Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(92)

A sound in the hallway extinguished my tears.

Cla-click, cla-click. Cla-click, cla-click.

The guard on rotation. Or Delilah, back from her gruesome task.

We froze, listening to the footsteps. They grew louder, then paused, just outside of Chase’s cell. I held my breath and watched the door.

A clatter against the outside wall. His chart. Someone was going to come in.

No!

Chase pushed me aside. In a laborious heave he stood, bracing against the wall for support. I jumped up behind him, wrapping my arms around his chest, half certain he was about to fall over, half ready to make the guards tear us apart.

“Lay down!” I whispered.

He didn’t listen. It was a good thing he was injured. I was stronger than him in his current condition. I shoved him back to the bed and pushed his head down. He looked like he might throw up. Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered this as a symptom of concussion.

A key fit into the lock, turned.

“Keep your eyes closed!” I said quietly.

Chase complied, but his hands curled into fists.

Delilah entered the room.

“He’s not up yet?” I could see the little red dots that had splattered across her blouse and the damp stains on her collar from where she’d been sweating. I tried not to picture what she’d seen in cell two.

“He was a second ago,” I said, feeling the solid shape of the gun against my skin. “Come look at his face,” I added, gently running my finger over a split on the bridge of his nose.

Chase stirred, ever so slightly. I willed him to be still.

She took another step forward, one hand still on the door.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“He got hit pretty hard.”

“Obviously,” she snorted. One more step inside.

I sprung, throwing the blanket off my shoulders and shoving her away from the door. A second later I’d pulled the gun from my dress and aimed it directly at her. I pushed the door back toward the jamb, careful not to let it lock.

“What the hell are you doing?” she cried.

“Shut up!” I ordered, praying no one had heard us. Chase was sitting up now, blinking rapidly. He still looked ill—and more shocked than Delilah.

“Here.” I shoved the gun into his hand. He aimed it at Delilah. She bared her teeth at him. I saw his hand tremble slightly but knew it wasn’t from physical pain. The last woman he’d held a gun to had been my mother.

“Sorry, Delilah,” I told her as I shoved a clean rag into her mouth. “But there is something out there for me.”

As quickly as I could, I tore the tattered rags to strips and fastened her wrists around the metal bed frame. She didn’t struggle, clear eyes glued on Chase. I slipped the key over her head and pressed it firmly in my fist. My heart felt as if it were going to explode in my chest. If it did, I hoped it killed me before the MM did.

Then I eased Chase back to the bed, away from Delilah, and returned the gun to its hiding place in my dress.

“I must have gotten hit harder than I thought,” Chase said, with the confusion of someone waking from a coma. “How did you get in here? Who is she? And where did that gun come from?” The heels of his hands were pressed against his temples.

“I’ll explain later. For right now, stay here.”

“I’m going with you,” he said.

I shook my head. His jaw tightened.

Don’t fight me, Chase.

I knew he felt as I had so many times on this journey. Completely out of control. Completely reliant. Maybe he realized how I felt now, too, because he didn’t argue, he didn’t fight. He just looked up at me and whispered, “Please be careful.”

A moment later the door locked behind me.

The hallway was eerily quiet, without even the shuffle of the guard around the far corner at the stairs. He was there, I knew, just silent. The guard on rotation would be coming around any second.

Nerves chewed my insides and made my skin tingle. Every step I took felt like walking on a bed of nails. I figured I was losing my mind. It was the only reasonable explanation for my actions.

Before anything else, I grabbed the clipboard outside Chase’s cell. I ripped the pen from its hanging cord and in large letters scribbled what had been written on the other soldiers’ charts.

COMPLETE.

One steadying breath, to find that emotionless calm from before Chase had come, and I returned to my task.

I used Delilah’s key to open the storage room and rolled a cart into the hallway. One of the wheels rattled and flicked awkwardly to the side. I stared furiously at the defective piece, as though this would somehow silence it.

I had just reached Chase’s cell when I heard the clicking of footsteps again.

My body became paralyzed.

A guard with dark skin and a permanent frown came around the corner.

“Good morning,” I said too cheerily.

“What are you doing out?” He looked down the empty hallway.

“Delilah … she came early,” I stammered.

“Where is she?”

“Still cleaning up the suicide in cell two. She told me to wait here.”

“Why here?”

Several swear words tore through my brain.

“To take out the trash,” I answered, quoting Delilah.

The soldier looked at Chase’s chart. His furrowed brows smoothed.