THIRTY-THREE
CRAW CURSES.
“Blaine, wait!” Emma is shouting, running after me, the bedsheets still clutched about her. I don’t stop.
“Blaine!” she shouts again. She catches up to me and grabs my arm. “What on earth has gotten into you?”
I turn to face her. I’m angry, so very angry, but I need to stay in character. I clench my teeth.
“Why did you do that?” she asks. “I’ve never seen you hit someone. Ever. Did . . .” But then she trails off. Her eyes are locked on mine, searching for something. They work their way over my face, beginning with my eyebrows and moving down toward my jaw. She reaches out one hand and places it against my cheek. Her eyes grow wide as she lets a finger slide over my nose, trace the contours of my chin.
“Oh my gosh,” she gasps, pulling her hand back. “Gray.”
I have no idea how she knows, but she does. I’m about to lose it, explode right in the hallway, and so I turn and start walking.
Emma grabs my arm. “Gray, please. It’s not like that.”
“Like what, Emma?” I shout, spinning to face her. She backs away from me, almost fearfully.
“We . . . we thought you were dead. Everyone did,” she says. “They said you were there when the Rebels attacked, that you and Blaine were killed.”
“Well, we weren’t!”
“You think it was easy for me?” Water builds in her eyes and a small tear rolls its way over the beauty mark on her cheek. Even when I’m furious it hurts to see her cry.
“Do you think it was for me? You have no clue what I’ve been through to get back here, Emma. And how do you repay me? You go sleep with Craw.”
“That’s not fair,” she says.
“Fair? I’m the one being unfair? I never stopped thinking about you and you moved on in a matter of days.”
She stands there helpless, clutching the pale sheets to the front of her chest and covering skin that Craw, but not I, has seen. She was supposed to be mine. I hers. We were supposed to be like the birds. She reaches up and brushes the tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“I never moved on, Gray,” she says. “Physically maybe, because I was lost and heartbroken, but never truly. Please don’t run from me. Don’t leave again.” She reaches for me, but I pull away.
“Did Craw give you my message at least?”
She looks down at the carpet. “Yes.”
I’m thinking about how this makes it even worse, when there is a crackle in my ear.
“Soon,” Bree whispers. “Get ready.”
“I have to go,” I say.
“Don’t,” Emma begs. “I’m so sorry that you had to see me like this, that I even did this, but please don’t go.”
“I need some time.”
“For what?”
“To decide if you deserve a second chance.”
All those times that I felt things for Bree, anytime there was even the slightest feeling of affection growing, I’d brushed it aside for Emma, told myself it wasn’t real. I’d done nothing but think of her, attempt to get back to her, and she’d forgotten me almost instantly.
“Everyone deserves a second chance, Gray,” she says, the tears still streaming down her face.
“Maybe,” I say, and then I turn away from her. The diversion is coming and I need to be ready.
I head back to the room where Harvey is being held and watch the guards pace outside it. I stand around a corner, waiting. I feel oddly vulnerable, weak from my encounter with Emma and defenseless since I’ve been stripped of my rifle.
Suddenly there’s a large crack that cuts through Union Central, a screeching static on the intercom. Bree’s signal. My cue.
“What was that?” one of the guards asks. The others shake their heads. And then it starts, softly at first, like the pitter-patter of an evening rainstorm. It is delicate and patient, and then it builds, the notes getting louder, the melody stronger.
“Is that . . . music?”
“It sounds like it.”
“I haven’t heard music since I was a kid. It’s beautiful.”
Even I am in awe. It is like nothing I have ever witnessed, so much more powerful than the few drums or flutes played about Claysoot campfires. It cuts into my soul, stops my breathing. I am suspended in time. The music courses through the Union. It fills the hallways, projects into the training field outside. I look out the window behind me, and find everyone frozen as they look into the sky for the source of the music.
“It’s playing everywhere. Even outside,” a guard says.
“Frank is going to be furious,” says another, and as he does, the internal alarm system goes off. Red lights flash. Sirens blare. They sound identical to the ones I heard from the rooftop during AmWest’s attack.
There is a voice this time though, audible in the hallways. “Code Red Lockdown,” it declares without an ounce of emotion. “Order members report for duty. Code Red Lockdown.” The voice continues, along with the blaring alarm, but neither can fully drown out the music.
Order members begin to flood the hallways, racing left and right, scrambling into action. Harvey’s guards abandon their post and as they race by, I trip one. I grab his handgun and then use the weapon to strike his head. He crumples to the ground and the others, swept up in the panicked hallway, don’t even notice their fallen companion. I drag the unconscious guard to Harvey’s room and use his wrist to open the door.
Harvey stands before me, looking phenomenally better than when I’d last seen him. His nose is still swollen, but the medics have fixed his shoulder and given him a clean shirt. “Mozart,” he exclaims. “Used to listen to this overture all the time when I worked in the labs.”
“How long do you think we have ’til they override the system?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe? Thirty, tops.”
“Then let’s get going.”
Union Central has descended into utter chaos. Workers tear through the corridors, filing into elevators that will drop them into the lockdown safe chambers. Order members attempt to report for duty as the intercom voice demands. No one notices us cutting down staircases and into rooms we should not be entering.
Harvey leads, turning down now-empty hallways and waving his wrist before panels that have not had their access codes changed. We end up in a windowless corridor far underground. It is pristine, though, with glass panels and shiny floors. We pass a section Harvey refers to as his old station. It has been abandoned in the uproar, workers seeking refuge in the underground shelters, but various weapons and machinery can be seen lying on metal tables, illuminated screens lit up with numbers and graphics.
“This one,” Harvey says, approaching a door with another silver access box. He waves his wrist but the unit flashes red. He tries again, but to no avail.
“You boys need assistance?” a voice asks from behind us. A tall, thin woman in a white lab coat stands in the hallway. There is a red triangle atop her chest. I instantly point the gun at her, and she raises her hands.
“I’m Christie. Ryder contacted me, said you might need some help?”
Harvey nods, and I lower my weapon.
Christie swipes us into the medical research facility and tells us she’s been working undercover for the Rebels for over a year now, reporting findings, news, and supply shipment information back to Mount Martyr.
“We had no clue about the virus,” she says as Harvey examines computer files. “It was explained to citizens as a generic shot, a precautionary measure against the winter flu season. When Ryder got the message to us that you were coming, we made sure someone gained access to this room. I wish we could offer you better information.”
“You’ve done more than enough,” I say.
Harvey finds the data he’s looking for and then locates the supposed vaccine in a steel cabinet. He takes numerous bottles while Christie packs a canvas bag with syringes and other supplies.
“So you can cultivate more when you return,” she says, handing the bag to Harvey.
“Much obliged,” he says.
The music cuts off abruptly, and then starts back up, looping from the beginning. Harvey tosses the bag to me. “We should go. You hang on to that for safekeeping.”
Something has changed in Harvey. He is confident, the nervousness gone from his face. I wonder if he is positive we will succeed, that with the vaccine acquired and the diversion still strong, we can escape Union Central easily. I hope he’s right.
“Thanks, Christie,” I shout over my shoulder as we race from the room. She waves an arm overhead and we disappear around a corner.
“Bree, we’ve got it!” I call into my mic. “Where are you? Let’s meet up and get out of here.”
“Well that’s going to be a problem, isn’t it?” My heart drops. “They’ve got Union Central in lockdown, trying to figure out who started the music. I can’t get out. You won’t be able to either. I’m guessing they think AmWest infiltrated the Union somehow. This music was supposed to create a little panic, distract them for a while, not scare them into a full blown Code Red.”
“So what do we do?” I ask as Harvey and I reach the main floors again.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Try to get out to the training field. It’s chaos outside, but if we can at least meet up, maybe we’ll figure something out.”
Harvey and I make a quick turn, heading back down the hallway where he was being held. The music finally cuts out, but the sirens continue blaring, the red lights flashing off the walls. As we near Harvey’s room, I see a figure moving beyond the corner of his doorframe. I recognize it, know who it is before his face even appears. I’m prepared to shoot him if I have to, but then a team of Order members spill into the hallway, and I realize we’re trapped. I do the only thing I can think of that might preserve our cover.
“Freeze,” I yell at Harvey, aiming the gun at his back. He looks at me in horror, but then, as Marco steps from the room, he understands.
“I caught him trying to escape in the panic,” I tell Marco.
“We wouldn’t want that to happen, now would we? Not after all you’ve done to get him back to us.” Marco smiles savagely. “I think Harvey is a bit more troublesome than we give him credit for, wouldn’t you agree, Blaine?”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll speak to Frank,” he says. “Seems best to move the execution up to tonight, take care of things before anything else happens.”
I feel my mouth fall open. “Move it up? But why? I still don’t understand why we are so quick to dispose of him. Didn’t Frank need Harvey’s help?”
I know the answer is yes. Frank wants his limitless Forgeries and he needs Harvey to get them. Unless . . .
My grip slackens on the gun. Maybe Frank solved it. Maybe in the time I’ve been away, someone in his labs wrote the right code and now Frank can make Forgery after Forgery after Forgery. Endless replications of the replicas. His voice echoes in my mind. There has been some progress since you left. We no longer need his answers.
Marco sneers at my question. “Frank doesn’t want the help of traitors. The only thing he wants from Harvey’s kind is to see them die.”
And with that, he walks up to Harvey and yanks his shoulder back out of place. Harvey cries out in pain and slumps to the ground. All I can do is stand there, helpless, knowing we’ve failed.