“That right?” Simon questioned, his black brow raised challengingly.
Willow glanced at her watch—a black timepiece that looked like it was issued straight from the military and could withstand a nuclear blast. Envy that she knew the time ate me up inside. Her eyebrow ticked up as a small grin parted her lips. “No, actually. You were down to forty-three seconds.”
Simon laughed and nodded toward Willow’s backpack, which was bulkier than it had been when she’d left the lab, and sagged like it was being weighted down—a telltale sign that she’d been scavenging while we were laying low in the underground tunnels. “Looks like you found some stuff we might need.”
Willow’s grin just grew. “You know . . . I had some time.”
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS DARK WHEN THE THREE OF US SPILLED out of the east exit door, which dropped us into a dim alleyway behind the building. The only light out here came from a parking lot in the distance. A tall chain-link fence ran along one side of the narrow street, separating this building from the one next door. On the other side of the fence I could see broken glass and litter and pieces of flattened cardboard stacked on pallets. The oily smell made me think they must do something mechanical in that other building, like build engines or tractors, and it made me curious what they thought happened over here, in this place.
Somehow, being out here, in the alley and breathing the fresh-ish air, made me feel moderately less . . . claustrophobic.
“Where to now? Any word from the others?” I asked Willow, wondering where Jett and Thom and Natty had gone after the explosion. It freaked me out, not knowing where they were, or if they’d been captured, but it freaked me out even more that we hadn’t seen a single No-Sucher since that guy in the ventilation shaft had tried to grab me.
Even if most of them had been sent out to search for us, shouldn’t there still be some left to guard the place? I glanced up at a security camera above the door and wondered if someone was on the other end, watching us. A chill ran over my skin.
“It doesn’t work.” The unmistakable voice gave me a second chill, this one gripping my spine and rendering me immobile as I realized my Spidey senses had severely underestimated the danger we were in. “It’s still down. Impressive bug you kids set loose in our system. Kudos.”
We weren’t alone, and we were never safe. That oily voice belonged to Agent Truman.
I thought I might puke.
When I trusted myself, I finally turned to face him. It was the first time I’d actually set eyes on him since that night we were all at Devil’s Hole, and he was no less formidable than I remembered. To sum it up: he was scary as shit.
If it hadn’t been for the gun he was clutching, I might’ve allowed myself to relish a twinge of satisfaction over seeing his other hand still encased in plaster. All because of me and what I’d done with the baseball. As it was, however, all I could concentrate on was that he didn’t seem to be holding the gun as awkwardly as he had been the last time I’d seen him, up at Devil’s Hole, despite the fact it wasn’t his natural shooting hand. Like, maybe he’d had time to practice since then.
It wasn’t a comforting thought.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away,” he said, and I hated the way his voice turned my knees to rubber.
I barely trusted my own voice, but I had to know for sure. “So you . . . you don’t have Tyler?”
He had the nerve to shrug—I mean, he actually shrugged, like we were just hanging out, talking about grades or a ballgame, like we were a couple of buddies.
We definitely weren’t.
“The boy made for good bait,” he remarked, taking a measured step toward us and sounding far too flippant. His eyes squeezed into narrow slits. “It’s sweet, the way you came running.”
I glanced down at my empty hands, wishing I had something to hurl at him. I desperately wanted to break his other hand.
“You’re a prick,” Willow sneered from behind me.
“Yeah?” Agent Truman sneered back, raising his gun in her direction. “Well, right now I’m the prick who has you cornered.”
Simon shouldered past Willow, pushing her behind him. “You won’t shoot us.” He said it boldly, as if it were a fact. And maybe it was, I thought, realizing Agent Truman really didn’t have a hazmat suit on, but it still seemed like a bad idea to goad the guy with the gun. “It’d be suicide.”
Simon’s prediction fell on deaf ears. Agent Truman’s weapon stayed exactly where it was, aimed at Simon, who’d taken Willow’s place, and just when I was convinced this whole shooting-us thing had to be a bluff, Agent Truman proved me wrong.
He pulled the trigger.
It was one of those moments where everything happens too fast and too slow at the same time. My brain felt scrambled as it tried to make sense of any single thought, even while every detail that unfolded seemed to do so with startling clarity: the look on Simon’s face as he tried—and failed—to get out of the way in time, the ringing in my ears, which was back because the sound of the gun firing was so much louder than I’d ever imagined, and the smell . . . that odd crisp and chemical smell that I could only assume must be gunpowder.
Watching Simon take the impact of the bullet made my blood turn to ice. He looked like a ragdoll as he slammed backward, his unusual copper eyes brimming with all the disbelief I felt. He hit the ground so much harder than the soldier we’d gassed in the ducts, and I cringed when his head cracked sharply against the pavement behind him.
I shrank back against the wall, even as Willow launched forward, dragging Simon out of the way. Agent Truman fired again, only this time he was a split second too late. Willow tossed Simon aside as her attention turned to the agent.