath one of my arms, through the wheels of the motorcycle, shows the brilliant orange plumes of flame that overturn the first of the two black sedans.
“Ta grand mere!” Sébastien screams as the first car spirals into the curvature of the concrete tunnel wall, blossoming into a massive auto-fire, belching black smoke.
The second pursuit vehicle nearly goes ass-over-teakettle as it spins into an emergency stop just behind the wall of flame created by the first destroyed car.
These fuckers just won’t quit, though. I’d been hoping Seb’s work as boom scholar would have been enough, but a team of 5 agents—some in impact helmets and goggles, some in ball caps and shades, burst through the smoke and breaks in the wall of flame, hell bent on stopping us.
“Get to the car Seb!” I press up from the ground, peering carefully over the seat of the bike as one of the agents shoots and narrowly misses the gas tank. A few paces more, and he won’t miss.
“And what about you, eh?” he protests, hand already rooting around in the bag of boom for another weapon.
“I’ll cover you getting to the car—then I take care of these assholes so we can make a clean break. Promise.”
Seb’s mouth sets in a hard line—those chocolate brown eyes fixing me with an accusatory glare that might as well say, and why should I trust you?
I’m not sure what compels me to do what I do next.
Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, or my imminent heat, or the way Seb’s bottom lip looks so beautiful—full and juicy—but I lean in, gun still in hand, and hook my wrist around the nape of his neck—bringing his face to mine, our mouths meeting in a momentary crush, his tongue sweeping unexpectedly into my mouth as I catch his lower lip in my teeth; not hard enough to break skin, to bite, to bond, but enough to make clear the earnestness of my promise.
I force myself to break the kiss and pull away—the two of us blinking away the intensity of the moment before I snap. “There’ll be more where that came from—but you need to trust me. Now get in the fucking car!”
Without protest—Seb skitters back to the station wagon as I pop up from behind the motorcycle, guns blazing—like some kind of jack-in-the-box from hell.
One by one, three of the four agents soak up my bullets before dropping to the pavement in the golden-amber drenched light of the tunnel. The last fires a one shot into the gas tank of the bike, and then another; forcing me to abandon my hiding place lest I risk clinging to the bike as it explodes.
I peel away from the bike just as I hear the telltale clatter of the agent’s empty magazine hitting the pavement. I dig in, turning my body toward him—my shoulder slamming into his chest just beneath his chin before he can manage to re-load.
In a desperate attempt for control, the wiry, but strong agent drops his useless gun and wraps his arms around me in a tight bear hug—forcing my arms against my sides as he braces me against him.
Not good enough. One of my guns is pressed against his body, the other pointed toward the ground but at a bad angle.
I let out an animal cry, and he makes an awful gurgling noise as I jam the muzzle of one of my guns into his stomach, firing off several rounds before I fall to the ground with him; still trapped in his arms.
He breaks my fall as we hit the asphalt—his arms loosening before going completely slack as I push to my elbows on top of him—his blood spilling in hot gouts over me as I look upon his face in horror.
“L-ouise?” Tennant croaks—blood pouring from the corner of his mouth, spreading like crimson ink over the edge of his bottom lip.
“Scott?” I gasp—reaching to help him on instinct.
“They said you were dead, that those mad dogs the Saints killed you.” His brows pinch together in confusion, the corners of his mouth turned down, seeping blood and saliva.
“I’m right here Scott,” I assure him, though I’m not certain my being alive is a comfort to him—the way his eyes widen, his mouth working slowly as he tries to force air into his lungs.
A chain of wet coughs sends Scott Tennant’s blood spattering across my face, shock growing in his pale green eyes as I feebly attempt to put pressure on the bullet holes I just put in his abdomen.
“Are y-you the dirty bomb?” Scott asks tremulously, his gaunt face a mask of blood and terror.
“Dirty bomb?” I shake my head, hazarding a glance up to ensure no other agents are on their way to rain hell down upon us; I see only the wall of flaming wreckage and dropped bodies; hear the distant cries of the Saints yelling for me to join them in the getaway car.
“I’m not a bomb, Scott,” I begin to sob—attempting to wipe the blood away from Tennant’s eyes, but only smearing the mess around more—forgetting my hands are soaked.
Both of us know he’s going to die. I’ve never been friends with Scott Tennant.
Fuck, I don’t even like the bastard—but I’ll be damned if I let another human die alone and confused like this.
“The Zeitnot virus,” he manages before belching up more gore. “Briefing said t-targets had a dirty bomb—made by Margot and Landon Penny?—”
If I weren’t already adrenaline sick, this might have pushed me over the edge.
The Fed is now laying the virus at the feet of my dead, ostensibly civilian parents.
Within the organization, it’s been communicated that the Saints are in possession of a ‘dirty bomb;’ and according to Scott—I’m already dead.
A casualty of the Saints—a martyr for the bureau who no longer needs to be saved or accounted for.
I’ve been erased—struck from the narrative, so that the Windmill and the corruption within the highest levels of federal organization can do whatever they so choose with me once I’ve been found and captured.
The only thing standing between me and a lifetime imprisonment as a lab rat for the Feds or the Windmill is the Saints.
They are my only hope of getting answers—getting vengeance.
“He didn’t believe it,” Tennant gasps, gripping my wrist with one bloody hand—his eyes searching mine in desperation as he clings to the last vestiges of his life.
“Who didn’t believe it?” I croon, blinking tears from my eyes as I lay my hand over Scott’s scarlet smeared knuckles, a pathetic attempt at tenderness in his last moments.
“Dennis—” Scott pauses, and for a moment—I wonder if McBride’s name will be his last word.
“Dennis didn’t believe what?” I prompt him quietly, as Scott’s eyelids begin to droop closed.
“Didn’t believe you were dead—said he would have been able to feel it, said you wouldn’t?—”
But Scott will never finish whatever it was he had to say. He goes still beneath my hands on the pavement—his eyes unfocused, gone.
The rest of the escape from Beach City is a muted blur.
Hazily, I can remember Quentin snatching me from my place over Tennant’s body—tossing me into the car with Frank and Sébastien in the back seat, watching the flames and smoke around his lifeless form as we tore off down the service tunnel.
Seb and I did our best to temporarily patch Frank up and wipe the blood from our faces as we escaped into the densely populated outer city limits, stopping in an overcrowded block of apartment houses to ditch the station wagon for another vehicle.