Forged

“And now?” I ask.

 

Emma drops beside Sammy and pulls one of his arms behind her neck. “And now Sammy needs medical attention, so you two will have to do it for me.”

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-FIVE

 

 

EMMA’S CHIP GETS US INSIDE and up the necessary stairwells. When Bree and I burst onto Frank’s floor, the few workers present step out of our way without a fight. Something is changing. It’s as if they know Frank’s grip is almost exhausted. They are deciding whose graces they want to be in when the smoke clears.

 

His office is locked, and this is the one door that doesn’t register Emma’s chip. I throw my shoulder into the door as I twist the knob. Slam my palm against it. “Come on!” Not now. We can’t hit a dead end here.

 

“Gray!” Bree shoves me aside and aims where the teeth of the latch are hidden within the wood. She fires once, twice, and the locking mechanism gives.

 

The office is empty.

 

We walk in with our guns up, scanning the room. Papers lay scattered across the floor. A desk drawer hangs open as though files were grabbed in a hurry.

 

“Got it,” Bree says. She’s found the section of shelving Emma mentioned, although I can’t imagine how Emma discovered it. Maybe she visited Frank’s office and found it already open, or caught someone in the act of coming or going.

 

Bree pushes, and the section recedes, then slides behind the rest of the shelves to reveal a second office. The floor is slate gray and dull, and a narrow corridor branches off to the left. A series of surveillance screens hang on the walls, currently showing the square downtown. Without the Forgeries, the fighting is more evenly matched. There are no cushioned chairs in this office, no elaborate drapes or grand glass windows. The only decorative touch is a picture frame propped up beside the lone computer. The woman in the photo looks uncannily familiar, though I can’t remember ever meeting her.

 

A gunshot deafens me in the tight quarters.

 

I duck, hands cradling my head. A second blast—or maybe it’s the same bullet—strikes a screen, which crackles and goes dead. Frank darts from behind a large filing cabinet and races down the hallway. I send a bullet after him. It hits his leg. He staggers around a corner, firing blindly back. It is by sheer luck that the bullets hit the wall and not me.

 

I round the corner only to see him turning another.

 

“Damn, this place is big. Bree?” I turn. She’s not behind me. “Bree!”

 

As I backtrack, my lungs seem to shrink. I all but fall into the secondary office. She’s on the floor, leaning against the wall.

 

I drop to my knees and scramble to her.

 

“Are you hit?” My hands are on her, checking her face, her torso.

 

“Just grazed,” she says, wincing as my hands move to her arms. “Right there.”

 

I pull back. It’s then that I notice the tear on the upper arm of her jacket, the blood. And the fact that her tank is shorter than it used to be. A pale rag, torn from the hem of her shirt, is in her opposite hand. She was trying to secure the material over the wound, slow the bleeding.

 

“Go,” she says. “I’ll be right on your heels.”

 

“We stay together.”

 

“Gray . . .”

 

“No. Just stop.” I snatch the rag from her and tie it around her bicep. “Good?”

 

“Good.”

 

I help her to her feet—she cringes—and we take off down the corridor. It forks and branches often. Frank must be able to access half of Union Central through these hallways.

 

We turn or stay straight as he did. The path is made obvious by the blood from his leg—smeared against walls he paused to lean on, splattered against the floor where it fell as he ran.

 

Another turn and we’re facing a narrow stairwell. I ascend half the flight and look over my shoulder. Bree’s leaning against the wall, shivering.

 

“I’ll be right behind you,” she promises. “Go. Please?”

 

I slow, take a step toward her.

 

“Go!”

 

My feet carry me up the rest of the stairs. I shoulder my way through a door, and it bangs open into blinding light. I’m on the roof. A helicopter is backlit by the sun, the blades already alive. My bangs whip into my eyes as rooftop rubble swirls at my feet. Squinting against the wind, I see motion in the front of the rig. I fire and the pilot goes still. Another Order member leaps from the rear, and my bullet finds him before his feet hit the roof. No more movement.

 

“Frank!”

 

I’m not climbing into that helicopter. He’s going to come to me. In the open. Where I can see him and fire a shot easily.

 

“Quick to run now that your Forgeries are dead and no one’s willing to stand and protect you, huh?”

 

Still nothing.

 

“There’s no way out except through me.”

 

With his hands held in surrender, Frank steps from the helicopter and onto the roof . “Gray,” he says. “The unHeisted boy. Here to put a bullet in me?”

 

“Believe me, you deserve worse.”

 

“For trying to protect people? They need to be told how to think, what to do. Just look at them.” He waves in the vague direction of the square. “They are tearing one another apart. People can’t be trusted with their own two hands, let alone their minds.”

 

“Enough!”

 

“Are you going to shoot me, then? Is that how the fugitive for freedom frees his people? By killing the one person who’s kept them safe?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I pull the trigger.

 

The hammer strikes.

 

But no bullet flies.

 

Is it jammed? No, I’m out. This is the Forgery’s gun from the training field. I didn’t know how many rounds I was carrying, hadn’t been counting as I fired.

 

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