This Shattered World (Starbound #2)(83)
When I lift my eyes from Molly’s face, they fall on a pair of soldiers dragging someone away, a middle-aged man struggling and shouting curses.
“Who’s that?” My voice comes out quiet, cold. Very calm. Good.
The closest medic glances at me, then at the man being dragged away. “One of the bastards responsible,” he answers. “They think it was a whole crew that snuck in somehow, but he’s the only one they caught. Gonna interrogate him.”
My heart fills again, rage taking over as the whole world narrows down to the man being dragged away. The man responsible. They won’t need to interrogate him officially—I intend to find out everything myself, no matter the cost. I pull my gun from its holster and slip quietly after him and his escort, steps quickening.
I’ll find whoever did this, and I’ll tear them apart.
The girl is drowsing, up past her bedtime, listening to the click of imitation ivory as her mother stirs the mah jong tiles. She’s curled up with her blanket under the felted table, surrounded by her mother’s friends on all sides.
A tile etched with the picture of a chrysanthemum falls to the floor, and a rumbling voice says, “I’ll get it.” An arm descends over the edge of the table, and the girl stares—it’s covered in tattoos, more than she’s ever seen in one place.
The adults chat as the girl’s mother deals, and the low hum of voices nearly lulls the girl to sleep.
“Who will watch the store while I’m gone?” her mother is asking.
“I can do that,” says the man with the tattoos.
“And when you’re gone? Who will watch her then?”
I’M WATCHING FROM AN ALLEYWAY between a barracks and the munitions shed, leaning against the hard wall and forcing myself to breathe. I can’t make out who it is they’re hauling away, and I can’t see Molly’s huge silhouette anywhere, and I can’t do anything but stand here, hands curled into fists, and wait. If my people did this, and they see me, all hell will break loose. More people will die.
When Jubilee stalks past, I’m so fixed on the flames I nearly miss her. I reach out to grab her arm and swing her in toward me, reflecting in the same split second that she’ll probably break my nose for this. I’m sure if she were any less shocked, she would. Instead, I catch a glimpse of something wild in her eyes, of a soot-stained hand lifting to reach for me, and I duck. “Jubilee, it’s me.”
With a wordless sound, her face stricken, she jerks back from me and stumbles to crash into the barracks wall. The jolt makes her look up, her gaze focusing with an effort—and then she sees me, her heart in her eyes. The gun she’s gripping goes clattering into the mud. Her hands grab for my arms, grasping at my sleeves and pulling me closer, as though she has to convince herself I’m real. “Flynn?” she whispers.
The mix of anguish and relief on her face has me moving before I can think to stop myself, and I pull her in against me so I can wrap my arms around her. She holds me just as tightly, and for a moment we stand there together, unmoving, as the chaos beyond the mouth of the alley unspools.
“I thought you—” she rasps, easing a half an inch away, shaken by the intensity of her own reaction.
I’m a little shaky myself, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I was on my way to the supply shed when I heard the shouts. Where’s Molly? He was in there when I left, I should—”
My words die in my throat as the look on her face delivers the news. Our hands fall apart, and I have to brace against the munitions shed to stop my knees from giving out.
“They caught one of the rebels who did it.” She turns toward the mouth of the alley. “The others escaped. I was heading to interrogation, they’re taking him—”
“Get me in there,” I interrupt, urgency making my voice stumble. “Maybe I can convince him to talk. Offer him a deal.”
“He’s a murderer, Flynn,” she snaps, her grief over her friend turning white-hot. She retrieves her gun from the ground, her face grim. “He doesn’t get a deal, he gets justice.”
“And if he’s one of McBride’s men? What if he knows what they’re planning next?” I can’t imagine any of my people starting the fire. It has to have been a mistake. “Please.”
She knows I’m right, but the desire for vengeance runs almost as deep. I watch her struggle, feeling it echo deep within my own heart; whoever killed my people is still out there too. Finally, shoving her Gleidel back into its holster, she murmurs, “Don’t promise him anything.”
When we reach the holding cells, she sends away the guard with a couple of snapped orders. The nervous corporal looks at me but doesn’t stop me from following before he vanishes. Perhaps he hopes I’ll stop her from killing the prisoner.
My heart sinks when I see who’s huddled on the bench in the corner of the room. It’s Turlough Doyle, his mop of blond hair turned gray with ash, his eyes red with smoke and grief. He was only ever in the swamps because his sister sabotaged one of the algae farms, and the trodairí wouldn’t stop coming by to ask him where she was, more forcefully every time. Then he met Mike, and he had reason to stay. But he’s no blood-soaked rebel. He used to be a biology assistant.
His head’s down, exhaustion and fear taking their toll. Jubilee doesn’t hesitate, slamming the cell door behind us. “Who did this?” she snarls, stalking over to meet him eye to eye.