Resist (11 page)

“Lev!” Octavia rushes over to him.

Two enormous racks of shoes have toppled over, and he's pinned beneath them. While Cole, Gabe and Jordan struggle to remove the large metal cases, Octavia and I try to pull Lev out from underneath. For every inch he moves, Lev's face crumbles in pain.

“Block it out,” I tell him, but it's easier said than done when the pain is intense.

“RedZone's got control of the cops,” Summer says. She has the radio to her ear so she can hear despite the racket we're making. “I can't figure out what they did, but Malone must have some way of convincing them they have authority.”

I doubt Malone's smokescreen will hold for long, but he doesn't need long. Just enough time to get us out of here. At the camp, we were told RedZone was a black-ops group sanctioned by the government. Although that was just another lie, there's no question Malone and company have the right fake credentials and people to pull off a convincing story. I mean, if he has moles who outed Kyle and his mother at the CIA, Malone can temporarily fool a suburban police department.

With a great squeal of metal and a crash of shoes, the others shove the last shelf off Lev. But when we try to help him to his feet, he can no longer hold in his grunt of pain. Blood has soaked through his clothes, and his left leg is twisted at an unnatural angle.

Cole straps an assault rifle he must have stolen from one of the operatives across his shoulder. “That's one hell of a break. We'll have to carry you.”

“Like hell you will. I'm not going anywhere.” Sweat runs down Lev's face. “Just go. I'll slow you down.”

The room sways, and I shake my head violently. “No. We're not leaving you.”

“Reinforcements are on their way,” Summer says. “They're in the store. First floor.”

Cole points to Gabe. “Get his other side.”

“My ribs are broken. Don't.” Lev hisses with pain as Cole and Gabe start gathering him up anyway. “Stop it. Cole, you know better than this.”

I can see the indecision warring across everyone's faces, and my throat fills with a lump. “We don't leave anyone behind.”

Lev pushes his black hair from his face. “We left half our unit behind already. Get out. When you come back for the rest of them, you'll get me too.”

Cole swears and stands. “He's right. We have to go.”

“No!”

“That's an order, Seven.”

Kyle places a hand on my arm. “They're on the second floor.”

“Give me a gun,” Lev says. “If they pass this way, I can hold them off.”

I hate this, but I hand him one of my extra weapons, then Cole is dragging me away with the others. My last glance at Lev shows his face in pain, the gun resting against his forehead and pointing toward the ceiling. He reminds me of those photos I've seen of people in prayer, and I wonder if he's deriving strength from the steel.

I'm going to be sick, then he's gone. And so are we.

Chapter Twelve

Sunday Afternoon: Present

A rocking motion snaps me out of a nap I didn't realize I was taking. My eyes fly open as the table I'm strapped to slides forward along its rails. Above my head, the scanner vanishes from my sight, and I let out a breath, happy to be staring at a ceiling high above instead of the claustrophobically low one inside the machine. No wonder I'd closed my eyes.

“You awake?” the medical tech asks. Her back is to me while she types stuff into the console next to the machine.

“Yeah.” I fidget with my wrists, but whoever strapped me down did it well. Sighing, I settle in and wait for the tech to free me.

She's young and remarkably friendly for a camp tech. If I'd met her before, that memory's been taken. Although perhaps not for much longer. More is coming back to me. More that I don't like.

The scene in the mall—RedZone could have hurt or killed hundreds of innocent people. They did hurt at least two security guards. And Lev, poor Lev… Whatever became of him? I've got to uncover the whereabouts of my unit members.

But although I'm the one who needs answers, instead of discovering any, I'm supposed to be providing them. Malone wants to know why I recognized Kyle earlier, and all these scans and tests he's running on me are probably going to knock loose an answer, or answers.

Like that I'm remembering more than just Kyle.

I'm remembering that Malone is my enemy. Cole can say whatever he wants—that I was corrupted, that Kyle got into my head. But the more I recall, the more convinced I am that the real corruption is here.

The tech undoes my straps and helps me sit up. She seems less fearful of me than the humans around here typically are. Is she brave, or simply ignorant of what I can do? How much does she know?

For half a second, I entertain the idea of asking if she heard about what happened in the Pittsburgh mall. Or if she knows that a couple floors down and three sections over, Malone made me shoot an innocent boy.

How many people working here know the truth about who they're working for? And would they tell me if I asked?

The answer to that last question has got to be no, and I push the crazy idea away. All it would serve to do is get both of us in trouble. Even if the tech had no clue what I was asking about, the fact that I'd tipped her off to something she wasn't supposed to know would put her in danger. She might investigate, get ideas. I don't want to be responsible for any more innocent—or possibly not so innocent—people getting hurt.

Freed from the imaging machine, I slide to the floor and fix my uniform jacket. My thoughts are on Lev as the tech plugs the cable in my left arm into another computer. Malone was trying to bring us in unharmed, I tell myself. That means if Lev was captured, he should be fine. If he was hurt badly, he should be healed.

But what if he was hurt too badly for Malone to decide he was worth the trouble of healing? He was covered in so much blood. What if he wasn't found in time? My stomach turns, and my veins flood with a rush of anger at Malone for keeping me from my unit.

“Does that hurt?” the tech asks, misinterpreting the emotion that flashes over my face.

“No.”

Do you care?
I want to ask. Because the people Malone sent after us sure didn't.

Fitzpatrick never did. And whatever the truth is—whether Kyle deceived me and whether my memories of who Malone is and what RedZone does are false—I can't believe Malone ever cared either. He wouldn't have condoned what was done to us if he did.

I was made to be a weapon. A tool. Regardless of anything else, that alone is enough to make me want to leave this place. Once I thought that gave me a purpose, but I'd rather use my skills to forge my own purpose.

Oh yeah, I've been corrupted.

The tech hands me an e-sheet. It glows around the edges as it boots, and I frown at her. “What am I doing?”

“It's a simple memory test. We're going to monitor the activity in your implants while you're activating them.”

Great. That's all? I need to be careful not to give myself away, but it's hard to do that when I'm not sure what Malone is looking for or what the tests will show.

Over the next half hour, the tech runs me through a series of memory tasks. Some I respond to normally. They're clearly just testing my simple recall. Others give me pause. Not because I can't do them, but because I suspect I'm not supposed to be able to master them. There are names and faces, some which genuinely perplex me while others elicit strong feelings of familiarity even if I can't figure out why. I lie about those, although I suspect my implants are lighting up with recognition.

A candid photo of a girl about my age, with round cheeks and blonde curls. A landscape featuring an old building with a bell tower. A name—Reid Harris.

They're all ghosts in my head, shadows of memories that Malone's destroyed. Of this, I'm certain. I pretend they mean nothing to me, but processes run in my chips. My neurons bombard the implants with demands to cough up what's been taken.

The girl's name is Audrey. She was my roommate at RTC.

I've been in that bell tower before. With Kyle?

Reid Harris is an alias for a criminal mastermind. One of four. No, one of
The
Four, whoever they are.

“You sure you're not remembering any of this?” the tech asks. “Your implants are very active.”

“I'm trying to remember. Could that be why?”

She doesn't answer, which tells me nothing about whether she knows. But someone around this place probably does know. My gut tightens in a warning, but I can't do anything about it. The only way not to set off an internal reaction is to not look at the screen, and obviously I can't avoid that.

So on it goes. I might not be able to entirely fool Malone's tests, but there's always a chance that the data I give him will confuse things. To the best of my limited knowledge, the camp doesn't have a lot of experience wiping memories from our implants, so the situation might not be as dire as I fear.

When I'm allowed to leave, I try to casually gauge the tech's reaction to my results, but she's smart enough to clam up and share nothing. No one, it seems, is giving me answers.

“Your escort will be here in a minute,” she says as I approach the door. “Just wait.”

But I've already opened the door, and although I pause in the doorway at her command, I see Lev. He's not looking my way, but I'd recognize his profile anywhere—the tan skin and thick, black hair that forever wants to stick straight up. He's coming out of a room down the corridor. His left leg is in a cast, but he walks smoothly on his own with the help of an electronic exoskeleton fitted around it.

Most importantly, he's alive. Alive, and he must have answers.

“Lev!” Heedless of my instructions, I bolt from the doorway and chase after him. The tech calls out after me, but there's no one nearby to stop my disobedience. “Lev, are you okay?”

He seems startled as he turns toward me, then his face splits into a grin. “Seven? Yeah, I'm fine, or I will be.” He pats the exoskeleton. “What happened to you? The unit's been wondering and worrying.”

My brain buzzes, and the sound is like the AAD in my memory. Something is not right. “I'm not sure. What happened to
you
?” It's an innocuous question, one that shouldn't give away that I know more than I'm supposed to.

Lev scratches his head, exacerbating his unruly hair. “You know, I'm not sure either. Whatever it was, it was so bad that Malone had the memory of it erased. I guess it was traumatizing or something. I smashed up my leg, broke several ribs—it's a good thing we heal fast. I'm just as glad not to remember, honestly.”

“You don't remember anything about it?”

He shakes his head. “I'm missing about a week. The medics said there was some residual trauma to my implants—I have a nasty bump on the back of my head too. Hit during the incident. They're not sure if I'll get those memories back.”

“Oh. That sucks.” I smile sympathetically.

Oh. Nice one, Malone. That excuse is even plausible, but I don't believe it for a moment. Lev's memories were erased too. That's why he sounds happy to be back and has been reintegrated into our unit. Whatever program they used to wipe Lev's mind, it's working.

Why is whatever they did working on him, but not me? Presumably, they've run similar tests on him. That means they'll know I'm failing the ones they gave me. They might try to screw with my memories again, and maybe next time they'll get it right. Apparently, they
can
get it right, as Lev proves.

Panic wraps its icy fingers around my chest. I hear my voice tell Lev that I'm glad he's healing well, and I hope I can rejoin our unit soon too. The words are reflex, truth buried among the lies. I am thrilled to see Lev alive, but he's not well. He's worse off than me, and he doesn't even realize it.

I need answers quickly, before Malone discovers I'm not as “fixed” as Lev is. And there's only one person I can think of who might have them and be willing to share.

Before security arrives and escorts me away, I tell Lev I hope to see him later and I run, damning the consequences. I run straight to the holding cells and Kyle.

I'm racing time. The tech in the medical wing has got to be calling security on me, assuming security hasn't already picked up on what I'm doing without her assistance. Two steps, then three, then ten—I take the stairs so the elevators can't be shut down on me, and I burst outside into the frigid December air.

Fresh snow is falling, light and gentle on my skin. My mind flashes to the memory of the mall and the various carols playing in the background. Just what is today's date?

Irrelevant,
I scold myself. Everything is irrelevant except the information I need.

RedZone security is trained to act on perceived threats within seconds. It takes seventy-nine of them for me to enter the building where Kyle must be locked up. The guard by the door pays me no mind, which means security hasn't tracked me down yet. Either that, or Malone's told them to leave me alone so he can find out what I'm up to. That would be bad, but I'm not sure I care anymore. Seeing what was done to Lev and remembering the scene in the mall has sparked some reckless instinct in me.

Down one flight of stairs, then two. I bypass the corridor leading to the holding cell where I've been forced to spend my last couple nights. There's an empty guard station ahead, and I drop myself in front of a monitor. Which particular cell Kyle is being kept in would be classified, but it's easy enough to see which cells are occupied. There are only two of them. One is mine in the E area, so by process of elimination…

I scurry down one more corridor, realizing too late that Kyle might not be in his cell at this moment. Malone could be putting him through more tests, in which case my only shot at talking to him has been blown.

Skidding to a stop outside the correct cell, I cast a glance toward the security camera, wondering if Malone's watching me on the other end. Then I unlock the cell door.

I hold my breath until the latch pops, the door slides open, and Kyle looks up sharply from where he's lying on the bed. Whatever was done to him, it's worse than what I saw earlier. Faint yellow and green marks discolor his left eye, vanishing evidence of a bruise that should have taken a normal person weeks to heal. Instead, it's been only hours since I last saw him, and he wasn't bruised at the time. His clothes are gone too, and he's dressed in blue scrubs. I'm afraid of what they did to him that his clothes were too ruined to keep.

Despite it all, his face is so sweet I want to kiss it. And the steely yet resigned expression in his dark eyes is proof that his resolve is no more broken than his body. This is the same Kyle who didn't hesitate to fire at RedZone in the mall, and there's no doubt in my mind that what I remember him telling me—about being on the run his whole life—is true. Kyle might have gotten into my head, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing.

“Sophia?” Cautiously, as if expecting a trap, he swings his legs over the side of the cot. “What is it?”

I snap out of my stupor and step into the cell. “I'm sorry. About earlier. I'm sorry for shooting you.”

It's not what I intended to say. I shouldn't be wasting words on apologies, but standing so close to him is doing funny things to me again. I want to wrap my arms around him, kiss away the dried blood around his lips. And oh damn, I want to slide up next to him on that bed, trail my hands over the smooth muscles beneath his shirt, show him I can be as kind to him as I was cruel. The sudden longing makes me quake, stirring not only my body but my memories.

A soft bed in his dorm room. Kyle hovering above, raining kisses down my throat. My body burns with desire, but fear tickles the back of my mind. His hands are warm and gentle, slipping under the waistband of my jeans. I don't know what to do with mine. I've never done this before. And I can't trust him.

But that was then. I shouldn't trust him now either, but I do. We're in this together. There's truth here, in the way he looks at me and the way he makes me feel. The heaviness of the emotion knocks me over, and I sink to my knees in front of him.

Kyle grabs me by the arms. “What is it?”

“Your eye. What did they do to you?”

He snorts. “Oh, just a few violent and invasive medical tests without the benefit of anesthesia. Malone wanted to know whether it hurt while I healed. The black eye wasn't a test though. It was a message that they didn't appreciate me raising objections to their techniques.”

Tears threaten to flood my eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. I've told you that like a hundred times.”

Sixteen that I can remember, but there are probably many more in my missing pieces.