Prototype (2 page)

Declan’s gaze falls, and a look of sheer loss paints his expression. The strong hands that know every inch of my skin slide up and grip the edges of the podium. His chest rises and falls hard beneath his fine suit.

Then his gaze lifts, and there lies a heat that had not been there prior. Through the camera, past all the miles between us, the intensity of his stare sears into me. As if he sees me. As if there is no distance between us at all.

“The resistance took my wife, Emma. And I want her back.”

M
y
breath catches on the heels of his announcement. Why would he do this? Revenge? Have I not paid enough?

Declan continues, though his voice is nearly drowned out by my heartbeat rushing in my ears.
“I’m offering a reward in the amount of a hundred thousand dollars for any information leading to the rescue of my wife, Emma. But,”
he says in a sharp tone that emphasizes the word,
“bring her to me alive, and you will be a millionaire ten times over.”

My picture flashes across the hologram along with a phone number. It is an old picture—my hair was chin length then—taken from the showing of my art in a gallery. My first and last show.

Cesar pushes me into the wall, where I hit with a
thunk.
Pieces of the weathered surface fall and pebble around our feet. He grips my throat in his hand. For an old man, he is strong and fast. “What is your real purpose for seeking me out, Emma Burke, wife of the richest man in the Americas?”

I gasp for what little air his hand allows. “He lies. I escaped. Thought he was dead. I swear.”

The old man backhands me, and I stumble into the cobbled street with a ringing ear and throbbing cheek. Men face me from every direction. Thanks to my image poised over their heads like a beacon, I am all too recognizable to this poor village.

They glance between me and the picture, and the potential threat urges me to take an unsteady step back. Then the whispering begins. Pointing. I take another step, my heart crashing against my sternum like a caged animal.

Go, go, go.

The men converge on me like a swarm of buzzing insects. Spinning, I jump on a stack of produce crates resting against the side of a one-story building. I pull myself to a red-shingled rooftop and roll to my back. I take one heaving breath before getting to my feet and crossing to the other end of the angled roof.

I jump to another building, this one with a flat top, that sits slightly lower to the ground. I am to the middle when several men jump down behind me. One of the men is fast and snags me by the pack I wear. I drop to my backside and scrape my palms on the concrete surface.

He reaches for me again. I swing a leg at his ankles and sweep his feet out from under him. By the time I get back up, the others have reached me. I nail one with an elbow shot. Another with a head butt that brings tears to my eyes. White dots float in my vision. Unsure I will be able to aim accurately again, I slide out of the grabby hands and run for the side of the roof.

I jump to the ground and roll in a thick patch of grass. The edge of the village is not far, and beyond that, a collage of pine, oak, and ash trees. I can lose myself in the sprawling hills of Michoacán. What I should do after that is anyone’s guess.

The majority of my followers quit their pursuit before the village limits. They do not run every day like I do. I run because I must outrun them all, a lesson I learned from one of my most useful memories of last year.

I do not look back but instead listen to the dropping off of footfalls and, according to their tones, frustrated curses. I run into the trees and lose several more. Well into the first mile, I reach the entrance to a cemetery. Stone steps lead up the steep hillside. Aging statues of angels, heads bowed in prayer, frame either side of the entrance. Ivy winds up their ethereal bodies. Loose green leaves carpet each step. The sun shines through dense foliage, casting heavenly fingers around the blessed area.

I duck behind large headstones, hoping to lose whoever still follows. When I think I have been out of sight for a while, I push through the door of a mausoleum and close myself inside. Dust particles float in shafts of sunlight from small windows near the top. Three stone coffins fill the space. Dried flowers rise stiffly from dust-coated ceramic vases.

Voices sound close outside and I scramble to the nearest coffin to test the lid. The stone is heavy but scrapes aside with little trouble. A putrid and dank-scented cloud encapsulates the air around me. My gag reflex hitches and I cannot bring myself to look down at first. The raised calls outside grow closer, though, and force me into action.

Whoever the woman was, she has completed the decomposition process, making things easier. She wears the remains of a full-length white dress, pearls at her throat, and a diamond ring to rival mine.

I could sell those.

I grip the coarse stone edge and shake my head. I cannot believe I just considered robbing a dead woman’s grave. There are no circumstances that dire. Not even mine. Besides, I will owe her once I do what I am about to do.

Carefully, I push the remains aside and climb in. The interior smell is nowhere near as bad as the initial release, but it is still awful. I hold my breath and exert all my strength into shifting the heavy lid back into place. Soon, not even a slip of light passes through.

My next draw of breath drags in the foul air and pulls tears from my eyes.
Oh God, there is a dead woman next to me. Dead.
I want to cover my face but I dare not move. A sharp hip bone sinks into my back like a knife. The back of my head lies on a bed of ribs. I am living inside my nightmare. Trapped by the infinite dark with death at my back.

Outside, the unmistakable sound of the door opening makes me stiffen. Two men speaking in rapid Spanish are inside the mausoleum. The scuffling of shoes against concrete echoes in the space. I hear them travel between the coffins, taking their time. I hold my breath when one of them speaks directly over me, his voice muffled. Three taps, like palm slaps, sound on the lid. I flinch, then lie frozen, unable to do so much as blink. Soon, every muscle quivers beyond my control.

After what feels like an eternity, the sounds disappear, but I never hear the door close. Is the coffin lid on crooked? Was there dust on the floor to track my footprints? I do not remember. All I know is that someone could still be inside, waiting me out. Despite how badly I want to be free, I fear leaving the confines of this coffin more.

My heart drums, and sweat beads along my brow. Every muscle in my body aches from lying so absolutely still. I crane my neck to better listen for stragglers and jostle the rib cage under me. The skull loosens and rolls, then settles near the crown of my head.

A whimper escapes my throat and I slap a palm over my mouth. Humid breath travels across my knuckles in quick gusts. I try very hard not to think about the trauma that would have loosened the woman’s skull from her spine, but in the dark, it is hard to think of
anything
else.

I listen hard past the rush of blood in my ears and still hear nothing but dead space. But I have to be patient. A few more minutes with a skeleton win out over even one second back in Declan’s hands.

The time passes in slow, tense increments, and eventually I make the decision to check the room. I ease into position, careful of the loose bones lying behind me, and push. My adrenaline has slowed, and the strength I need to move the stone has waned dramatically. I cannot make the lid budge even a little.

My eyes widen and black dots fill my vision. I want to scream but can only mouth the word “no” into the space that now feels as if it closes in around me. I bite my lower lip and push again. The following scraping sound explodes in the silence and I startle back into the skeleton. A bone stabs my back. I lurch up and hit my head on the coffin lid. The dull throb manages to slow me down, but only for a moment.

I
need
out.

I heave my entire upper body against the lid and force it aside. Cool, fresh air accompanies a blinding light. I scramble up and topple over the side. I hit the ground with a
thud,
sending a jolt of pain into my hip and down my leg.

Leaning against the coffin’s dais, I drag in every blessedly fresh breath. My eyes water in the sunlight, but after several blinks, I conclude that I am alone. I reach out and shut the door. They could still be out there, which is the only reason I have not run. If I stay where I am long enough, I will walk from here rather than run.

Except Declan’s broadcast has ensured that I will always be running. He essentially put a price on my head that no one can or will refuse. In only a few minutes, and from an entirely different country, Declan Burke managed to snatch my freedom right out from under me. How can I continue my search now? Anyone who is or was resistance will assume I am a spy, and everyone else stands ready to turn me over for a pile of cash. I will face danger and difficulty no matter where I go.

Not everywhere.

I sigh and rub my temples. I cannot accept that running back to Noah is the only option I have. But if there is another, I do not know what it is. I would gladly go back to Montana, but putting Peter in Declan’s line of sight is the last thing I want to do. No one else I have met has opened their home to me.

Damn it.

I stand and brush dust from my backside. “Just get out of Mexico, Emma. Worry about the rest later.”

 • • • 

Getting out of Mexico is as simple as sneaking into the back of a cargo truck bound for Arizona. I avoid plenty of close calls by hiding my hair under a scarf. My sunglasses and lack of eye contact do the rest.

Twenty-four hours have not given me a better outcome to my issue. Even if it were a question of money, I could not simply sell my wedding ring to the first buyer. Not without being recognized. My luck got me across the border but will not hold out much longer.

Despite all that, I am still against asking Noah for help. After the way I left, the only help he may give is a hand back out. He probably despises me. He should. Even if I am wrong and he holds no resentment toward me, there is another truth holding me back. I am a coward and cannot face the guilt behind my own actions. Seeing him, seeing Adrienne, will be a glaring reminder of my mistakes.

I have one last option left, though it is not one I look forward to. But I am resolved to try. I waste no time and find the nearest public teleporter. The outside of the booth says
ARIZONA
PUBLIC TRANSPORT
in black letters. Warnings below spell out the dangers of trying to port unlawfully out of the country. As the booth is an instrument that turns you into a billion tiny pieces, I would not risk unlawfully going
anywhere.

Inside, the silver floor gives under my weight, and my stats—total mass, water, and body fat, as well as additional calculations based on the clothes I wear—appear in glowing red lights on the clear surface. Once the calculations are finished, a keypad appears. With shaking fingers, I type in the port number, breathe deep of the spearmint masking the rancid scent of the numbing agent, and watch the Arizona street melt away.

The second I step onto Las Vegas Boulevard, the desert sun envelopes me. The passersby on the main strip ignore me despite how I must look after my time in Mexico. This is exactly why I chose this destination. In Las Vegas, everyone is too concerned with their own bad luck to see mine. Even though the broadcast played everywhere, I have no reason to believe it has gone viral enough to make much of a difference yet. Even if it has, the gamblers are too focused on their game of choice, getting drunk, or sleeping. The crowd, too, is also so thick that to the video cameras I am merely one face among thousands. Even if Declan monitors the footage, the odds of finding me are slim.

I slide my large sunglasses on and duck my head as I weave through the men. Several slow their pace outside glass-encased booths where beautiful, scantily clad women showcase their goods. The women wink and smile seductively. They run their hands over their bodies to draw attention to their best assets. Dollar amounts flash on the glass when a man stops to look at the merchandise.

Marijuana merchants entice potential customers with promises of a good high from mobile stands they maneuver through the throng. Neon-colored tubes sprout from the top like flowers. Screens on the stands stream the names of the weed for sale. Blue Cheese. Amnesia Haze. Diesel. White Rhino. Despite the odd names, money changes hands at a consistent rate.

I turn into the nearest casino: the Crystal Palace. The structure is in the shape of a diamond and made entirely of glass. The lobby is white and gold marble. Bronze statues of ancient gods on pedestals adorn corners with tall sprouting plants. Fountains spray water high into the air.

I stand out amid such opulence. My hair is dirty, my skin and clothes covered in dust, and I am certain my exhaustion weighs heavy on my face. I crave a shower and a soft bed, so I use the last of my cash to pay for a room and hope the insanity of my plan is fueled by my lack of sleep. That when I wake, I will have a better plan.

Except this does not prove true. I wake knowing my latest idea is my only option next to running back to Noah, and I refuse to give in so easily. I dig clean clothes out of my bag: dark jeans, white tee, and black leather jacket. Under one pant leg, I strap on the only weapon I own—a knife, in case things go horribly wrong—then slick my hair into a low-hanging ponytail.

In the hotel’s casino, amid the ringing of slots and clicking of chips, I patrol the tables until I find an unguarded cell phone beside a patron. His chips are stacked high to one side and his laugh soars above everyone else’s. I lean on the table as if I have an interest in the game, smile at the man, who has crooked yellow teeth, and slide his cell off the edge.

“Good luck,” I tell him as I walk away, hoping he does not notice the flush in my cheeks. One thing I never do is steal from others, but I have little choice. I cannot have my call traced to this location. With the cell phone, the best they can do is locate the nearest call receptor.

“Leaving so soon?” the man yells, but I never look back.

I find a shadowed corner near a large plant and slip behind, keeping my attention on everyone in the vicinity. With shaking fingers, I dial a number I wish I could forget as easily as my past.

A man answers the phone on the second ring. “Declan Burke’s office.”