He twisted the hand portion of his prosthetic and removed it. He stuck it in a pocket, then took out another attachment that was affixed to his belt. It resembled a hand, but with yellow-white plastic fingers that barely hid the wires below. He twisted it onto the end of his prosthetic forearm. Peyton watched in wonder as the fingers twitched. The stump must have given tiny impulses to the prosthetic, which electronically controlled the hand and fingers. For the first time in her life, Peyton saw her brother use a real left hand. She wondered if the Citium had leveraged this gift to gain control over him. She couldn’t imagine what he had been through, or what his road back would be like. He was a classic victim of Stockholm Syndrome—when captives come to trust and, in some cases, join their captors.
Another series of explosions rocked the building. The lights flickered, and everyone froze. If the power went out, it was over—and if the building was hit, they’d be trapped down here, crushed.
“Keep working,” Peyton said. “I’m going above to radio them, tell them to not hit the building.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lin said. “If there are Citium troops, I’ll deal with them.”
All eyes turned to Charlotte. She moved to stand beside Andrew. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 127
The lights flickered in the stairwell as Peyton pounded up the stairs. The elevators were either broken or had been shut down.
Her mother lagged behind her. The woman had always been in excellent health, but she was in her late seventies.
Another explosion rattled the metal staircase, nearly throwing Peyton off her feet. Lin grabbed the handrail and braced herself on the wall. “Go on, darling, I’m right behind you.”
“No you’re not. We’re staying together, Mom.”
She wrapped her arm around the lithe woman, and they climbed the stairs together, the bombs exploding outside as they marched.
At the ground floor landing, Peyton paused when she saw a thin film of smoke issuing forth from the crack beneath the door. She placed her hand on the door, felt warmth, then pulled the bottom of her shirt around her hand and lightly touched the handle. It was too hot for her to touch.
We’re trapped.
Conner crouched over his brother’s limp body. Desmond’s face was bloodied and bruised. He took his brother in his arms and hugged him tight, rocking.
“Des,” he whispered.
Right after Desmond had been knocked out, the air raids had struck the building. It sounded as though a large portion of it had collapsed, and fire was consuming the rest. The flames were closing in, marching down the hallway toward them. The soldiers had left. Rats fleeing a sinking ship—or more precisely, a burning island.
Conner had been too young to remember the fire that had permanently scarred him, but the burns had left him terrified of fire. He didn’t even like eating in restaurants with a fireplace, wouldn’t set foot inside a home with one. The sight of a large open flame paralyzed him. He watched the blaze clawing away at the building, consuming more of it each second.
He was alone now, with his brother, in much the same way their lives had started: in the face of an unstoppable fire. Thirty-three years ago, it had been Conner who had lain helplessly as the fire advanced. Desmond hadn’t saved him. There was something fitting about leaving him, completing the cycle. But Conner was ashamed of the thought. Those dark impulses were exactly the thing Desmond had tried to help him control. Tried and failed. He was what he was.
The fire was closer now. Conner felt himself start to shiver, as if he were naked in the Arctic. The force rattling his body, however, was not cold, but fear—an overwhelming, petrifying force.
He heard footsteps behind him, but Conner barely turned his head. Yuri squatted down in front of him. His face was bloody, one eye swollen shut.
He examined Conner, searching for a wound, confusion clouding his face when he found none.
His voice was hoarse, perhaps from the smoke inhalation. “What’s happened?”
“I can’t,” Conner whispered.
Yuri glanced at the flames closing on them, seemed to understand.
“You must, Conner. Every man faces his demons. Yours is here. Will you cower and let it best you? Now is your chance. Show me what you really are.”
Chapter 128
On the landing of the smoke-filled stairwell, in the glow of the emergency lights, Peyton ripped her clothes off. First the body armor, then the breathable mesh Kevlar undershirt.
She knelt over the garments, clad only in her bra and khaki pants, and drew the knife from a sheath on her belt. She cut two long strips of mesh from the short-sleeved shirt, wrapped one around her mouth, and handed the other to her mother. The older woman followed Peyton’s lead.
Peyton pulled the shirt back on, and wrapped the body armor around her left arm, prepping it to use as an insulated shield against the fire. She made sure her comm unit was still affixed.
She crouched down and turned her back to her mother. “Climb on.”
“Honey.”
“Mom, do it. We don’t have time to argue.”
Lin Shaw exhaled as she stepped closer to her youngest daughter. Her voice seemed to slip deeper into her British accent as she muttered, “Well, there’s no need to be rude.”
With her mother’s arms around her neck, Peyton rose, hit the door handle with her armor-wrapped hand, and rushed into the hall.
The smoke was thick, but the flames were mostly confined to studs in the walls and the furniture burning in the offices. She turned a corner and saw the lobby. The wooden reception desk blazed like a bonfire. The wind rushed in, feeding the fire endless amounts of the oxygen it needed to burn. Waves of heat pushed deeper into the structure, past Peyton, like the tide lapping at a beach. But beyond the desk, beyond the shattered glass windows, the darkness of night loomed. Freedom. She could make it.
Peyton pressed on, putting one foot in front of the other. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. She felt a new admiration for Desmond: days ago, he had carried her father out of a burning building at Aralsk-7. Now it was Peyton’s turn, and she pushed with every ounce of energy in her body.