Chapter 48
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
Death never finds me.
I open my eyes to see all the men, brows furrowed, glancing up at the ceiling in confusion. Expecting to see a medieval ghost, or maybe a very, very, large spider, I follow their stares.
Manon shrieks, “You imbeciles—I said, kill her!”
That’s when I hear it, too.
The low, rhythmic rumbling of air being sliced at high speeds.
Distant at first, looming, then so loud that the walls begin to shake and the chandeliers precariously swing. Silence in the ballroom devolves into chaos. Everyone is shouting, jostling each other in a stampede for the doors. Groups form, overpowering the guards, and shots begin to fire.
The doors are wrenched open.
Any remaining guards make a beeline out of the ballroom in an attempt to escape.
Manon is screaming strings of colorful French curses I would personally never be creative enough to come up with. Someone pushes past Graham and I nearly shoot them. He falls to his knees. I can barely see his chest lifting with breath anymore.
An overzealous guard who survived the stampede of criminals aims for me, and I swiftly dispatch him.
“Okay, this is getting old,” I hiss in Manon’s ear, tightening my arm like a constrictor snake until her airway is cut off. “I think you’ll be much more pleasant to be around after a nap.”
A sharp pop, pop, pop, sounds outside. Different caliber weapons, then, as they trade fire.
Manon slumps against me and I let her body drop unceremoniously to the floor.
Kicking her revolver across the ballroom, I lunge for Graham, pulling him by the shoulders until he sags into my lap.
His breathing is shallow, skin cold. I press my hand onto his biggest wound.
He jolts to consciousness from the sudden, heightened pain.
“Sloane,” he wheezes.
“Hey, thief.” I move so the crook of my arm is cradling the back of his head. “I hope you know that I’m still going to be mad at you about this when you wake up in the hospital.”
“I wouldn’t—” He coughs. “—expect anything less.”
My quivering lips struggle to form a smile. I watch as his fingers tap my forearm, right beside his cheek where I’m supporting him, leaving a smear of dark red across my scar. “Will you… tell me now?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re all fixed up,” I say, voice shaking.
“No—” He gasps. “—now.”
He thinks he’s going to die, I realize as a tear escapes down my cheek. He can’t die—it was supposed to be me.
I drown out the noise of shouts and gunshots, focusing on his strained face.
“I lied to you, back in étretat—I wasn’t always alone, not really.
” He’s fighting to stay conscious, hanging on every word, and it only spurs me on.
“I had a brother. We met when I was ten, but he was the only family I ever knew.”
“N-Noah.”
A sob catches in my throat. “Yes, Noah. He… died in Chelyabinsk, saving my life. It’s how I got this scar, and it’s why Raffaele wanted to get rid of me.
” I gingerly brush that loose lock of hair back from his forehead, beaded with sweat.
“It was like a shock to the system, I think—they all expected me to be a good soldier and all I wanted was m-my brother back.” I blink rapidly as my vision goes bleary.
“You were… never a soldier.”
“I know that now.”
Graham’s throat works, frustration clear on his features as he struggles to get his next words out.
“I—I didn’t recognize you at first, but I saw you that night in Russia—” A cough wracks his body.
I hold him tight. “—you… you didn’t—” He hisses in a shuddering breath. “—look like someone without a soul.”
A soulless tool, a good soldier. Everything I’ve latched onto were simply more false identities. He’s always seen parts of myself that I couldn’t.
“You did all this to keep the ISA from falling to the Consultant,” I whisper hoarsely. “You could’ve sold the silver bullet or given it to Raffaele, but you chose this. Graham, you’re the hero of the story.” A laugh escapes, but it sounds more like a croak.
He shakes his head. “In the end—” His chest sputters noiselessly. “—all I cared about was being the hero for you.”
My heart cracks. A thousand questions rise to the surface.
His eyes begin to lose focus again. Panic shoots down my spine. His fingers fall away from my forearm.
“Graham,” I whisper, voice frantic. “Rome or Kyoto?”
The corner of his mouth lifts an almost imperceptible fraction. A thousand angry bees fill my working ear.
“Sloane, I?—”
His eyelids shut, whatever he was about to say next lost to a terrible rasping noise where his breath should be.
Warm, viscous crimson pools around my fingers and creeps across the top of my hand until I can’t see where I end and the blood begins.
The floor is frozen asphalt. Trees surround us where walls should be.
“Graham? Graham? Rome or Kyoto, please,” I repeat, silently begging his eyes to shoot open again.
It’s not supposed to happen like this, I think as the bees begin to drown out the sound of my own heartbeat. I’m the one that’s supposed to die.
I don’t recognize the new voice at first. It’s muffled and twisted, like they’re speaking underwater.
Hands yank my shoulders back. I wrench them away until something snaps.
My fingers fumble for my gun next, but they’re slick and the weight of Graham’s body keeps me pinned to the floor.
I aim, blinking rapidly, a single hot, wet trail escaping from the corner of my right eye and cutting through the gore streaking my face.
Illuminated by waning candlelight, Jones grins at me. Her gloved hands are raised in the air.
She’s surrounded by uniformed men and women, some having already ripped off their helmets and goggles, CTSFO emblazoned on their kevlar vests.
Counter Terrorist Specialist Firearms Officer, my mind mechanically answers.
The UK’s version of SWAT. I don’t react at first. I’m not sure I can.
The sheer amount of adrenaline is begging for another fight.
Trees behind them warp and distort, two realities clashing.
“Sloane,” she says, eyes flicking warily to Graham. “Can I help?”
I’m only able to read her lips. I lower my weapon and tilt my head like she’s speaking a language I don’t recognize. Her knees hit the ballroom floor beside him. I have to force myself to stay calm.
“Sloane,” she says again, “I have paramedic training.”
The buzzing recedes.
I jump back like Graham burned me, maneuvering out from underneath his body, and allow a pair of arms to haul me to my feet. Several people assist Jones as she begins to bark orders. Someone dumps a bag next to her. She rips it open, tearing into a package of what I recognize to be combat gauze.
I stand there, numb, watching them work, Graham’s blood dripping from both hands. It’s only a few minutes before my will loses the battle against my body and I drop to my knees, emptying my stomach on the floor.
Leaning back on my haunches, the partially clotted cut on my thigh reopening with a scream, I give myself a firm slap. Trees appear in my vision. Another slap, the blow to my injured jaw making me gasp. The trees vanish.
My knuckles dig into my chest. I pound and pound and pound.
Noah is long dead. I’m not in Russia.
I’m in Scotland, watching the only person left on Earth that matters to me fight for his life.
There isn’t a reality that I want to be in right now.
I stare at the puddle of vomit, glistening under candlelight. The gun I can’t seem to let go of. My trembling fingers caked with Graham’s blood. The soles of all the boots surrounding me. Every breath is agony, my cracked rib shrieking now that I have no energy to ignore it.
Not alone, I think, and yet as alone as I’ve ever been.
I’m unsure how long it’s been once he’s hauled onto a gurney. Jones yells about transporting him to the closest hospital, that there’s no room for me on the helicopter with the size of the stretcher, and all I can manage is a nod.
Everything is hollow once he’s rolled away. Caved in, like an animal carcass that’s been picked clean.
It should’ve been me.
It should’ve been me.
The words I tortured myself with for months after Noah’s death. Truer than ever.
A group of officers part. Manon, her hands cuffed behind her back, is now conscious and glancing frantically from person to person. Several uniforms surround her, like she’s a mythical spectre who will vanish if left unattended.
“Graham?” she’s mumbling, accent thicker than usual. “Unhand me—where is my brother?”
That’s when I get really, really angry.
I toss my gun to the floor. Red floods my vision. Heads turn at the sound, but I’m a steam train off the tracks. Inevitable.
My fist connects with her nose, blood spurting on impact, and I’m grateful to the officers reaching to hold her upright. It’ll make this easier.
Her skull whips backward. I grab her hair in a ball and wrench it forward, sending a knee to her stomach and an elbow up into her already broken nose.
I take a few steps back and reach in my bra for the brass knuckles I was saving for a rainy day.
The officers’ eyes widen, unsure how to react.
Two strong arms wrap around my torso, pinning my own arms to my sides, and I immediately begin writhing. The brass knuckles fall beside my feet with a clink.
“Hey, kid,” Carmine’s voice grunts in my bad ear, loud enough for me to catch it with the good one. “Relax.”
My elbow makes contact with his gut. He groans but doesn’t release me, instead lifting me into the air.
“Never tell an angry woman to relax,” I snap.
His arms tighten until they’re about to bruise. Reluctantly, I stop twisting, dangling like an angry ragdoll. Deep beneath the grief, I’m grateful for his intervention. That’s not who I want to be. Not anymore.
“I have no problem with cuffin’ you,” he replies. “Keep that in mind when I put you down.”
Carmine slowly sets me on my feet, pausing a few moments before fully releasing me.
I straighten my kevlar vest and my dress, shooting him a scowl over my shoulder.
He’s in the same tactical uniform as everyone else, sweat dripping down his ruddy face, chest heaving from the effort of restraining me.
He wipes his forehead with his glove and motions to the officers holding Manon. “Take her to the van.”
“Wait,” I bark.
Carmine gives me a warning look. I approach in a few strides, gripping her crimson face and forcing her to meet my eyes. She’s barely conscious, blinking rapidly from all the blood in her eyes, but something tells me she’ll remember this.
“You tortured and murdered your brother for power, and you got nothing in return. I want you to think about that when you’re stuck behind bars with all the new enemies you just made,” I hiss right in her face.
“I may be nothing but a worthless pawn, but you and I are one and the same—survivors. The difference is that I still have my humanity.”
Her lips manage to form a scowl. She spews a glob of crimson spit at the floor between us in response.
Carmine and I watch as she’s dragged away. The ballroom floor is streaked with fresh and half-dried blood, wax from the dying candles overhead weeping like scalding rain. Officers putter in and out.
I’m staring at one of the small patches of spotless polish when he speaks.
“You left quite the mess outside.” He shifts from foot to foot. “I think I might’ve seen a man with a heel in his eye.”
I shrug.
Carmine scratches the scruff on his jaw. “You two did good, kid.”
I instinctively smooth my hair and straighten. The guard’s blood from the hallway, smeared across my face, has begun to dry.
“They would’ve all gotten away if you hadn’t sent that message,” he continues.
My voice is thin and flat as I reply, “It was still too late.”
We’re silent for several minutes, the abrupt exhaustion washing over me with brutal force.
I’d almost want to sleep if it weren’t for the knowledge that I have fresh material to haunt my dreams. I’ll see Graham’s pale face, hear his struggling for breath, smell the metallic, sickly sweet fetor in the air. Maybe I’ll never sleep again.
Carmine rubs the back of his neck.
“Let’s get you in a van, kid. You look like Rambo.”