Forged(60)

“Where’s the safe house?” I yell as we run.

“Not close.”

“So how the hell are we going to get there?”

“Sewers.”

Of course.

She takes a sharp turn, leading to a flight of stairs. “Up this, out the window, then a half block to the entrance.” She even dares a smile over her shoulder before taking the stairs two at a time.

The gunfire is getting louder again, almost as though we’ve circled back toward the fighting. I can see the window at the top of the stairs. The sky has nearly lost all its color.

Bree hits the landing, shoves the window open.

“Wait,” she says as I put my hands on the sill. She turns back toward the stairwell, gun poised. A few seconds tick by and she frowns. “He was right on our tail. I heard him.”

I don’t know how. I can barely hear her over the blaring alarm system, and she’s screaming right into my ear.

“We must have lost him.”

“Don’t.” She grabs my arm and hauls me away from the window. “Something’s off.” Her forehead furrows. She reaches behind her back and pulls a spare gun from her waistband. “We check together. You take ground level, I’ll check above.”

“A trap?” I ask, accepting the weapon.

“I’m not sure. Something though . . .”

We flank the window. She counts, her voice a whisper, and on three, we both pivot, angling outside. The ground is clear, no one in sight. At my side Bree yelps, and ducks back into the building. I hear her gun clatter to the floor. Right then I know it is indeed a trap, but not on the streets. No, this is worse. I move slowly, knowing what I’m going to see before my eyes actually take it in.

Bree is in the hands of an Order member. He has her held against his chest like a shield, a knife kissing the smooth skin of her neck. In his other hand is a gun, aimed directly at me.

“Put your weapon down,” he orders, and I can’t see a single reason not to comply.





THIRTY


“DON’T DO IT, GRAY,” BREE says. “Don’t do anything he tells you to.”


“You really shouldn’t test me,” the Order member says. “After all, you know I have it in me to follow through.” He shifts so that he is no longer fully sheltered behind Bree. I can see only half his face, but my stomach drops. I’m looking in a mirror.

“You were dead. She shot you.”

“I was dying,” my Forgery corrects. “But stomach wounds are a slow, painful way to go, and it bought me time. Enough to be flown to Taem and receive expert medical care. So thank you for that. Now, put your gun down.”

With half his face still hidden behind Bree, I barely have a shot. Barely. I’ve never been good with handguns. Not like Bree. And if I hit her . . .

I tuck my elbow in, letting the gun train toward the ceiling.

“Dammit, Gray!”

“That’s a good boy. Now put it on the floor.”

“Don’t,” she says. “I’m begging you not to.”

But what am I supposed to do? What can I possibly do?

“Shoot him. Take any shot you’ve got,” she urges.

“So noisy.” The Forgery brings his blade to her lips and hushes her. She falls silent, but he continues to apply pressure, to the point that she gasps. The knife slips into her mouth and I can see it like a blister rising, pressing against her cheek from the inside. My blood thins at the sight of it, then slows at the words spilling from my Forgery. He makes his threats as though they are a song he enjoys singing: Bree has a dirty mouth . . . She used it as a weapon against him and he should take it from her . . . She’s a dog who needs a muzzle but perhaps she’d be safer without a set of lips at all.

Her eyes lock on mine and she rolls them. This is so like her to judge me even now, to criticize my hesitation. Like I have a mountain of options at my disposal. There is nothing to shoot, no part of the Forgery I can hit without also hitting her.

Bree slides her feet into a broader stance and rolls her eyes again. An exaggerated motion. And I understand.

She is going to roll.

Before I can reason with her, she stomps down on the Forgery’s foot. He howls. Then she bends, throwing her hips into his gut and rolling him clear off his feet and over her back. He smacks the floor, and my bullet finds him next. Twice. So there can be no mistake. I pick up Bree’s dropped weapon and double-check the Forgery. He’s gone. Gone for good.

But when I glance up, I realize worse damage has been done.

Bree is bleeding. Everywhere. There is so much blood I can’t tell where her mouth ends and the injury begins.

I rush to her, cup her face. His knife fought its way free. When she bent over to throw him off balance, she did so even with the knife pressed against the inside of her cheek, even when that motion required her to fight against the very edge of the blade.

The corner of her lip doesn’t end where it used to.

She’s not screaming in pain—not yet at least—but she’s sputtering as blood pools in her mouth, catching the overflow in her hands.

I tug her away from the window and down the hallway. The medical kits were abundant on the lower level, but here it feels like forever until I find one. I yank it from its brackets and pull Bree into a nearby bathroom. I drop our guns and riffle through the kit. I pull out bandages and press them against the wound.