“Stop him!” Trigger yells as the geneticist tries to squeeze through the slowly widening crack between the door and the wall. The warning costs him another punch to the face, but then he’s up and jabbing again, balancing nimbly on the balls of his feet, as if this is a dance rather than a fight for our lives. “We need him to close the door again or they’ll follow us!”
I spin again and pull Wexler back from the opening, glad he’s too wide to fit through yet. In his eyes I find fear and unapologetic triumph, but no guilt. He knew opening the door would set off an alarm and draw soldiers down from the top of the wall. He also knew that fighting Trigger would keep the soldiers occupied long enough for him to escape.
He’s sacrificed us for his own freedom.
Well, he tried to, anyway.
“You can’t leave us!” I shout, pulling him farther from the door. “This is your fault!” He’s bigger than I am, but I am determined. I need him for more than just closing the door once we’ve escaped. I still have questions only he can answer.
“Dahlia, your fate was sealed before you were ever born. I am sorry about the mix-up, though. Sad to think what might have been.”
I clutch his arm in both of mine and pull him farther from the door. But then I feel the fabric slip. He’s already shrugged out of the first sleeve of his lab coat and is pulling free from the other one, even as I cling to it.
“No!” I shout as I lose my grasp on his arm. He bolts for the opening and I scramble for a new grip. My nails gouge into his wrist. Blood wells from the scratches and drips onto the floor. Then Wexler is gone.
I turn to yell for Trigger, but he’s already running toward me. All three of the soldiers lie on the floor unconscious. “Let’s go!” he shouts.
But the thunder of footsteps nearly drowns out his words. The fading daylight falling through the open door is suddenly obscured, and I turn to see five more soldiers blocking the gate. Behind them, coming from the direction of the Administrator’s private tunnel, are three more.
We are outnumbered. We are outgunned. Trigger’s hands are in the air.
I can see the wild over the soldiers’ shoulders. Tall trees crowned in brightly colored fall leaves, growing right out of the dirt. Grass and weeds and flowers sprouting from the earth itself with no defined borders or geometric patterns. Wind blows, and the leaves brush together with a full-bodied whispering sound; I want nothing more than to climb into the branches and sing with the bright foliage.
Someone grabs my hands and binds them at my back. Tears fill my eyes. Trigger is unconscious, a lump already growing on the side of his head while two soldiers haul him away, each holding one of his arms.
As they drag me toward examination and certain death, my gaze returns to the trees, the flowers, and the weeds.
The wild is so close. Yet I’ve never felt farther from it in my life.
The soldiers put us in the back of a patrol car. Trigger is still unconscious, and a line of blood has dripped down from his temple over his ear. I wonder if he will have a new scar.
I wonder if he will live long enough for it to remind him of me.
A click echoes in my head as the rear doors of the car are locked. There’s no handle on the inside. I couldn’t get out even if I had the use of my hands.
“Trigger,” I whisper as two of the soldiers get into the front of the car. “Trigger. Wake up. Please.”
“He can’t help you anymore,” Gladius 27, one of the soldiers, says from the front right seat. “He can’t even help himself.”
“Administrator’s mansion,” the other soldier says, holding his wrist beneath the sensor built into the dashboard. “Rear entrance.”
“The mansion?” Gladius asks as Trigger’s eyelids begin to flutter.
“Ford 45 said no one can see her. The rest of her division has already been recalled, and if people find out she escaped, Management’s effectiveness will come into question—which would undermine the Administrator’s ability to lead.”
My chest feels too tight. I can’t draw a breath. Poppy and the others are gone, but hearing about it reopens a wound that hasn’t even started to heal.
“This capture will best serve the city in secrecy,” the other soldier continues.
“Strategic omission,” I murmur, thinking back to one of my first conversations with Trigger. “Anything necessary to protect the city is permissible.”
Both soldiers twist in their seats to look at me as the car follows the road toward the Administrator’s mansion. Gladius’s partner is named Pike 27. They are from the same division. Maybe from the same unit. “What else has he told you?” Pike asks with a glance at Trigger, whose head has fallen forward.
“Does it matter? They’ll kill me before I have a chance to tell anyone.”
I don’t recognize the bitter truth in my statement until I hear it come from my mouth. If I wasn’t going to die, would I tell someone what I know about the Defense Bureau? Who would I tell?
Poppy is gone. Even if she wasn’t, knowing what I know would put her in danger.
The irony of that thought bruises me all the way into my soul.
The soldiers shrug at each other, then turn to face forward again, effectively dismissing me.
I hardly notice the unfamiliar buildings on either side of the road, because Trigger’s eyes are still moving behind his closed lids. He could wake up any second, and that second cannot come soon enough.
“Trigger!” I whisper again, and finally his eyelids stay up. His eyes focus on me, then they widen. I can practically see the past half hour coming back to him as memories sift into place.
“I’m so sorry, Dahlia.” His speech is slurred. That happened to Violet once, when her head got between a soccer ball and the goal. She was fine within the hour.
I’m not sure Trigger and I can afford that hour.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
I nod at the building approaching through the windshield. “Back to the mansion.”
“Back to the mansion?” Gladius 27 twists in his seat to look at us.
Trigger chuckles, and I think that means he’s feeling better. “We caught a ride with Ford 45 from the Defense Academy.”
Both soldiers mumble harsh syllables I don’t recognize, and I realize that neither wants to be the bearer of that bit of intelligence.
Following the cruise strip, the car turns before we reach the front of the mansion and circles the building to the very lot where we snuck out of Ford’s car less than an hour ago. Everything looks a little different now that the sun is going down. The shadows are deeper and darker. The light is redder.
I wonder how much easier it would be to sneak around the city in the dark. I’m pretty sure I won’t get the chance to find out.
The car slows to a stop, and Trigger lets Gladius 27 pull him from the vehicle. I step out on my own before Pike can haul me out, but he grabs my arm the moment I’m on my feet.
The soldiers lead us through the rear entrance of the mansion, then down a narrow back hallway into a large cell containing nothing except a concrete bench built into the wall. Both soldiers station themselves outside the open door, effectively blocking our escape, and warn us that they were told to bring us in alive but not necessarily conscious.
The threat is clear.
Trigger studies the room in narrow-eyed concentration. If he’s been taught to assess his opponents at a glance, I’m pretty sure he’s also been taught to assess his surroundings, and I’m hopeful that he sees some point of vulnerability I do not. But the tight line of his jaw and his pressed-together lips argue otherwise.
“Where are we?” I whisper as I scoot closer to him, taking comfort from the warmth of his skin even as cold fear washes over me.
“We’re in a holding cell. This first floor is the Administrator’s business headquarters. The living quarters are upstairs, but we cadets were never allowed up there.” His eyes narrow as he studies our guards’ backs. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find Ford 45 in her
e with us very soon.”
I have to admit, that would be the icing on top of a very bitter cupcake.
“Can you reach the knife in my pocket?” Trigger whispers, twisting to give me access.
I shake my head. “They took it while you were unconscious.”
Trigger mumbles several angry words I’ve never heard before.
Several minutes later, I hear footsteps descending a set of stairs. A young woman appears outside our cell, holding a tray full of food. Several hunks of cheese are surrounded by a ring of thin crackers and accompanied by a knife. I have no idea what the smooth brown lumps drizzled in various glazes and frostings are. But they smell amazing.
“The chef prepared way too much for the party,” the young woman says, holding the tray out to Gladius and Pike without even a glance at me or Trigger. The name embroidered over her chest is Aida 22. Her name and her familiar face tell me she’s a member of the Service Industry division, from a class that graduated several years ago. “Please help yourselves!”
The soldiers glance at each other in obvious hesitation, then Pike speaks for them both. “We couldn’t. It’s against—”
“The Administrator doesn’t tolerate waste.” Aida smiles and sets the entire tray on a small table against the wall, only the edge of which is visible from my vantage point. A moment later her steps ascend an unseen staircase.
“Should we?” Pike eyes the tray.
Gladius shrugs. “The Administrator doesn’t tolerate waste. I think we have to.” He uses the small knife to slice a bit of cheese from one of the blocks, then stuffs it into his mouth.
Pike picks up one of the smooth brown lumps and bites off half of it. The inside is gooey, and what looks like a strand of caramel dangles from his lower lip. He groans as he chews. “You have to try the chocolates.”
Chocolates? I know chocolate as a flavor of cake or frosting, and on cold winter afternoons, when our class has attained victory on field day, as a flavor of warm milk. But I’ve never heard the word chocolate used as a noun.
I turn to Trigger, expecting to see my confusion mirrored on his features, but he’s staring at our guards and their food so intently I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head, powering thoughts and ideas I can’t even begin to imagine.
“What’s a party?” I ask.
Trigger glances at me in obvious surprise. “It’s an event where people eat, drink, and play games.”
“Like field day?”
“No. It’s not athletic. It’s more…social.”
I frown, trying to understand. “To what purpose?”
“To no purpose. It’s…celebratory. I think. But then I also thought it was an archaic tradition long out of practice. Like celebrating the anniversary of one’s birth.”
The idea does seem lavish and excessive. And evidently wasteful. People standing around eating and drinking outside of the prescribed mealtime? And playing games for no reason, on a non-recreation day? What for?
But before I can press Trigger for more information, he stands and walks toward the hall.
Pike steps into the doorway, still chewing a gooey brown mouthful. “Stop,” he orders. “Sit down.”
“I need to use the restroom,” Trigger says.
“You’ll have to wait.” Gladius gestures toward the bench with a sesame-seed-sprinkled cracker in one hand.
“Either take me to the bathroom or get ready to clean up the mess.”
Gladius groans and stuffs the cracker into his mouth. Then he grabs Trigger’s arm and pulls him down the narrow hallway. I hear a soft snap as his bindings are cut free. A door closes softly and the soldier growls for him to hurry up.
When the door opens again, Trigger’s hands are rebound with the soft zip of plastic restraints.
On his way back, while Pike chews another chunk of chocolate, Trigger trips over his own foot and bumps into the tray of food. Gladius yells at him for being clumsy, then shoves him into the cell. When Trigger sits next to me on the bench again, he’s wearing an odd smile. His arm brushes mine once, then once again, and I realize he’s doing something behind his back.
I lift one eyebrow at him in silent question, and he twists away from me to give me a view of the cheese knife he’s using to saw through the plastic zip tie binding his wrists.
My eyes widen. Then I realize my reaction could give him away, so I rein in my surprise and ecstatic bolt of hope. Not that it matters. Gladius and Pike are still bent over the tray trying one tiny, extravagant morsel at a time.
Trigger works quickly, but the angle is difficult and the cheese knife isn’t very sharp, so it takes him several minutes to cut through the plastic. When he’s done, he glances at our distracted guards, and when he’s sure they’re not watching he turns and is able to swiftly cut through my binding in a single firm stroke, since he is no longer limited by his own restraints.
“Keep your hands behind your back,” he whispers. “And get ready to run.”
Nerves crawl in my belly like an army of ants. But I am ready.
Trigger tenses for a moment with his eyes closed, and I wonder if he’s visualizing what he’s about to do. Then, in a sudden burst of motion, he explodes off the bench and races across the cell.
Pike looks up as Trigger steps into the hall, cheese knife in hand. Before he can do more than stare in shock Trigger swipes his knife across the inside of the soldier’s right elbow, severing the most prominent tendon. I gasp as blood arcs across the floor. Pike screams and slaps his left hand over the gushing, flopping ruin of his right arm.
Trigger grabs the pistol left vulnerable on the injured soldier’s right hip and aims it at Gladius, who is frozen in midbite. “Drop your gun and kick it toward me.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Gladius insists while Pike whimpers and bleeds a couple feet away.
“Drop the gun and you’ll live. Refuse and I’ll put a bullet through your forehead.”
For one long moment, Gladius stares at Trigger, sizing him up. Does he know Trigger 17 is a member of the Special Forces unit? That he is the best in his class? That he is perfectly capable of carrying out his threat?
Trigger’s grip tightens on Pike’s pistol. Gladius flinches. “Okay!” The soldier slowly removes his gun from its holster and bends to set it on the ground. He kicks it and the weapon slides across the floor with a clatter, right past Trigger and into the cell where I’m still standing, transfixed.
I glance at it. Should I pick it up? My finger is surely capable of pulling the firing mechanism—the trigger—but is my heart? The soldiers are only doing their job. On a day when so many lives have already been ended, could I possibly take another one?
“You are an embarrassment to your unit.” Trigger lowers his aim and fires. The sound is little more than a soft thwup, yet I jump. Gladius howls in pain and falls to the floor. Blood pours from a hole in his thigh. “But you’ll live,” Trigger promises. Then he slams the butt of his stolen gun into the wounded soldier’s head.
Gladius goes limp on the floor, still bleeding and now unconscious. One second and another blow to the head later, Pike is also out cold, his bloody right arm flopped on the floor beside him.
Stunned, I can only stare at them both, my hands limp at my sides. I’ve never seen so much blood. I’ve never witnessed an injury worse than Violet’s soccer concussion. I’ve never even seen anyone in true pain. But Trigger never hesitated to inflict any of that.
He could just as easily have killed both men.
Why would Lakeview make inferior soldiers like Gladius and Pike, when they could have made more like Trigger?
“Come on!” Trigger waves me out of the room, and I follow him into the hall on shaky legs. We head for the door into the parking lot, but it opens before we get to it, and more soldiers pour into the building, evidently having been alerted by Pike’s screams.
“Stop!” they yell as we spin and run back the other way. We pass the open cell and the unconscious guards, then race toward a set o
f stairs leading to the second floor.
Something whizzes past my head and thunks into the wall, and I stop, staring in shock at a bullet embedded just an inch to the left of my head.
“No!” one of the soldiers shouts behind us. “Ford 45 wants them alive!”
“Go.” Trigger pushes me up the next step and I’m running again. “I’ll take care of them, then catch up with you.”
Before I can argue, he turns and runs toward three soldiers, wielding both the cheese knife and the stolen pistol. I watch long enough to see that they are no match for his training, then I race up the stairs.
The second-floor landing empties into a wide hallway carpeted in a bright red length of rug. Several closed doors line both sides of the hall. I try knobs indiscriminately, but none of them open, and I know better than to stick my wrist beneath the scanners built into the wall beside them.
At the end of the hall there is a door with no scanner and no keyhole. I race toward it and twist the knob, then burst into the largest closet I’ve ever seen in my life. The room is lined with metal rods, from which hang coats in every color and material imaginable.
I close the door at my back, then stare in fascination at feathers, fur, leather, and some kind of oddly dyed reptile skin. I reach out to run my hand over the fabric, and it is bumpier than I imagined. Yet somehow also smooth. The coat is long enough to reach my knees, with shiny, oversize black buttons, and there’s no name embroidered over the left side.
Each of the hangers is labeled with a handwritten tag, but I don’t recognize any of the names. As I reach for the nearest tag, puzzled by a name I have no association for, I hear a soft thump from farther into the closet, behind a rack of coats.
“Shit,” a male voice mutters.
I’m not familiar with the word, but it seems to mean “ouch.”
I stand rooted to the carpet, my heart pounding violently beneath my breastbone. I don’t know if I should run and risk being caught by the soldiers or stay and risk being caught by whoever’s behind those coats.