Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(73)

The circle hadn’t closed in; Chicago had created a fluctuating barrier, shoving anyone who got too close to the edge back inside. It was like being thrown into a water bottle and shaken. I stumbled, and when I rose, someone’s hand slid across my chest. It was a guy with chin-length greasy hair and a giddy smile on his face. With blood behind my eyes, I punched him hard, right in the nose, and then gasped when the pain ricocheted up my shoulder. Something cracked. The sound stirred a sick feeling of satisfaction in the pit of my stomach. He swore at me and immediately disappeared behind the first row.

My eyes locked on Chase. He was pressed close to Toothless, almost like they were embracing, except that Chase was wheeling back and planting several sharp successive jabs into his side. Someone ran up behind Chase, grabbed him by the shoulders, and heaved him off: the third guard. I was relieved to see the rifle gone. I sprinted toward them, dragging Sean by the shirtsleeve, but we were intercepted. Tucker jutted in front of us and tackled Chase’s attacker. They flew across the ground, now splattered with blood.

Sean was down again. My body reeled when I saw someone’s leg swing like a pendulum and kick him in the gut. He arched, taking the blow with full force in order to protect his back. I reached for him, but someone grabbed me from behind, his forearm slamming up against my windpipe. A burst of stars appeared in my vision, blocking Sean, blocking everything.

I dug my nails into his skin, tucked my chin, and threw my hips back hard, just as Chase had taught me.

The hold released, and I sputtered for breath, hitting my knees. Jack had fallen beside me, shocked that I’d been able to shake him off. As I tried to stand, I slipped and nearly toppled over the baseball bat. In a blind fury, I swooped it up and charged him.

I lunged, a puppet to my anger, and landed on his chest, knees pinning his shoulders down. He gave me a twisted smile and bucked his hips, nearly tossing me over his head.

Go for soft spots, Chase had said.

I shoved the bat beneath Jack’s chin and pressed down on his throat.

“Call them off!” I screamed.

He gasped, but managed a small shake of his head. There was blood on his teeth.

“Call them off!” I ordered again, pressing down harder. All that rage inside of me burned for this moment. His face seemed too familiar then. Soulless green eyes. A calculating smile. Tucker. I was hurting Tucker. My eyes stung. You killed her. How dare you.

I blinked. Jack, not Tucker. But still the rage whipped through my veins, leaving me unable to release him. Someone had to be accountable for all these disappointments.

“You’re no better than they are!” I shouted into Jack’s face.

“Neither”—he breathed—“are … you.”

Something twisted inside of me, almost as though I’d been punched, but this bite emanated from the inside, within my ribcage. The line between right and wrong had never felt so fragile, and here I was, crossing it. No, not just crossing it, but trampling it, consumed by a dark and furious thrill.

Still pressing the bat to his throat, I reached in my pocket and removed the copper bullet. I held it right before his eyes.

“Do you know what this is?” I said as acknowledgment registered in his eyes. “Do you know who I am?” I released the bat, disgusted with myself, but kept my eyes on Jack and didn’t move. He just kept smiling. Red on white.

“Let me up,” he said.

I rose fast and ready. He snatched the bullet from my hand, grabbed my arm, and led me through the wall of resistance to a woman, older than Wallace if I had to guess, wearing men’s fatigues complete with lace-up boots. She had short, spiked black hair and a sharp, jutting chin. There was a severe look in her eyes, like someone who was used to living hard.

Jack leaned down and whispered something in her ear, his arm still clamped down on mine. He revealed the bullet, and she scanned my face. After several beats, she smiled.

“Enough!” Her voice, low but piercing, carried over the others.

I spun to see Chase behind me; three fighters, Toothless included, were on the ground groaning at his feet. Chase, clutching his side, turned and spat, wiping the blood from his mouth on the back of his hand. The skin around his right eye was red, and his shirt was ripped, revealing most of his shoulder.

He glanced down over my body for injuries. There was a hard glint in his eyes, but no apathy. He was still there.

Coughing, and groaning, some extraneous cheers, but mostly silence. I surveyed the damage. Sean’s hands were on his knees, a line of blood dribbling down his chin. Tucker’s face was crimson from the exertion.

“I said enough!” She looked to me as they silenced, and shoved me forward. “Tell us who you are. Say it loud, so everyone can hear, otherwise I let the boys pound you into the dust.”

I glanced at Chase and Sean, then back to Tucker. What had I done?

“My name is Ember Miller,” I said. I swallowed down the tremor that was building inside of me.

“I can’t hear you,” she prompted. Chase tried to move beside me, but was stopped by Toothless. “Tell them why they should believe you aren’t snitches.”

I tried to breathe, but couldn’t find enough air. They all watched me expectantly.

I’m sorry, Chase.

“My name is Ember Miller!” I shouted. “I’m the one they’re looking for! I’m the sniper!”