Forged (16 page)

BREE'S DOOR SWINGS OPEN WHEN
I push on it. She's sitting on the edge of her bed, elbows against her knees and gun clasped in her hands. It's pointed at the far wall, but her forehead rests against the barrel.

“Hey!” I say, darting in and pulling the weapon away from her. “Dammit, Bree.”

She looks up at me, eyes red. Her gaze trails to the gun and then back to me. She makes a small
pshh
noise, and says, “I was just thinking.”

“Are you drunk?” She keeps staring straight-ahead, like she can see through my torso. “Are you?”

“I'm upset!” she cries, leaping to her feet. “Is that not allowed? Does something have to alter my mental state
before I'm allowed to get emotional?”

“Just answer the question.”

She glares. “No. I'm not drunk.”

She was crying then. I'm not used to seeing her like this, exhausted, eyes bloodshot from tears. Before she can turn away from me, I grab her arm.

“Why are we fighting?”

“Because he's going to ruin us—
you
—and you can't see it!” she says. “We have absolutely no proof that Harvey won't turn on us.”

“Jackson helped us once.”

“Jackson did what would benefit him. Always. He saved you from Titus because he knew he'd die, too, if he didn't, or be stuck beneath Burg. He let you climb the Wall because he thought the pursuing Forgeries wouldn't hurt him. He thought he'd be able to run right back to Frank, that his family was there to take him home.” She shakes her head. “Don't you see, Gray? There are Forgeries and there are people, but nothing in between. Jackson was always looking out for himself.”

But Bree didn't hear Jackson's confessions to me beneath Burg. She didn't hear him talk about things he shouldn't have been able to remember, or admit that he loved his younger brother—an emotion impossible for a programmed Forgery. He didn't stay behind in Burg because he thought it
would save him. He stayed behind because he knew it would save us.

And I would bet my life that Harvey is the same. Bree wasn't there to watch his face come alive with awareness at the Compound, to see him undo my bindings in the interrogation room and let me walk free. He wants nothing more than to help us.

“The Sunder Rally's in a week,” I tell her. “Sammy and Clipper are leaving for Taem soon—to be our backup inside.”

Her face pales.

“I want you with them. In that car. Having my back.”

“I do have your back, Gray. I'm telling you right now that I don't trust Harvey.”

“But
I
trust him. Is my opinion worth nothing?”

“If it wasn't your life on the line, maybe it would be different.”

“Blaine's life was on the line once, too. So was my father's. And Bo's and Xavier's and so many more. I made a promise the night we got back to Pine Ridge that I would avenge Blaine or die trying. That's all I'm living for now. To make things right.”

“And what about the people you still have, Gray? Me and Sammy and Clipper. Are we not worth living for?”

“I can't walk away from Blaine. I have to do this.”

“But he's gone, Gray.” The heaviness in her voice reaches
her eyes. “The only people you'll be walking away from if you do this are the ones you have left.”

When I don't say anything she lets out an audible growl and rips back her bedsheets.

“You can leave now. I'm kind of tired.”

“Bree . . .” I put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugs me off.

“Bree, I need you with me on this,” I try again. “Please don't stay here with September.
Please
.”

She studies me, her expression torn. “When did I ever say I was staying?”

“But you just . . . and everything you said downstairs . . .”

“Is still true,” she finishes. “I think the plan's stupid. I'm terrified it will backfire. And I'm furious that even with me admitting all that, you're still going to run with it. But I don't have a choice, Gray. When did I
ever
have a choice?”

I search her eyes, confused.

Bree pulls her shoulders into a defeated shrug. “The only thing I'll regret more than handing you over to certain death is not being there to try to stop it. And if I can't stop it, I want to be with you until the end.”

“That sounds self-destructive, especially for you.”

“Loving someone is self-destructive.” I must look skeptical because she adds, “Seriously. Love makes people irrational. I mean, the way I feel about you—sometimes it
scares me, Gray. I stormed the Compound for you, struck down men, shot your double right in the stomach without a second's hesitation, and I'd do it all again. I'd do anything not to lose you, and that's dangerous.”

“I'd do the same.”

“Which makes us dumb.”

“Not if we keep our heads. We've gotten through everything before. We can get through this, too.”

“I hope you're right,” she says. “I really do. Because every time I tell myself the same thing, it feels like a giant lie.”

I can't sleep. In part due to nerves—there are no shortage of unknowns lying ahead—and also because I can't shake the look of fear on Bree's face, her unwavering opposition to the plan. Still, for the first time in months, I feel as though I am doing the right thing. I am exactly where I need to be, walking the only road left to be traveled. This sort of possessed nature reminds me of when I climbed the Claysoot Wall. My heart's already somewhere ahead of me, and now it's only a matter of letting my feet catch up.

“Anxious?” Sammy asks as I roll over again.

“Yeah. You?”

“Sure, but you're keeping me up more than the nerves are, flopping around like a dying fish.”

The image makes me smile. Not that he can see it in the dark.

“She's not really staying behind, is she?”

“No. She'll come.”

Sammy exhales. “Thank God. Did you have to beg?”

“Luckily, no, because it probably wouldn't have helped. Didn't you watch me beg for her forgiveness the last two months?”

He laughs lightly, then adds, “Shit, man. Why is it that anything worth having is always a second away from being taken from you?”

“Just life keeping you nimble, I guess.”

In the distance I can hear the muffled crash of waves—surging onto the shore, pulling back, crashing again.

“Hey, Sammy? What'd you do after your father was executed?”

“Broke every dish in the house, screamed until my throat was hoarse, and burned the photos I had of him because his smile was driving me crazy.”

“But after that? After the anger and the grief?”

“There is no after. I still feel it. Every single day. That's why I ditched Taem and took to the forest. I didn't care if it put a target on my back for the rest of my life. I was going to make sure I made my father proud, carried out his work in
my own way. And I never thought I'd say this, but the end might finally be in sight.” Another small pause. “Why?”

“I just want to be sure I'm doing the right thing. Even if people I trust are telling me the opposite.”

“All I know is if you ignore what you feel in your gut, you'll regret it forever.”

Exactly my thinking. I angle my head so I can see him. It's too dark to make out much beyond the outline of his face, upturned and focused on the ceiling.

“I'm glad this mess brought us together.”

“Together?” He side eyes me. “I thought you were all about Bree. You don't want to cuddle, do you?”

“Night, Sammy.”

“What, I can't joke and lighten the mood? It was getting too serious in here.”

I smile in the dark. He can't see it, but he senses my mood just as Blaine would and adds, “Keep flopping and I'll tear your gills out.”

It's the best threat I've heard in ages.

VIK IS IN FULL SUPPORT
of our plans. In fact, he even has a few suggestions that strengthen the odds in our favor, and he agrees to pass the information along to the necessary people back east.

I spend the better part of the day getting Bree up to speed while Harvey and Clipper slave away in the basement. The boy is gathering damning Order information that can be leaked just before the coordinated strike—hopefully it will encourage additional civilians to join the Rebels. Harvey labors over his code, writing the virus needed to infect Taem's alarm system. When it's finished, it will just be a matter of getting into Union Central, uploading it to the system, and referencing an archived version of the overture
that Harvey promises will exist. Frank may have outlawed certain arts for the general public, but he saved the best of the best. An indulgence allowed only for himself and a few select Order members—like Harvey, when he still worked in Union Central's labs.

The following evening, he waves a thumb drive at me and says we're ready.

September has a car waiting in an alley on the southern edge of town, one window purposely broken, the paint stripped down to make it appear as if it's been rusting there for years. She claims she had to trade an arm and a leg for the vehicle, but she still has four limbs, and like a very slow child, I'm the last one to understand the figure of speech.

“Extra gas is in the back,” she says, tossing the keys to Sammy. “Don't even ask me what a pain it was to secure.”

“So the fuel was easy to get?”

“Dammit, Sammy.” But she smiles.

“You have the files?” Harvey asks Clipper.

“For the tenth time, yes. Do you want to see?”

“No, no. Every time you open the bag I worry the drive will fall out and then I have to ask again.”

“We'll keep our eyes peeled from the Taem safe house,” Sammy says to me and Harvey. “Soon as we catch wind that you guys have arrived, we'll make our move.”

“Sewers. Can't wait.” This from Clipper.

They were the least conspicuous option though, the only road that will lead to me no matter where I end up being held.

“Enough chatter,” September says, waving the trio to action.

I offer Clipper my palm, but he opts for a parting hug over a handshake. He's taller than Bree these days, the top of his head even with my nose.

“Stay on your toes out there, genius,” I tell him.

He moves on to Harvey, and I spot Bree standing in the bedroom hallway. With a gun on her hip. And a jacket zipped high beneath her chin. And a full pack weighing down her shoulders.

My chest clenches. I wanted her to be a part of this, I did, but now that she's loaded up and ready to go, I'm suddenly terrified that this will be the last time I ever see her.

I surge forward and pull her into a hug, try to memorize the feel of her in my arms.

“Bree!” Sammy calls from the living room.

“I'll see you real soon,” I tell her, and press a kiss to her forehead. “Trust your instincts and everything will be fine.”

“My instincts are saying to stop right now. To not let you out of my sight. To make sure the Order doesn't take you again.”

“But they'll be taking me
to
you. You'll be waiting.”

Her lips purse, her brow fills with lines. “I love you,” she manages.

“Same.”

One more kiss, quick, and she steps around me. When I turn, Sammy is standing at the mouth of the hallway.

“Take care of her,” I say.

“You know she doesn't need it,” he answers.

“And you know exactly what I really mean.”

“That I do.”

When I turned twelve, Xavier promised to make me an adult-sized bow. It was a month before his Heist and he said it was his gift to me. I was the best shot he'd ever trained and he wanted me to remember him after he was gone, be reminded that I couldn't even fire an arrow straight before receiving his guidance.

It took him a few days to find a fitting piece of maple, and another to strip it of bark, cut string notches, and shape the grip with wrapped leather. But it was the last step—stringing the bow—that seemed to take far longer than the hour Xavier worked on it. When you're anxious for something, waiting becomes its own form of torture.

It's been two days since the team left for Taem, and it's felt like two years.

Bea printed her most recent issue of the
Harbinger
yesterday, in which she insisted on reporting that I'm back east and planning something, despite my objections. It led to another search on the Order's part, and they were unbiased in their efforts. Despite Garrett's position, the house was stormed. Harvey, Emma, and I sat huddled in the basement, afraid an exhale might give us away. The place was tossed, but the Order was too busy tipping furniture and pulling bookcases away from the walls to examine the wall-to-wall carpet beneath their feet. They never found the trapdoor.

Tonight, under the cover of a cloudy sky, Bea disappears with her brothers for one of September's underground meetings. Even Emma tags along, but it's deemed unsafe for me to leave the house. When I'm spotted tomorrow, it will be on purpose. Until then, we're not taking unnecessary risks. Understandable, but the house is starting to feel like a prison. After a final round of Rock, Paper, Scissors with Aiden, I leave him in Rusty's company and visit Harvey.

“We're heading home tomorrow night,” he says when I enter the basement. “You ready?”

“Taem's not my home, Harvey.”

I pull up a chair and watch him for a while. He's been spending every waking hour staring at a screen since the team left, and I have no clue what he's even looking at anymore. The virus is set and done, in Clipper's hands and somewhere much farther east.

“What have you been doing down here? I thought your work was done.”

“It is. I'm just reading.”

“Why?”

He squints, leans closer to the screen. “It's fascinating.”

I run my thumb along the edge of the wooden desk, flinching when it catches on a splinter. Harvey's eyes move back and forth behind his glasses, occasionally narrowing, sometimes glinting. Like the code is a thing he respects, a person he's in awe of.

“Are you absolutely positive this is going to work?”

“No,” he says plainly.

“What?” I sit bolt upright. “In the meetings you said—”

“It
should
work. I really think it will. But I also thought the Forgeries would keep people safe and that Frank would use them for good. At least initially.” He takes his glasses off and turns to me. This is a thing Harvey does. When the glasses come off it means a speech and deep thinking. Unless he rubs his eyes, which means he's in desperate need of sleep.

“Science is a powerful thing, Gray, a wonderful thing,” he says. Deep thinking it is. “But when it is used to serve one man, rather than the masses, that's when it fails. It becomes personal. Technological advancement should benefit many and benefit them equally. If one person rises to the top, if he or she benefits substantially more than everyone else, well,
that's a step in the wrong direction.

“I
think
the fail-safe will work, I really do, but I don't know for sure. Just as I didn't know how to make an F-GenX until it was finished and functioning. If I knew things for certain, we wouldn't be in this mess.”

He sounds so much like the
real
Harvey, so passionate and rational. The last time I saw that man, he was a projection in the night that lit up Taem's dome.

“How'd you die, Harvey? Do you remember?”

“I have memories of sitting in Frank's office with you,” he says. “Then medics visiting me in a guarded room to fix my shoulder. They injected me with something and it all goes cloudy after that. The next memory I have is opening my eyes to the sound of Mozart. As for the moments in between . . .” He bites his bottom lip, sits back in the chair. “I'm not sure how he—how I—died. Taem papers reported I took a bullet when fighting broke out in the square.”

I remember something Bo said about Harvey getting hit by cross fire that day. I truly hope it was that fast.

“We never should have left you.”

“I was dead.”

“We should have checked.”

“And maybe we wouldn't be here right now if you had. Maybe you'd be dead, too. Or maybe the vaccine wouldn't have made it back to the Rebels. Life is too complex to go
examining all the
if
s. Worry about the here and now, and the fork you're approaching. Focus on
those
decisions.”

He puts his glasses back on, turns to the screen. I examine his profile.

“Bree still doesn't believe you're you,” I say.

Eying me over the rim of his glasses, he says, “Guess I'll just have to prove her wrong.”