Forged(58)

He rubs his hands together expectantly.

The floor sinks farther. I feel the rope tighten above me and rise onto my toes. Next comes the pressure against my windpipe, cutting off my air.

“A strike on the Compound,” I choke out, our agreed cover. “Trying to destroy the Forgeries I discovered when you held me there.”

“When?”

“During the Sunder Rally.”

My toes are barely touching the floor anymore. My throat is screaming.

“Interesting,” is all Frank says, and he keeps watching. As my toes lift off the floor. As I claw at the rope beneath my neck. As I gag.

This is an awful way to die. For the smallest moment I pity Marco for what I did to him. I feel my lungs shudder, heave, beg.

I hear footsteps, someone else entering the room. Harvey walks behind Frank and leans forward to speak into his ear.

“Sir,” he says, “I really think we should make a spectacle of it. It will pack more punch.”

They both regard me calmly. I kick as though I can swim through air.

Frank frowns, but signals to someone. The rope is cut and I drop like a stone. Pain rockets through my knees and back when I hit the platform.

“See you at the Rally,” Frank says.

I’m on all fours—retching and gasping—but I can hear his smile in the bright tone of his voice. When I look up to confirm it, he’s gone.

A door slams.

The lights bang off.

Darkness again.





TWENTY-NINE


I SIT AT THE FOOT of the platform, legs stretched out before me. My right ankle hurts from when I lowered myself over the edge and dropped to the floor. It was a longer fall than I predicted, but in the darkness, I’d tried anyway. Now, with nothing but my thoughts to entertain me as the evening unfolds, my fears are multiplying.

I should have come east in the car with Sammy, Bree, and Clipper. Why did I think the best option was Harvey walking me directly into the enemy’s claws?

You needed to be sure Harvey could earn Frank’s trust, the rational part of my brain whispers. You needed him to be welcomed back into the Order’s inner circle.

And yes, since I left the Compound with Harvey in tow, supposedly my hostage, it only makes sense for Harvey to reappear with me as his. But then a few more minutes pass and my pulse begins pounding all over again. I’m in a locked room, completely helpless, and awaiting my own execution. If the team can’t get to me, I know they’ll act when I’m transferred to the Sunder Rally. We broke down all the various rescue possibilities in Bone Harbor. But still . . . What if something goes wrong? Something can always go wrong. The execution could happen here. I might never be moved and my death could be broadcast nationwide during the Rally from this very cell.

Calm down, I say to myself, knocking my head against the platform again. Calm. Down.

It takes a very, very long time for me to fall asleep.


I wake to someone jerking my arms behind my back, where they are then secured in cuffs tight enough to break my skin if I struggle. I’m tugged to my feet, blindfolded, and then shoved into a car. I can’t see a thing, but the sound of the door slamming, followed by the rumbling engine, is unmistakable.

“Take the back way,” a guard at my side says.

The vehicle pitches over a rough patch of road and picks up speed. Either the windows of the vehicle are blacked out or it’s still predawn, because I can’t sense a single ray of sun as we accelerate.

The guards ramble about ordinary things as we drive: their pay, wanting more time off, that wedding last weekend when so-and-so got lucky. One of them mentions a sick daughter at home. They sound so . . . normal. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume I was in a car of Rebels.

“This is the turn.”

The vehicle slows, rounds a corner. Again picks up speed.

“Hang on. Is that bridge out? Why are . . .”

We brake aggressively.

I hear the explosion before I feel it: a deafening roar, followed by a rumbling beneath the car’s wheels.

“This left! Turn here!”

I’m thrown against the door, banging my right shoulder. Another explosion. Debris of some sort rains down on the roof.

“Back! Back! Before we’re boxed in.”

The car surges, driving in reverse. My stomach twists. Pops echo outside the car. I hear what sounds like heavy rain against the windows, but we’re still moving.

A third rumble. Screeching brakes. We turn fast. Too fast. I feel the right side of the vehicle lose traction with the ground. The sensation of tipping lasts only a moment because soon there’s no sense of up or down at all. I hit what I assume is the roof of the car, then I’m thrown back in the other direction. The vehicle lurches to a standstill, but the popping gunfire continues outside.

My head is throbbing and the entire right side of my body aches. Blood trickles down my brow and is absorbed by the blindfold. I try to shrug it off, but when I strain against my bound wrists, the cuffs only seem to get tighter.

“Pete!” the guard pinned beneath me shouts. He shoves me off and I feel him lean toward what would be the front of the car. “Pete?” He gags. “Oh God. Oh . . .”

He grabs my elbow and tugs. We’re moving up, but it would be toward the right-side doors if we hadn’t rolled. He won’t stop yelling about pain in his leg, but it seems like he’s faring better than Pete.