The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)

For a moment, nothing happened. I considered the darkness all around me, and a swell of horror rushed through my stomach—what if all the electricity to the basement really was already gone? The little elevator had worked, but it had been a while since I’d gotten out of it. What if I’d gotten this far, only to be separated from freedom by an immovable steel barrier?

The thoughts all shot through my head in the space of a minute. And then the door hummed, revealing a little gap in the ceiling that grew as the door shuddered back farther. I glimpsed the night above the dying lawn along a looping part of the drive away from the house. Relief rolled over me, but my eyes probed the shadows as the door opened, looking for any sign of Desmond. Then I risked climbing partway out to see if I could spot her lying in wait—there was almost no way she could know this was where I would be coming from. As my eyes came up level with the lawn, I became aware of the red glow from behind me, contrasting the deep, dark shadows.

There was no sign of Desmond in my immediate range of vision, no glitter of eyes, dark shadows, or glints off weaponry in my line of sight. But a vehicle parked some ways away from Owen’s car must have been hers… and it was still here. I scanned the area again, paying close attention to any overlooked detail. Maybe she thought I was still inside? At the very least, she was probably camping by one of the doors, looking toward the mansion… I had an advantage in that she was unlikely to be looking out into the grounds for me.

I’d been resisting the idea, but now I had to turn to the house, and I paused at the sight. Half of it was on fire—the half we were just coming out from under. The rest of it was still intact, seeming strangely whole, as though nothing had gone wrong there at all. The heat from the blaze touched my cheeks, and little wisps of ash floated through the air.

I continued to search for Desmond among the various lawn ornaments, looking withered and unkempt by now, but I couldn’t see any sign of her. Satisfied, at least for the moment, I headed back down to retrieve my first charge. I started with Tim, and moved him out among some ornamental bushes a few feet farther away, back from the house and the fire, completely clearing him from the hidden driveway. Then I went back to grab Owen.

It took considerably longer to get the man’s unconscious body the rest of the way up the slope, especially as I was constantly checking over my shoulder, paying attention to every time my neck prickled and every sound around me. When I finally had him hidden, I fell back on the grass, my chest heaving and sweat making my clothes stick to me. I let my breath catch, coughing periodically when I got a small bit of smoke. After a couple of minutes, I picked myself up off the ground. I had to find a way—one of the cars—to get them out of there.

I moved toward the two vehicles sitting on the drive, slowing to a stop when I took in the full extent of the flames devouring Ashabee’s house. They were magnificent and terrifying, spilling from the double doors at the front, the giant, opulent manor taking on the form of an angry monster erupting from the ground. I shivered, thinking again of the guard’s burning face, then forcing myself to think of the house instead: all the time we’d spent here, disgusted by the unnecessary grandeur, continually nagged by the figure who headed the house, a brilliant Patrian weapons designer who also happened to be bigoted and abusive… Even with all the pain that had gone on here, the disgust I felt for Ashabee, I had never pictured it ending like this.

I felt the weariness building up in my body again and promised myself I would move in just a moment. For now, I stood and watched the manor as it burned.





8





Viggo





I pushed up the drive, noting the two cars in the driveway, drawing nearer to the lone figure who stood back a ways on the looping driveway, watching the house burn. Red reflected off the patches of Violet’s scalp, shining brightly under her crop of ever-growing hair. I had already exhaled in relief, preparing to stop, when I saw someone step out from the bushes just to Violet’s right.

It took a moment for me to register the gun the person carried in her hands.

Slapping my foot on the gas, I angled the car toward the figure. Even through the windows, I heard the crack of gunfire—Violet turned, her head flicking toward the figure, and then she was falling, toppling to the ground.

“NO!” I roared, my fists clenching the wheel, my foot trying to stomp even harder, even though the gas pedal was down as far as it could go. The headlights cut over the figure, and I caught a glimpse of Desmond’s eyes going wide as we barreled down on her. She flung herself right, away from the car, but by then we were almost upon her, my rage overshadowing all sense of reason.

It grabbed control of my body, working with the muscle memory and my reflexes. My hand shot down, grabbing the emergency brake. I swirled the wheel one way and then ground the emergency brake up, locking up the wheels. The right rear end slid around, straight into Desmond’s path of escape.

I heard the thunk as the side of the car impacted her body, a dark part of me feeling a savage rush of satisfaction to know I had hit her. Then it was gone, and my foot was on the brake, bringing us to a shuddering halt. I frantically threw open the door, practically slipping on the dew-slick grass as I rushed over to where Violet lay.

My mind was going wild, unable to cope with the thought of seeing her lifeless, broken form lying on the ground. Not again, not again, not again, it screamed, the thought trying to force its way out of my vocal cords and into the night in a primal howl.

I clamped it back, dropping to my knees next to Violet’s still form. Her eyes were closed, her face and body lax. I stared at the bullet holes, unable to comprehend their perfection and the lack of blood. All I could see was death clinging to her, while Ms. Dale’s words rattled in my ears.

Then Violet coughed, her eyes snapping open wide as she tugged at something bulky under her shirt. Frowning, I lifted up the edges, and saw the bulletproof vest resting on her skin—and the two bullets lodged in it. I carefully eased my hands up under her shirt to her shoulders, releasing the nylon tabs that held the top of the vest in place, and then the ones at her sides. Violet gasped again, giving me an appreciative nod as I carefully pulled the vest off.

I knew exactly how she felt: getting hit with a gun from such a close range was the equivalent of getting kicked in the chest by a horse. But she was alive. God, she was alive.

“Desmond?” she asked, her breathing ragged. She held out a hand to me, and I gently hoisted her up into a sitting position.

“Ms. Dale?” I called over my shoulder. “How’s Desmond?”