The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(74)

“Stop it, you insane Leacher! Stop or you’ll be killed,” the injured man screams, letting go of Jacob to clutch at his shoulder. Ignoring his words, Sam stabs the man again, this time in the heart.

“Okay, fine,” the guy rasps out, blood bubbling up on his lips as he falls to the ground. “You leave us no choice.”

That’s Hillary talking, I remind myself again.

“Darren, move to the right!” yells a chorus of civilians who are lying on the ground around me. My aunt again. “Now!”

Without thinking, I jump to the right and immediately hear a gunshot. Glancing back, I see Thomas standing a dozen yards away with a rifle in his hands. When I turn back to the scene ahead, I see Sam falling, with the top of his head blown into pieces.

“Now, you f*cking stay down, Leacher,” the other Russian who was holding Jacob says. I can’t believe it’s Hillary again. She sounds utterly cold. I guess if anyone could drive my pacifist aunt to bloodlust, Sam was the guy.

And then I realize she’s not gloating at Sam being shot. She’s talking to Jacob. He’s managed to free himself from the Russian’s hold and is reaching for the knife Sam dropped when he died.

“Mira, you’re in Thomas’s way,” the Russian says. “Move, so he can take the shot.”

I raise my own gun, but this time I’m somewhat reluctant to pull the trigger. If this were Sam, I would’ve shot him without a second thought. But this is Jacob. He knew my father. He can give me answers about my family.

Instead of moving as Hillary commanded, Mira is also raising her gun. She’s apparently determined to kill Jacob on her own.

Taking aim, she squeezes the trigger.

Instead of a bang, there is a quiet click. Jacob is still standing there, unharmed.

Her gun is out of bullets.

Jacob blinks. He looks almost surprised to still be alive. Then he looks at the knife in his hand and, grabbing it by the blade, raises it over his shoulder.

I’m gripped by a horrible sense of déjà vu. He’s raising the knife for a throw at Mira—just like Sam did in the Quiet.

This can’t be happening again.

I won’t let it.

Without thinking even a second longer, I shoot. The knife is still in Jacob’s hand, so I fire again and again. Mindlessly. Furiously.

I don’t stop squeezing the trigger until I’m out of bullets.

As the haze of rage clears from my mind, I see that the knife is no longer in Jacob’s hand. It’s on the ground, and so is the man himself, his chest covered with blood.

Numb, I stand there and stare at the man I killed, one thought foremost in my mind.

Mira is okay. That’s all that matters.

“Let’s go, Darren,” the people lying around me chant in Hillary-Guided chorus. “It’s time to go.”

Shaking off my stupor, I begin to head back, only to realize that Mira is not with me. Instead of following me, she’s walking to where Jacob’s body is lying. Reaching him, she starts going through his pockets. Then she picks up another gun off the ground and shoots Jacob in the head.

I wonder if that means my own shots didn’t kill him—and then I wonder why I care either way. He was about to kill Mira. How could I not shoot?

Her grisly task accomplished, Mira picks up the briefcase Jacob had been holding earlier—the one that flew open in the Quiet but is still intact here—and walks toward me.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, her face pale and resolute.

I look at her without comprehension.

“It’s over,” she says gently. “Now we go.” And looping her arm through mine, she starts pulling me away.

As we walk, the enormity of what just occurred dawns on me. Arkady, Sam, Jacob, the other Russian mobsters—they’re all dead, and we were nearly killed ourselves. To say that I’m pushing the limits of my ability to cope with seeing Mira nearly die would be a massive understatement.

Lost in thought, I let her steer me toward Thomas, who’s standing there waiting for us. Eugene is limping our way as well, looking extremely relieved to see Mira and everyone else intact.

“Good work,” Thomas says to me as we approach. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t take my own shot. She was in the way.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, feeling incredibly drained.

“You,” Thomas says, looking at Mira and shaking his head. “You’re the most reckless woman I’ve ever met.”

She doesn’t respond. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks subdued. Serene, almost.

Thomas’s black van, now with a broken bumper, is waiting by the curb as we head back to the road. Some guy I’ve never met is sitting behind the wheel.

“I don’t know how to drive,” Hillary explains from the back seat. “So I had this guy bring the car over.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. “He can go now.”

“Thank you, Robert,” Hillary says to the driver. “Your car is where you left it. You can go.”

The guy gets out and starts walking away, a blank look on his face.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” Hillary motions for us to get in. “It’s over. Now let’s get out of here.”

Her words prompt everyone into action. Thomas gets behind the wheel, and we all get inside.