Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(75)

My fingers close around the heavy metal. It’s cold in my hand. Hard and unyielding metal. My least favorite part of each day is the firing range. The noise. The tension coursing through my body as I take my shots. I always feel faintly achy after leaving, my head shrouded in cotton.

I sense as much as see the other carriers back away from me like a receding tide.

“Stand close to him,” Harris instructs, taking me by the shoulders and positioning me in front of the man. The target stares at me now, his brown eyes stark, defeated. No, not “target.” A man. A human. A life.

Harris’s voice rolls softly near my ear. “I know you’ve been practicing with the others, but I don’t expect you to be an expert marksman yet. A simple shot to the head at close range is sufficient.”

My breath falls in sharp, little pants. My chest actually hurts. I look around desperately, as though a way out, an escape, is going to present itself.

Harris looks at me dully, like he’s asking nothing from me.

Sean steps forward as if to reach me, but a guard stops him with a hand on his chest.

“I’ll do it,” he volunteers, his lips grim, his jaw set. He looks from me to Harris. Holding out his hand, he flicks his fingers. “Give it to me.”

Harris glances at him, arching an eyebrow mildly. “I’m sure you would, O’Rourke. But Hamilton here will do it. Won’t you?” He looks back at me, his eyes challenging . . . threatening. I’m expected to follow instructions, but how can I do this?

I stare at Harris, searching his face, looking for something in him that I might touch. Any softness that I might appeal to.

Nothing.

“Take aim,” he instructs.

I lift my arm. It trembles so badly that I lift my other hand to grip my elbow and hold myself steady. Still the .45 shakes, but not so much that I’ll miss. This close in range, there’s no chance of that. I’m so close I can actually see the flecks of gold in the man’s brown eyes . . . the pulse throb in his forehead.

“Safety’s off. Fire when ready.”

I curl my finger around the trigger. Like I’m going to do this. Like I can.

“Fire,” Harris snaps.

He’s a carrier. Who knows all that he has done?

You’re a carrier. You’ve done nothing.

Until now.

Silence falls around me in a thick shroud. Everything slows. Almost like in a dream. No one makes a sound as they watch the scene unfold. I can feel Sean’s eyes on me, hot and desperate, willing me to . . . to what? Shoot?

But I don’t want to be that. This—the monster the world claims I am.

With a shuddered breath, I lift my trembling finger off the trigger and drop my arm. It’s no use. I can’t. I’m not a coldblooded killer. They can’t make me that.

Head bowed, I choke out, “I won’t. I can’t. Do your worst. Send me to a detention camp.” I shrug weakly. “You can’t make me do this.”

Harris sighs heavily. “Very well.”

I hear the slide of another gun from a holster.

I lift my head, frowning, wondering with an odd sense of detachment if he intends to shoot me. Maybe they won’t even trouble themselves with sending me away. Maybe they’re going to kill me, end it all right now.

Harris moves. I track his actions vaguely, still feeling as though I’m trapped in a dream. He stops directly beside Sean. And lifts his arm. Presses the gun barrel against Sean’s head. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

He nods at Sean. “You shoot or I shoot him.”

My chest constricts. “W-what?”

He digs the barrel into Sean’s temple, forcing Sean to lean to the side. He tries to hide his wince, but I see it. It’s as though I can even feel it myself.

I reach out a hand. “No! Stop—”

“You said ‘do your worst,’ Hamilton. Somehow, for you . . . I think this is it.”

Hysteria bubbles up inside me. “Sean . . .”

His lips move, mouthing the words at me: it’s okay. And he means that. His eyes look directly at me, accepting and understanding . . . inviting me to let this horrible thing happen to him.

It’s okay? To do as Harris commands and put a bullet in his head? That will never be okay. Heat burns through me, followed by a wash of bitter cold. I will never be okay if that happens.

My lips tremble, tasting the saltiness of tears. I didn’t even know I was crying. “P-please.”

“On three,” Harris announces, his eyes cool as ever. “One.” My heart lunges to my throat as his finger curls around the trigger.

“Please!” I shout even as I fumble to lift my weapon and aim once again at the carrier. I focus on his face for a split second. The brown eyes fasten on me, deep with resignation. And I realize that’s always been there. Defeat. Resignation. Ever since I captured him, he’s known this was inevitable.

“Two.”

He’s muttering those too-quiet words again . . . prayers or pleas, I don’t know. I don’t hear them. I can’t hear them.

“No!” I scream, my voice rising up from deep inside me, shrill and wild as my finger squeezes the trigger.

The bullet bursts from the barrel with a loud crack, echoing on the night. My arm jerks from the recoil. The body drops in front of me. Dead weight. Dead. Just a body now. Not a life. I took that. Snuffed out his existence with the slightest touch.