Ten more paces.
As I follow them, I notice the hallway sags at the center and the floorboards shake. Not just because me, Texas, and Beretta weigh over six hundred pounds combined. They feel springy and thin. Drafts sweep past from all directions. They’re cool and smell alpine-clean compared to the musty warmth of the room. And this place has, like, the opposite of soundproofing. I hear everything. Passing a door, I catch voices arguing. Marcus’s room, no question. Then I hear laughter—that’s Bastian. Finally, I hear the steady meter of polished conversation—Jode.
It’s good to hear them. I can barely sense them through the cuff. Too much crap in my blood. But I knew they’d be here. We left Jotunheimen together, the four of us. Only one of us stayed behind.
Good job, Blake. You went three whole minutes without thinking about her.
We reach the bathroom and the hood comes off. Beretta posts up at the bathroom door. Texas makes sure I don’t rip the sink off the wall and … what? Throw it through the tiny blacked-out window? It’d be cool if I had superstrength. I check in with what I do have, searching for the sword, for Riot, and nope. Still nothing.
Texas waits behind me with the hood as I wash my hands. After being in that empty room for so long, everything is interesting and my senses feel heightened, acutely tuned to all of it. Freezing-cold tap water. Rust stains seeping into the drain. The antiseptic smell of the soap. That’s all I get before the hood’s back on and the world goes back to black. My hands are refastened with the disposable plastic ties. Texas and Beretta flank me again. Time to make the trip back to the room.
I picture it as we go. Turning from the bathroom into a narrow hallway with carpets worn bare at the center. Passing a small living room with cheap furniture, pizza boxes, maybe some spooky-looking government people sitting there, watching the kid in the hood walk by. I feel like I’m being watched. Which makes sense. There’s only one reason for all this security, and for this completely unethical debriefing. This was never about money, or international diplomacy, or the press. Cordero must’ve gotten wind of something unusual happening in Norway, maybe from satellite photos or drone images. How much about this did she already know before I started talking?
Texas’s grip clamps down on my elbow, jarring me to a halt. “Hold here. Do not open your mouth.”
I think I hear an argument. I strain to listen. Not Marcus this time. Who? Samrael? The Kindred? “What’s going on?”
Somewhere a few paces ahead of me, Beretta swears. “Move,” he says. “Get him back in there.”
I’m yanked backward, toward the bathroom, when I hear her.
“You don’t need to push me! I’m going!”
It’s her.
Daryn.
I slam my weight into Texas. We crash against the wall, the whole place shuddering. He tries to wrap me up, but I throw an elbow, catch him in the nose, I think, and that gives me a second. One second to reach up and yank the hood off, and she’s there. Standing inside the front door, between two men in black tactical gear, framed by the rectangle of sunlight behind her.
She looks right at me, her eyes flaring with relief.
She’s here.
CHAPTER 29
Texas recovers and lunges at me. There’s nowhere for me to go. My hands are tied, this hallway is tight, and he weighs almost a hundred pounds more than I do.
My forehead crashes into the pine paneling. My vision cuts out. Everything is a blur as I’m shoved back, back, back. Then I’m in the bathroom again, where Texas jams his forearm under my jaw and pins me to the wall.
“Stupid little shit,” Beretta growls behind him as he yanks the door shut.
“Okay,” Texas says, taking a second to catch his breath. A line of blood trickles from one of his nostrils. “Okay, listen up.” He leans in, inches from my face. “You listening, Blake? ’Cause you’re gonna need to hear this.”
Daryn is outside. She’s here.
I nod.
“Me and my buddies,” Texas continues, “we’ve got this informal code going between us. Whenever we see or hear somethin’ we shouldn’t have, which happens a lot, Blake, happens a whole lot, you know what we call it?”
He’s leading me somewhere. Normally I’d try to figure out where but there’s no chance of me thinking clearly. She’s right outside.
“Look at me, Blake.” Texas digs his forearm into my throat. “Do you know what we call it? We say it’s a gold-medal moment. Not sure how it started, but that’s what it is. Whenever anybody says those two words, gold medal, we know we’re in the presence of information that we should never talk about. Gold-medal moments go to the grave.” He narrows his eyes. “You hear what I’m sayin’?”