Forged (10 page)

THE FIRST THING I THINK
is that she is beautiful. It's a ridiculous thought in a moment like this, but it's what courses through me—awe at her, at everything about her. Second is the relief, overwhelming and fierce. I assumed her dead, had been trying to not even think of her because of it, and now she is here, as stubborn and brave as ever. She reappears in another feed, walking faster, with purpose and determination, almost possessed. Her gun trains up. Another shot, another dead camera.

She rounds a corner to find three Order members on guard. She shoots twice, two go down, and then her gun clicks, empty. She releases the magazine, which clatters to the floor. As the last man draws his handgun, she reloads
her weapon and drops to the ground all in one motion. She shoots his kneecap. He falls, screaming, and after a better-aimed shot from Bree, he is completely still. She scrambles to her feet and is again on her way.

Something hot laces my finger.

“Ow! What the—”

A shallow cut.

“Well, you're not giving me anything useful!” Harvey shouts, holding the knife he's used to draw blood. “Quit staring at screens and answer my questions.” He drops his voice to a whisper and adds, “She's heading for the holding cells, clearing a path right to Emma. This is your ticket out.”

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.

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.

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.

The cavernous warehouse opens onto the equally as cavernous shipping center. The water channel is in front of us, with long wharfs on either side, each sprouting docks like tree limbs. Enormous vessels are docked at the first few, making it impossible to see if the other docks house smaller
boats, or no boats at all. Directly to the right, dock 1B is swarming with activity. It looks like the giant rig there was in the process of being loaded with cargo when the alarm went off. Now, half the crew is still trying to load it while the others run around, pointing between the boat and the warehouse, barking orders.

“Dammit, where is Farrester?” I hear one Order member shout.

“He's not answering. Either the com lines are down or . . .”

I can't make out any more as I tail Bree down the left wharf. We've passed two docks—1A and 2A—when something explodes behind us. I glance over my shoulder. Dock 1B is in shambles. A hole has blown through the hull of the boat secured beside it. Smoke billows. A shipment crate tumbles into the channel.

“Clipper's work,” Bree shouts, breaking into a run.

“He's here?”

I'm guessing the supposed tracking device Bree's fake inspection team spotted on the boat was never a tracking device.

A speckling of bullets hits the wall behind us. We've finally been identified.

Bree lengthens her strides, and I do the same. About halfway up the wharf, she turns onto a dock and leaps into a waiting boat. It's small. Minuscule compared to the
shipping rigs closer to the warehouse, but it has the Franconian emblem on the side and something about its shape tells me it will be fast. I jump on after Bree and it roars to life, tearing away from the dock.

“Wait! Emma!” I say, crouching down so I don't lose my footing. “And Harvey!”

“Harvey's alive?” Bree says.

“Like always, you're out of the loop, Nox,” Sammy shouts. He's standing near the nose of the boat, hands gripping the wheel. “They're both below.” He glances at me. “Blaine?”

All I can do is shake my head.

“Faster!” Clipper urges. I didn't even notice him when we jumped on, but he's in a seat beside Sammy, a bulky package in his left hand.

“This
is
fast!” Sammy shouts back.

At the mouth of the Compound, I can see the security station Harvey mentioned, a sturdy room with glass windows that butts against the water. From behind the windows, a guard is signaling for us to stop. The Gulf ahead is dark beneath the falling twilight, but we'll have trouble reaching it. A series of spiked metal poles rise a forearm's length from the Compound's channel. They are precisely spaced, ensuring no boat can slip through unless the blockade is lowered. Not even one as tiny as ours.

“Clipper?” Sammy says hesitantly.

“We should fit. May promised we'd fit.”

Sammy doesn't slow. It looks tight. Too tight.

Several guards run from the security room and onto the surrounding exposed deck. They take aim.

The blockade is right before us now.

As they open fire, we duck. I swear a bullet nicks my ear, but the next moment we are flying between two of the pillars. A horrible screech sounds beneath our feet—the spikes tearing into the hull of the boat—but the next moment we are on the open water. I crane back toward the Compound, listening for the sound of a pursuing motor. All I hear is wind and our own motor, sounding wounded, drained. I look over the side of the boat, trying to survey the damage.

“I thought we were supposed to fit.”

“It doesn't matter,” Clipper says to me. “We're bailing soon anyway.”

“Bree, get 'em up here for the jump,” Sammy orders. She darts down the short half staircase to get Harvey and Emma.

“Jump?” I echo. “What shore do we plan to swim to?” As far as I can see, the only land in sight is the island we're fleeing, and our original plan had us traveling back to Pine Ridge in the disguised Order boat.

Sammy ignores my question and Clipper busies himself with securing his bulky package beneath his seat.

“Look, I get that the hull's breached,” I shout over the
wind, “but we'll freeze to death in this water!” I remember the sting of the Gulf when the
Catherine
sank, how it made me seize up. The days have been getting a little warmer, but I doubt the water's changed much. We won't last long.

“They'll come after us if they haven't already,” Sammy yells back. “So we jump, the boat blows up, and anyone trailing us sees the explosion and thinks we're goners.”

Bree reappears with Harvey and Emma.

“Okay, that's the signal!” I have no clue what Clipper's referring to. “On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

We throw ourselves over the side of the boat. The impact is a viscous sting across my face, a claw at my side. I'm thrown about in the freezing water, gasping for air, momentarily uncertain which way is up. I resurface, my clothes heavy and my teeth already knocking. Not far away is the flaming shell of our boat. Smoke drifts up like a bonfire as the Gulf swallows it.

I swim, following Sammy. There's another boat just ahead, one strikingly similar to the
Catherine
. It's killed all its lights and I'm half-amazed we didn't crash right into it. A rope ladder comes over the side. I guess the team had a back-up plan all along.

We climb aboard and are greeting by a curvy woman who distributes more thick blankets than seems natural for a fishing vessel to have on hand.

“Dry as best you can,” she says, “and then we'll go in and warm you properly.”

Bree pulls a blanket snug over her shoulders. “Thanks, May. We owe you.”

The woman beams and it makes her already plump cheeks get even plumper.

“And I don't get any thanks?” a guy behind her says. He's opposite of May in every way: tall and gangly, with skin that is leathering despite the youthful glimmer in his eyes.

May elbows him. “Carl, this isn't the time for sarcasm.”

I look between the team and the two strangers they all seem to know. “I'm confused.”

“Inside,” May says, waving toward the wheelhouse. “Once everyone's warm and in dry clothes, we'll talk.”

The team shuffles off, Clipper clinging to Harvey like a lost child, and my gaze drifts to Emma. There is so much I need to say, but I can't get my feet to move and that's probably for the best. She won't believe me. How could she after what happened at the Compound?

She glances my way, and her eyes feel like ice.

Tell her you're sorry about picking Blaine
.

But I'm not. The situation was horrible. But I'm not sorry I tried to save my brother.

Then tell her you forgive her for Craw. Tell her you've been over it awhile now
.

But I don't want to mislead her. My heart is elsewhere—tied up in another person—and I can't change that. Wouldn't want to even if I could.

At least tell her you still care about her. That you always will
.

But she won't believe it. Not after what happened with Blaine and my Forgery and . . .

She's still staring at me.

Sammy is regarding her apprehensively, like she's a ghost that terrifies him, but he can't bring himself to look away.

It's such a mess, life. The way everything gets all jumbled and tangled and knotted. Why can't it be easy? Bree would say something like,
Because easy would be boring
, and she's probably right, but in this moment I'd love boring. I'd love straightforward and clear and tied up in a pretty bow. I'd love no surprises and happy endings and everyone getting what they wished. Right now, boring sounds pretty damn perfect.

Sammy pulls his gaze from Emma long enough to look my way, and I give him an encouraging nod. I don't know why he's seeking out permission. He doesn't need it.

“Hi,” Sammy says to Emma. “I was a little preoccupied for introductions earlier—escaping and explosions and all—but I'm Sammy.”

He offers his hand.

“Emma.” She shakes it. “And thanks for before, with the cell.”

“'Twas a small detour, and absolutely worthwhile if you ask me.”

He flashes her a smile. She gives him a sympathetic one in return. Just like that, so
easily
, Sammy sets them on course.

I hope it continues to be easy for them. I hope it's easy and boring and downright effortless. They both deserve a break.