The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(58)

But then a terrifying rattle of a dog leash causes me to seize hold of Mira’s hand. Steeling myself, I squeeze hard, making her knuckles crack. A well-trained nose greedily inhales the exterior of the car, sniffing the tires, door handles, and bumper. A high-pitched whine signals a discovery to his master: She’s here! She’s in the trunk!

No . . . no . . . no . . . This is not the end.

“Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle, immediately!” a second Guard demands aggressively.

“Is that really necessary, soldier? The heat tonight is unbear—”

An eruption of barking and shouting cuts through Rayla’s words—cuts through everything—and suddenly the car rocks with furious paws scratching to get inside. After two heart-crushing blows, the trunk flies open—and the facial recognition cameras instantly recognize Ava Goodwin’s wanted face. Twofold.

Sirens blast, and I struggle to see beyond the blinding spotlights. Snapping canines come into focus. Shouting Guards and a gun pointed at my sister’s forehead.

Through the dense fog of shock and panic, I hear a single hostile command.

“Ava, put your hands up! Put your hands up, now!”

But I will never put my hands up. I will never let go of my sister’s hand.

More Guards rush out of the station to surround the car.

“The system says they’re both Ava Goodwin!” a confused voice shouts.

Everything and everyone combine into one babel of noise screaming in my ears: “Under arrest . . . There are two of them . . . Traitor . . . Put your hands up!”

Rayla presses her foot down hard on the gas. The car surges forward, and Mira’s head collides painfully against mine as we are thrown toward the front of the trunk.

My vision spins, and it takes three cracking pops for me to recognize the soldiers have opened fire. A rain of bullets shatters the rear window in an explosion of glass.

“Get out of the trunk!” Mira yells, dragging me by my shirt collar.

There’s a crashing thud as the car drives straight through the metal barrier. I cover my head and crawl behind Mira on my hands and knees—glass shards stabbing my elbows and thighs—into the backseat.

I pull the compartment entrance closed, blood dripping onto the fabric, the wailing sirens of pursuit preventing me from feeling my wounds.

“How many patrols?” Rayla shouts.

My eyes scour Mira’s face, body, fingers, and feet. She’s not hurt—she’s okay. We both whip around and peer out the broken window. The lid of the trunk bounces out of control with each bump in the road, making it difficult to count the flashing blue lights that chase us in the distance.

Nine? Two? An entire military unit?

“Brace yourselves!” Rayla calls out in warning.

Mira and I cling to the backseat headrests, holding on for dear life, Kipling’s voice chuckling absurdly in my ears, I told you to wear your seat belts.

With a sharp squeal from the tires, the car makes a perilous left turn, and the trunk slams shut, giving me a clear view of the pursuit.

“Five patrols!” I cry, spinning around to make certain she hears. I lean into the empty space between the two front seats, trying to rein in my rapid, frightened breaths. “What are we going to do?” I ask, unable to keep my voice from shaking.

Rayla simply tightens her fingers around the steering wheel, and I follow her stare to a cluster of lights a few miles ahead.

A small town. A possible place to hide.

“They’re catching up!” Mira shouts with alarm.

She presses in beside me, anxiously searching through the windshield for drones. Our arms brush against one another, and I feel fear in her tense muscles and in the shivering of her skin. But I don’t sense the curious vibrating sensation I used to feel between us—our shared field of energy. It’s disappeared.

“Listen to me carefully!” Rayla says. “You both must get to Canada. There is a way through the border in Glacier County. These are the coordinates.”

She gropes around in her pocket and hands me a yellowed piece of paper with a set of numbers scratched on it.

“Memorize them, then burn it.”

I stare dumbstruck at the coordinates. A simple longitude and latitude that promises a way into Canada. To freedom.

She stuffs a handful of Canadian banknotes into my hands. Paper money? I shake my head in disbelief.

“The wall is impenetrable! There’s no way through!” Mira’s voice rises to hysteria, and I catch hold of her panic.

“Even if there were a way through, the border’s surrounded by ground sensors. We’d be detected and shot before we could even—”

Without warning Rayla tears off the road and into a field of tall grass. She cuts off the headlights, plunging us into darkness.

“Propaganda,” she says firmly. “The Canadian border is over five thousand miles long. Every fortress has its weak points and on that piece of paper is one of them.”

I snap my eyes to the rearview mirror—blazing blue lights illuminate the inky black sky. The hell-bent patrols are gaining ground. Once they spot us in the grass, they’ll overtake us within minutes.

“Rayla—”

“When I stop, run for the closest building,” Rayla cuts in. “Hide until you know that you’re safe . . . then get to Calgary. There’s a brick building with a yellow door. 968 Paramount Point. You will find friends there.”