The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(45)

A broken security camera dangles in the low-ceilinged corner, the only disruption in the white-walled space. Vandalized surveillance. I send Ava a look of caution, but she just nods, signaling for us to close our umbrellas and keep moving.

As we trail the man to the elevator, I clench the aluminum handle of my umbrella like the hilt of a sword. I count six seconds before there’s a lackluster ding and the dull single-panel door of the elevator opens.

A rowdy group of four, all twenty-somethings and drunk, spill out of the compact carriage, plowing through Ava and me before we have a chance to move aside. They race through the lobby, their laughter loud and abrasive, their youthful spirits announcing to this stale room and the world outside: I’m untouchable. Infallible. And this joy will be everlasting.

If only that were true.

I turn and file into the elevator, hoping a second microchip scan is not required to gain access to each individual floor. Ava and I judged an apartment tower in this area would unlikely supply such high-priced security, and a cursory glance at the mirrored walls of the carriage tells me we were once again correct.

Ava stands to the side of the man with the shiny pink scalp, our lone fellow passenger. The door closes, and the man pinches his nostrils as I wedge myself into a corner.

“Level two,” he says aloud before lifting a cotton surgical mask over his nose and mouth.

“Level four,” Ava says, disguising her voice beneath a flat tone.

The elevator door opens, dumps out the man, and we are alone inside the claustrophobic box, crowded with our reflections.

“Cancel level four,” I tell the elevator, choosing a sonorous voice for myself. “Level eight.”

There’s no sensation of upward motion, but the coarse elevator chime indicates we’ve arrived. The door slides open to the empty eighth floor, and we move forward, shoulder to shoulder, treading lightly down the carpeted hallway.

We stop when we reach Apartment 8008. I concentrate on my slow breaths, damming the flood of doubts and expectations that threaten to overwhelm my courage. Adjusting our hoods, we step closer to the door, placing our grungy boots on the worn-out mat smeared with the fresh stains from someone else’s shoes. Someone is here.

Ava raps firmly, twice, on the door, but there is no response. She tries again, the knuckles of her fingers striking the door seven more times, each blow louder and stronger, exposing her impatience.

Between the intervals of hammering, I hear the faint sounds of shuffling feet beyond the steel barrier. Ava hears it too.

“Hello?” Ava says, dropping her hand but keeping her fingers clenched into a fist.

“We’re looking for Rayla Cadwell,” I add when no one answers.

Pressing my ear against the door, I close my eyes and listen for signs of life. I hear only the strangled throbs of music vibrating the walls from the floor below and the blaring alarm rising inside me, urging us to leave.

“I know someone’s in there,” Ava says, her impatience heightening to intense frustration. She raises her hand to resume her knocking, but I catch her arm before her fist hits the hollow steel.

The padded footsteps have returned.

“Please, will you speak with us?” I ask whoever is on the other side.

“We were sent to this address,” Ava continues. “We were told Rayla Cadwell would be here.”

Ava brushes my shoulder, and I peer over in time to see a shadow cross the oval peephole. We both stand there, straining to see through the tiny fisheye lens, waiting for something to happen—the handle to turn, the door to open, a voice to answer our questions. But nothing does.

The music’s rhythm somewhere underneath our feet quickens, antagonizing us to act. The flush of anger on Ava’s cheeks nearly matches the stain on her crimson lips as she shoves her mouth into the thin gap that divides the door from the wall, using the last card we have to make this damn door open.

“Resist much, obey little—”

I jump when the door cracks ajar, revealing a single green eye.

“Hush!” the green eye growls.

A slender hand flecked with liver spots reaches out, seizes Ava by her sleeve, and pulls her into the apartment. I issue an unintelligible cry and jam my right boot into the entrance before the door can close. The heavy steel smashes against my foot once, twice, three times, but on the fourth strike, my healing ankle can take no more.

Before I can stop it, my foot ignores my commands and yanks free from the torturous pressure. I’m thrown backward onto the ratty mat, and all I can do is outstretch my hands uselessly as the door slams shut in my face.





AVA

Clutter and long silver hair.

That’s all I register before I’m thrown roughly into a corner and my vision blurs. I shake my head clear and find a woman—the silver hair belongs to her—securing one of the deadbolts on the door.

Bam. The door shudders. Bam. Bam. Mira’s using her body as a battering ram to get through. I pounce on the woman and twist the lever to open the lock. Mira bursts into the room.

Without missing a beat, the woman drives the door closed and fastens two deadbolts with a grunt. She turns and zeros in on me.

“Who are you?” the woman demands as she uses her body to block Mira from me.

“Are you Rayla Cadwell?” I ask in return.

Somewhere in her sixties, with a robust, wiry frame, the hostile woman regards me with a crazed look in her eyes. I raise my empty hands, showing that I bear no weapons. We did not come to fight.