Michael’s fingers arch into claws, igniting my skin with pain.
“It’s ready.” Martin appears at the hangar’s opening, one hand against the metal frame . . . the other hand pointing his gun at us. At me. “We need to go.”
“A minute,” Michael says, digging in further. My vision blurs and I blink away tears.
“We don’t have—”
Pop! Pop!
Martin’s knees hit the concrete and his body slumps forward, splays flat. Michael drops his hand and we both shrink away. Blood seeps from underneath Martin, expanding in an ever-widening pool, and all I can think is: Martin’s been shot.
And immediately afterward: They’re using silencers. This isn’t just catching us. It’s an execution.
Pop! Pop!
I throw both arms over my head as bullets hit the metal siding. Something next to me shatters and I duck.
“Run!” Michael shoves me toward the hangar’s other end. “Get to the car!”
I spin around and take off, my sneakers slapping against the concrete. Behind us, someone yells and someone else answers.
Two of them. There are at least two of them.
Pop!
I jerk to the right and my hip collides with a sharp corner—table? Can’t tell. I stagger sideways and Michael gives me another shove. “Go!”
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Something heavy collides with my lower back. I make it one step, two steps. Down. I’m down. Am I hit? Both hands skid in front of me, both knees stutter against the concrete, and I twist, ready to wiggle to my feet.
But Michael wrestles me to the floor.
My spine hits concrete. My head follows. There’s a starburst of pain and I start swinging. I get in a hit to his face and one to his ear. Michael hisses and clocks me, catching my right temple and spraying colors behind my eyelids.
“Stop it!” He shakes me hard and pries open my fist. Something scrapes my palm. Paper?
“Take it,” he hisses and I thrash. I slam the heel of my other hand into his nose, feel it crack. Blood spatters my cheeks and Michael rears up, grabbing his face with both hands.
Pop!
Michael shouts, grabs his arm. His face is anguished and astonished and so very red.
I gape . . . gape . . . kick to my feet, feel the swipe of his fingers against my ankle.
Only helps me run faster.
I lift my knees and hit another box, have to splay both arms wide to keep from toppling. I stab one hand against the wall and keep going.
Almost there.
I can see the car! I can see the car!
I’m nearly to it when I realize Michael’s not following me and I’m already in the driver’s seat when I see him stagger from the hangar . . . and waver.
Two more flashes of light from inside. Two more shots.
And he falls.
For a heartbeat, I hesitate. I’m gasping and gasping and I still can’t get enough air. They shot him. Michael’s down.
He’s down.
There’s a roaring in my head now and I jerk the driver’s door shut, slap my palms across the dash, leaving sticky, bloody prints. Michael’s paper scrap unglues, flutters to the floorboard.
I grope along the console. Nothing. Nothing. Noth—keys!
I jam them into the ignition and jerk the car onto the road, flooring it. I keep both hands on the wheel and my eyes straight ahead. I don’t trust myself to look back . . . but I do stray once. I check my rearview mirror and I recognize the man standing in the road behind me.
It’s Hart.
Eventually, I stop in the darkest corner of a Winn-Dixie parking lot, check my bad arm, feel the rest of me. I’m in one piece, but why is the front of my T-shirt so wet?
Carefully—slowly—I open the car door and push to my feet. It’s kind of amazing when the world doesn’t wobble. I’m steadier than I expected. I stand in front of the headlights and survey the damage.
The front of my shirt and shorts are damp with blood, but it’s not mine.
It’s Michael’s. The thought is so far away it feels like someone else’s whisper. When he hit me from behind, it must’ve been because he was shot.
Then they got him in the arm . . . and then I remember the two flashes of light.
They killed him. My father’s dead.
I rub a cold, sweaty palm across my face, smell the oil and dirt on my hands. It makes my breath catch again and I have to remind myself to stop, to think.
But all I can think about is this: Everyone’s gone. Joe . . . Michael . . . Carson . . . every tie to my past is gone. The only thing left standing between me and the rest of my life is Looking Glass. I need to take care of that, but how? They’re expecting me. They’ll see me coming, and if I don’t move against them, they’ll move against me.
Someone’s going down, and considering Looking Glass’s resources, it’s a pretty good bet that someone will be me.
“I’m finished,” I whisper, trying the words aloud. It actually helps. A little. “So what am I going to do about that? I need a plan . . . I need a plan . . .”
I don’t have a plan.