Forged(30)

He brings the knife back to my finger, but doesn’t apply pressure.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I need to grab something from the labs. I’ll meet you at the docks if I can, but don’t wait for me.”

“But I don’t even know how to—”

“Take the back stairwell. Two flights down you’ll find the cells, another level down, the water.”

He runs the knife over my knuckles—not hard enough to draw blood, but with enough pressure to make my whole body tense up. At the same time, he undoes the restraint on my left wrist with lightning speed.

“Dammit, that must have broken when he flipped you.” Harvey makes a brief show of trying to resecure it, then swears. “I need to get something to fix this.”

He storms out, and as the door closes behind him, I recognize the brilliance of it. He’ll still look loyal to anyone reviewing the video, but I’m left alone with an untethered hand and the means to free myself.

The feeds show someone waiting for Bree around the next turn. He must have heard the gunshots from her previous scuffle. She slows as she approaches the corner, back against the wall and elbow tucked to her side so the gun is held alongside her ear. In one graceful movement she pivots around the corner and extends her shooting arm. The Order member knocks it aside. Her bullet tears into the wall. He swings and his fist catches her chin. Bree flies off her feet and my pulse skyrockets.

“Come on . . .” I grapple with the restraint on my other arm, but I’m uncoordinated with my left hand and can’t work the buckles fast enough.

Bree tries to scramble away but the man’s boot finds her. He hauls her to her feet, slams her against the wall.

“Come on!” The strap slides free.

His hands are on her neck now, and he’s lifting her up, pinning her to the wall.

I bend to work on my ankles.

She claws at his forearm. Struggles, kicks.

One strap left.

But Bree is fighting less adamantly, the fire leaving her eyes, and right when I’m certain it’s over—that I’m about to watch another person I love die—a third figure steps into the frame.

His gun slams into the Order member’s temple. The man drops like an anchor, and Bree crumples, too. She gasps, staggers to her feet. Her savior reaches for her, but she jerks away and spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

I can’t hear her but I can read her lips. I’m fine.

Her savior sighs and turns to the camera.

Sammy, also dressed in Order gear. One shot and static overtakes the picture.

They’re both alive. And they’re here now, infiltrating on the day of inspection, mere hours early instead of two days as planned. It would explain why no alarm has been raised yet. The plan could be working—the key cards, the uniforms. Is the tracking device a decoy as well? Are most eyes elsewhere as they continue their “inspection”?

Then the real question hits me: Do they even know I’m here?

They must. If they were only after information, as the original mission entailed, they would never have fired so many shots. They’d have walked through the facility, taking mental notes, remembering details. Instead they’re striking down anyone in their path and heading directly for the holding cells. The cells that I won’t be in. Nor Blaine. Because Blaine’s . . .

I swallow, unable to even think it.

The same silent alarm that flashed through the production lab when I first tried to escape kicks on, dousing the room in red. I look back at the control-room feed and find it frenzied, Order members shouting out instructions. On the docks, Forged Me looks up at the flashing lights, face livid. He turns his back on the rig and races into the facility.

Any cover Sammy and Bree had is gone.

I rip the final restraint off my leg and pull open the door of the interrogation room. The guards have left, drawn away by the alarm. I recall Harvey’s directions, and run.


“Emma?” I sprint into the cell block, pausing only to quickly glance through each doorway. They are all open. And all empty.

“Emma!”

She’s fled in the panic. That or Bree and Sammy have already been here.

Someone steps from the last cell. My Forged counterpart.

He looks frazzled. His plain shirt hangs crookedly on his frame, the neckline askew. The sleeves that were rolled up earlier have slid back down his arms. I wonder what this mess means for him. Frank is going to be furious.

“You said they were dead!” he spits, raising his gun. “That the team wouldn’t be coming.”

“I thought they were!”

“Well, they’re going to end up that way! I will personally make sure—”

He cuts off at the sound of footsteps. Miraculously, even though it makes no sense for her to be returning to the cells when she’s clearly already retrieved the only person in them, I hear Bree’s voice.

“I’m double-checking, Sammy, and that’s the end of it!”

The stairwell door slams.

Forged Me flinches and in that small drop of his focus, I throw my forearm into his, pushing the gun away. A shot goes off, straight into the floor, but I’ve seized the advantage. I push him backward, knock his arm against the wall. He drops the gun, and it’s in my hand now. I have him pinned in place, the gun shoved so aggressively beneath his chin that he’s looking up at the ceiling.