The Countdown (The Taking #3)(81)

But no one could.

Her mouth fell open, and I thought she might scream or howl, but all that came out was an arid gasp. It was like watching someone take her dying breath.

“No,” she finally mouthed.

Her head dropped forward, her chin collapsing against her chest. But her fist was still closed around the tubing, and I was worried she might take it out on Adam, exact what small revenge she could. “No, no, no.” Her voice was almost nonexistent, in mute denial.

“Please,” I whispered. “Nathan wouldn’t want this.” My gaze fell on Adam and she followed my eyes. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to drag others into this because of him. I know because I wouldn’t have wanted that. None of us would.”

I could feel Tyler behind me, silently agreeing with me.

She stood there trapped by uncertainty as she contemplated my plea. I guessed she was thinking of her son and considering what he would, and wouldn’t, have wanted.

Finally, she exhaled and dropped the needle.

Everything inside me uncoiled, like a clock’s springs wound too tightly.

“Let’s get him out of there,” she said. “And then I’ll do anything you need me to.”





TYLER


FREEING ADAM HAD BEEN LIKE FREEING MYSELF—I saw the world more clearly. My senses were boosted.

The moment the three of us touched, it was like a jolt—the connection . . . our connection—sizzling through my veins. Thrumming beneath my skin.

I began to see images, like clips of broken film. A network of light shining over the dark spots of my broken memory, until all at once it came flooding back.

Kyra and me on the swing set the night she was returned . . .

Me, pulling an all-nighter to draw a chalk pathway between our houses . . .

Leaving her a copy of Fahrenheit 451—my favorite book.

Our first kiss . . . and then our second.

Kyra’s face when she realized she’d cut herself in front of me.

I had no idea if Kyra was seeing this or not.

Agent Truman protested, “Jesus-H. He smells like a rotting corpse.”

Okay, so that part wasn’t entirely wrong.

True to her word, Dr. Clarke had helped us extract Adam from the canister they’d been keeping him confined in.

“He’s been in a sort of stasis for years,” she explained while she drained the solution he was suspended in. “We took him out only when Dr. Atkins ordered it.” It was shocking to hear her say that Molly was the one in charge. She hadn’t struck me as the decision-making type. “She would do things to him”—Dr. Clarke blanched as she stumbled over her words, her hands shaking—“horrific things. I’m not sure how he’s even survived all this time.”

But we had him now. He was safe, even as he slipped in and out of consciousness—shock, most likely, from being outside of his tube, according to Dr. Clarke.

His body was practically weightless, light like a bird’s, and Kyra and I carried him as if it was nothing. His skin was no longer moist from the blue gel but it had a sticky feel. Not in the syrupy sense, but like one of those gummy rubber balls from a candy machine outside the grocery store.

And he stunk, just like Agent Truman said he did.

“They won’t have to see us on the cameras, they’ll smell that SOB coming from a mile away,” Agent Truman muttered.

But then Dr. Clarke put the facility into evacuation mode, entering the codes herself, and overriding every safeguard they had in place. Her access allowed her to declare a state of emergency that required the entire operation to shut down until the facility could be safely cleared.

There was a self-destruct sequence as well, she told us, in the event of a real emergency, but her security clearance didn’t allow her to initiate that. We’d need someone with higher access codes to do that.

“Find someone with Level Three clearance—Dr. Atkins or someone who works on the EVE project. Then you can blow up the entire fleet . . . the entire facility,” she explained. “They’ll lose everything. They’ll never be able to duplicate the technology.”

For now, all she could guarantee was that the building would be clear, giving us at least a chance to save the planet.

“I’ll stay here and lock the lab down,” she’d told us. “You get to the Basement. That’s where you’ll find the ships.”

Then she handed us her key card and gave us her access codes. Once she was locked inside, I turned to ask where she wanted us to meet her, when she nodded to us once from behind the glass door—a Farewell or Good luck, or maybe it was an I’m sorry—right before she plunged the tip of the needle into her arm.

I wanted to tell her to stop, but it was already done and the words died on my lips.

She collapsed.

I stood there stunned, waiting for something to change. To realize I’d seen wrong. But then she exhaled, a shuddery breath, and foam escaped her lips which were already turning blue.

I heard Kyra inside my head, and even though I could feel her shock as well, she was right. We needed to go. To get Adam out of here.

Back home.





SIMON


I WAS DAYDREAMING ABOUT ALL THE WAYS I COULD snap Molly’s neck when the sirens started. There was nothing subtle about what we were hearing.