Forged(31)

The doorway to the cell block is thrown open and Bree races in.

“Help me!” Forged Me begs. “Please. It’s me. He’s got me, the Forgery.”

“Let him go,” Bree says, her gun already aimed at me.

“Bree, he’s lying,”

“Shoot him!” he urges. “Shoot him before he kills us both!”

Her eyes dart between us. “Step away from him.” I don’t move and her eyes narrow. “Don’t test me. Step away right now!”

“Bree, it’s me.”

“Move back!” She looks fierce and empowered, completely in control. Her aim hasn’t faltered once and I know what a good shot she is. If she decides to pull the trigger, she won’t miss.

I take a few steps away from the Forgery, both my hands up. Forged Me stands a little taller.

“What is your biggest regret?” she asks us, and my heart lifts. This is it. Everything will be okay.

“What I said that night on the beach. How I told you I doubted us, said we weren’t right.”

“He . . . he tortured me for that answer,” Forged Me stammers. “He made me tell him everything. Please, you have to trust me. It’s me. It’s Gray.”

His acting is stellar: the desperation, the fear. I realize for the first time how convincing it all looks. He’s unarmed and in the clothing Bree last saw me wearing. I’m still in the Order uniform. And now this—his lie that I’ve stolen the very answer that should save me.

I don’t want it to be enough, but Bree’s stare is murderous. “Put the gun on the floor—slowly—and slide it over.”


“Bree, it’s me. You have to believe that. I know everything about you. How you don’t sleep well without the sound of waves, and have a birthmark on your hip, and are double-jointed. You’re the best shot I know and stubborn as hell. Strong, too. So damn strong. You used to love herons, but now loons are your favorite, and you can call to them with your hands. I’ve seen you do it. And purple’s your favorite color, right? You said so in the Tap Room once. Deep, dark, almost black purp—”

“He got all these answers from me!” the Forgery screams. “He’s wearing the damn uniform. Shoot him while you still have a chance!”

“Shoot him. He’s—”

“The gun!” she demands. “Slide it over now.”

I consider firing at the Forgery, but my weapon is held in surrender, barrel pointed at the ceiling, whereas hers is already aimed at my chest. If I do anything other than what she demands, I’m pretty sure I’ll end up dead.

I slide it over. She tucks it in the back of her pants.

“Now a few more steps,” she says, motioning with the gun. “Then sit on your hands.”

I shuffle backward—slowly, so she has no reason to fire—and lower myself to the floor.

When she’s satisfied I’m no longer a risk, she approaches the Forgery. Her head is cocked to the side. She’s still not positive. She’s looking for the answer on his face, in his eyes. My gaze trails over Bree’s waist. Her belt is loaded with ammunition but not a single flashlight. She doesn’t stand a chance of identifying him by naked eye. Not with the flashing alarm, the chaotic pulses of red.

“Bree,” Forged Me says, drawing a deep breath. “Thank you. I thought you’d . . . I didn’t know if . . .”

She steps closer. Too close. He’s going to get the gun from her waistband if she’s not careful. Her hand goes fondly to his left wrist. She slides her hand beneath his shirt, reaching toward his elbow, pulling him nearer. He seems to forget everything else as she offers him her lips. My pulse is raging. I scramble to my feet, but just before their lips meet, a gunshot rips the air.

Forged Me collapses against the wall, an arm clutched around his stomach where Bree holds her gun. The gun I’d forgotten about as I watched her move to kiss him. The gun she fired right into his gut.

“You bastard,” she says. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t know?”

She lets go of his arm and he slides to the floor in a heap, his breaths shallow and growing quicker.

Bree holds the gun I surrendered out to me, grip first.

“How could you tell?”

“His arm,” she says. “There were no burn scars.”

I touch my left forearm, glance back at her. Her lip is split from when the Order member hit her. I swear a bruise is already surfacing on her neck.

“Bree, I—”

“Not yet,” she says, shaking the gun’s grip at me. “Not until we’re out of this.”

It’s like that moment I pulled her from the Catherine and knew exactly what she wanted to say, only reversed. At least for the two of us, and especially right now, words aren’t necessary.

I take the gun from her and risk one last look at the dying Forgery as we flee the cell block.





FIFTEEN


ONE OF SEPTEMBER’S KEY CARDS gets us through the door at the bottom of the stairwell and into a warehouse. Darting through towering rows of crates and past frantic Order members, we keep our heads up and our posture confident. No one stops us. In uniform, we’re just another pair of workers. Still, I worry about how long we have until the control room relays Bree’s description to the Order members down here.