The Replaced(21)

When we reached the central lab door, it was still ajar from Simon’s Silly Putty blast.

“Ready?” I whispered. And then, because it didn’t matter whether we were ready or not, I swallowed hard and shoved the door open, hoping against hope we’d find Willow alone and the lab otherwise deserted.

No such luck. Agent Truman was there, with no fewer than a dozen of his Daylight Division soldiers—only three were suited up in protective gear, and the rest were as exposed as he was.

I felt sick with horror when I saw Willow, fastened to one of those gurneys. She wasn’t making it particularly easy on them, though, thrashing beneath the leather straps they’d bound her with. Her head banged against the slick metal, creating a crashing sound that echoed off the glass tiles and walls.

“Her!” Agent Truman crowed triumphantly, pointing at me. “She’s the one we want.”

When eight of those soldier-y guys descended on us, I held up my hands in surrender.

But Natty made sure every last one of them was paying attention as she jabbed her gun right between my shoulder blades.

It made sense I would be the one who got shot. Not just because it had been my idea to come back for Willow, but because I would heal so, so much faster than the rest of them. If Natty actually had to pull the trigger, an idea that turned my stomach because it meant exposing those soldiers who weren’t suited up to my deadly blood, I could potentially be up and running again by the time we had Willow out of her restraints.

I managed to grin when I said, “Stand back or the girl gets it,” by which I meant me, of course. I could practically feel Simon rolling his eyes behind me.

Despite my lame attempt to be funny, and my seriously poor timing, the mood in the room shifted as my meaning sank in. Those not in gear collectively rocked backward, as if just easing away might keep them safe.

All except Agent Truman. He shoved his way to the front, casting me a vicious glare. “What do you think this is? A negotiation?” He glanced toward Willow before raising his voice. “We’re not offering a trade. None of you is getting out of here.”

“We’re not here to trade,” I told him, keeping my arms in the air. I stayed focused, breathing evenly to calm my heart as I evaluated the opposing team. Sure, they looked fierce, but I reminded myself they were just people—regular-ordinary-average men who just so happened to be soldiers.

Big, yes. Trained, no doubt. But still, just normal guys.

We had something they didn’t: the ability to heal . . . and that whole toxic-blood thing.

“Don’t be stupid,” Agent Truman intoned. There was something cagey in the way he moved, and my heart picked up a beat, and then another as I kept my eyes trained on him. It wasn’t just that he didn’t back away like the others; he was up to something. He put his hands up placatingly, and even his voice became somehow less threatening. “These guys haven’t done anything wrong. Leave them out of it.”

These guys—it was a strange way for him to phrase it, since I was including him in my threat. But the guys in question looked relieved, like they were glad he was offering them an out.

They didn’t want the dreaded Code Red, which was what they called it when someone was infected by our blood, any more than I wanted to take a bullet through my shoulder. I might heal, but it would still hurt like a mother.

A few men backed up another step, but Simon must’ve sensed the same thing I did, that Agent Truman was up to something, and he called out a warning. “Don’t move! Everyone, just stay where you are.” When they all did as he ordered, freezing in place, I finally started to believe we might actually pull this thing off. Then he said, “Get her off that thing,” and Thom slipped past me, and past the guards, to Willow.

No one stopped Thom. No one so much as lifted a finger when he unfastened the straps, or when Willow jumped up, sending the gurney crashing to the glass tiles beneath us.

“You’re making a big mistake.” Agent Truman was still inching toward us, his face devoid of fear.

“Seriously. Stop where you are,” I said, part of me hoping Natty would go through with it when the time came, but hoping almost as hard that she’d chicken out.

We never got the chance to find out.

Thom tried to warn us, Willow too, with their shouts of “Behind you!” and “Run!” But it was too late for warnings because suddenly Simon was tackled from behind. I recognized the soldier who took him down because I could never forget those eyes—ice blue. The same guy Simon and I had knocked out with Jett’s sleeping gas. He grinned down in Simon’s face. “Got you now, you little piss.”

Natty was slammed from the side, and her gun toppled to the floor, skittering noisily across the tiles and coming to rest against one of the tall glass cylinders. In the sudden chaos, Thom went down too, hurled to the ground, and buried beneath a pile of bodies.

Willow, who’d just gotten to her feet, had this strange faraway look in her eyes, like she was dazed, and I was sure I knew why: they’d drugged her. Just one more reason we had to get her out of here.

I was the only one of our group still standing and able to fight.

Now it was just me and him—Agent Truman.

The back of my head ached. It burned and buzzed, and I tried to place the sensation.

I looked back at Agent Truman . . . and past him, to the central lab. To the glass tubes and the gurneys and the soldiers who could ruin everything.