Forged

I don’t want it to be enough, but Bree’s stare is murderous. “Put the gun on the floor—slowly—and slide it over.”

 

 

“Bree, it’s me. You have to believe that. I know everything about you. How you don’t sleep well without the sound of waves, and have a birthmark on your hip, and are double-jointed. You’re the best shot I know and stubborn as hell. Strong, too. So damn strong. You used to love herons, but now loons are your favorite, and you can call to them with your hands. I’ve seen you do it. And purple’s your favorite color, right? You said so in the Tap Room once. Deep, dark, almost black purp—”

 

“He got all these answers from me!” the Forgery screams. “He’s wearing the damn uniform. Shoot him while you still have a chance!”

 

“Shoot him. He’s—”

 

“The gun!” she demands. “Slide it over now.”

 

I consider firing at the Forgery, but my weapon is held in surrender, barrel pointed at the ceiling, whereas hers is already aimed at my chest. If I do anything other than what she demands, I’m pretty sure I’ll end up dead.

 

I slide it over. She tucks it in the back of her pants.

 

“Now a few more steps,” she says, motioning with the gun. “Then sit on your hands.”

 

I shuffle backward—slowly, so she has no reason to fire—and lower myself to the floor.

 

When she’s satisfied I’m no longer a risk, she approaches the Forgery. Her head is cocked to the side. She’s still not positive. She’s looking for the answer on his face, in his eyes. My gaze trails over Bree’s waist. Her belt is loaded with ammunition but not a single flashlight. She doesn’t stand a chance of identifying him by naked eye. Not with the flashing alarm, the chaotic pulses of red.

 

“Bree,” Forged Me says, drawing a deep breath. “Thank you. I thought you’d . . . I didn’t know if . . .”

 

She steps closer. Too close. He’s going to get the gun from her waistband if she’s not careful. Her hand goes fondly to his left wrist. She slides her hand beneath his shirt, reaching toward his elbow, pulling him nearer. He seems to forget everything else as she offers him her lips. My pulse is raging. I scramble to my feet, but just before their lips meet, a gunshot rips the air.

 

Forged Me collapses against the wall, an arm clutched around his stomach where Bree holds her gun. The gun I’d forgotten about as I watched her move to kiss him. The gun she fired right into his gut.

 

“You bastard,” she says. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t know?”

 

She lets go of his arm and he slides to the floor in a heap, his breaths shallow and growing quicker.

 

Bree holds the gun I surrendered out to me, grip first.

 

“How could you tell?”

 

“His arm,” she says. “There were no burn scars.”

 

I touch my left forearm, glance back at her. Her lip is split from when the Order member hit her. I swear a bruise is already surfacing on her neck.

 

“Bree, I—”

 

“Not yet,” she says, shaking the gun’s grip at me. “Not until we’re out of this.”

 

It’s like that moment I pulled her from the Catherine and knew exactly what she wanted to say, only reversed. At least for the two of us, and especially right now, words aren’t necessary.

 

I take the gun from her and risk one last look at the dying Forgery as we flee the cell block.

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTEEN

 

 

ONE OF SEPTEMBER’S KEY CARDS gets us through the door at the bottom of the stairwell and into a warehouse. Darting through towering rows of crates and past frantic Order members, we keep our heads up and our posture confident. No one stops us. In uniform, we’re just another pair of workers. Still, I worry about how long we have until the control room relays Bree’s description to the Order members down here.

 

The cavernous warehouse opens onto the equally as cavernous shipping center. The water channel is in front of us, with long wharfs on either side, each sprouting docks like tree limbs. Enormous vessels are docked at the first few, making it impossible to see if the other docks house smaller boats, or no boats at all. Directly to the right, dock 1B is swarming with activity. It looks like the giant rig there was in the process of being loaded with cargo when the alarm went off. Now, half the crew is still trying to load it while the others run around, pointing between the boat and the warehouse, barking orders.

 

“Dammit, where is Farrester?” I hear one Order member shout.

 

“He’s not answering. Either the com lines are down or . . .”

 

I can’t make out any more as I tail Bree down the left wharf. We’ve passed two docks—1A and 2A—when something explodes behind us. I glance over my shoulder. Dock 1B is in shambles. A hole has blown through the hull of the boat secured beside it. Smoke billows. A shipment crate tumbles into the channel.

 

“Clipper’s work,” Bree shouts, breaking into a run.

 

“He’s here?”

 

I’m guessing the supposed tracking device Bree’s fake inspection team spotted on the boat was never a tracking device.

 

A speckling of bullets hits the wall behind us. We’ve finally been identified.

 

Bree lengthens her strides, and I do the same. About halfway up the wharf, she turns onto a dock and leaps into a waiting boat. It’s small. Minuscule compared to the shipping rigs closer to the warehouse, but it has the Franconian emblem on the side and something about its shape tells me it will be fast. I jump on after Bree and it roars to life, tearing away from the dock.

 

“Wait! Emma!” I say, crouching down so I don’t lose my footing. “And Harvey!”

 

“Harvey’s alive?” Bree says.

 

“Like always, you’re out of the loop, Nox,” Sammy shouts. He’s standing near the nose of the boat, hands gripping the wheel. “They’re both below.” He glances at me. “Blaine?”

 

All I can do is shake my head.

 

“Faster!” Clipper urges. I didn’t even notice him when we jumped on, but he’s in a seat beside Sammy, a bulky package in his left hand.

 

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