Torn Sky (Rebel Wing Trilogy, Book 3) (Rebel Wing Series)

by Tracy Banghart

  Alistar shrugged nonchalantly, perfectly capturing Elom’s muscular grace. “Forgive me. I was looking forward to tearing the bitch away from him and listening to her scream.”

  Aris’s grip on Milek tightened reflexively, as a slow shiver wound down her spine. That’s Alistar. You know that’s Alistar. He’s trying to save you.

  Ward Balias’s clenched jaw relaxed. “You wanted to listen to her scream.”

  Alistar straightened and stepped away from Aris, nodding. Something caught her eye. Oh Gods . . .

  The hem of his pants had hitched up when he knelt. She lunged toward him, trying to make it before Balias saw, trying desperately to hide the clear, smooth material exposed beneath the black fabric . . .

  Maybe if she hadn’t moved, Balias wouldn’t have noticed. Maybe they still could have salvaged the moment.

  But Balias saw.

  Alistar’s new-tech prosthetic leg, the one thing Elom would never have.

  “Interesting, indeed,” Ward Balias mused, something slithery and nasty snaking behind his eyes.

  It took Alistar a split second to realize he’d been exposed. A second in which Balias whipped an old-fashioned gun from the holster at his waist and shot him through the throat.

  “No!” Aris screamed. She reached for Alistar, but it was too late. The man tumbled to the ground with a sickening thud, the diatous veil and its transmitter shattered. In an instant, Elom disappeared. It was Alistar’s kinder, less hard-worn face that Aris wept over as he died.

  Oh, Alistar. Samira was going to be devastated.

  Balias didn’t move. He waited until the gush of blood slowed, until the life left Alistar’s eyes.

  Aris couldn’t draw a breath. Her heart beat so hard, it threatened to explode from her chest. The smeared puddle of blood on the floor grew until she and Milek were soaked in it, the coppery smell of death everywhere.

  If she lived long enough to leave this room, the stench would surely follow her, dragging along like her own shadow, impossible to escape. She would never truly be clean. Alistar had risked everything to save them, and they were still caught. Worse, with him dead and his veil broken, no one in Atalanta could hear what happened next. Now, she and Milek were truly, terrifyingly alone.

  Balias holstered his gun. “A spy impersonating Elom. Clever, that.” He sounded so unconcerned that for a moment Aris wondered if greed wasn’t his driving force, but madness.

  Balias grabbed the back of her jacket and heaved her to her feet. Aris whimpered as pain shot through her broken ribs. Milek fell to his side with a groan. Agonizingly slowly, he pulled himself back up.

  “I have a task for you, Aris Haan,” Balias said. “Take a good look at your Promised here. You see his current state . . . not very good, is it?”

  Aris licked her lips and swallowed.

  Balias focused the full intensity of his gaze on her. “You’re widely regarded as the best flyer in Atalanta. And you’re their hero, aren’t you? So it’s fitting I’ve chosen you as their destroyer.” He let her go and squatted down next to Milek, his eyes never leaving her face. “You’ll drop the flaming scorpion on Panthea, or I’ll kill Milek in the slowest, most agonizing way possible and make you watch.”

  He didn’t wait for her response. As her throat closed and her despair broke open, black and immense, he strode quickly to the door and pounded on it. The lead soldier opened it.

  “Vik, move these two back to their cells. Give them water to clean themselves up but no towels or anything that could be used as rope. I need them alive. For now, anyway.”

  “You won’t do it,” Milek said, his voice scratching up at her like ragged claws. “You can’t.”

  “Milek.” His name left her lips as a hopeless sigh. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around his battered body, burying her face in his neck as if, somehow, she could hold them both together.

  Against her skin, he said, “I’ll find a way to kill myself so you don’t have to choose.” His cough shook them both. With a pained groan, he added, “Hell, I think I’m already dying.”

  Her arms tightened around him, still gentle but desperate, too. “No. You’re not.” Her mind roiled with a thousand agonies and impossible plans. “You can’t die.”

  “And you can’t do this,” he said, his voice strained. “You know that. Not for me. Not for anyone. We’ll think of something. We have months before the weapon is ready—”

  Behind Aris, Vik laughed. “Months?” He yanked her away from Milek and toward the door, wrenching her arms. “Try hours. She will have the privilege of destroying Atalanta tonight.”

  Chapter 32

  The roar of the bullet ricocheted through the room, echoing off the walls. Afterward, the silence was absolute. Dysis stared, wild-eyed, at the flat, straight line on the screen. Ward Balias had killed Alistar. He’d killed the feed.

  Maybe he’d killed Aris and Milek, too.

  Dysis gulped down her panic, the scene playing through her head on repeat.

  Pallas is the spy.

  The realization slammed into her with crushing force. It wasn’t possible. Not Pallas. She’d checked out. She’d been with them since the beginning. She was a friend. Pallas, Pallas couldn’t—

  Pallas knew about the plan to rescue Aris. She could be setting them up.

  Dysis slammed her hand on the intercom panel. “Dianthe, Commander Nyx, you’re needed immediately in Sector Four. Right away.”

  She heaved to her feet so fast her chair fell to the ground. The thud and clatter filled the room. She paced to the door and back to the monitor, staring at the flat line as if somehow she could resurrect it by will alone. She drummed her hands against her thighs. Counting seconds. Counting heartbeats.

  At last, the door slid open to reveal Commander Nyx.

  Dysis didn’t give her time to ask what had happened. “Specialist Pallas is the spy. Alistar . . . well, Ward Balias figured out he wasn’t Elom. He figured out we were listening. He cut the feed.” She gulped back the horror. Commander Nyx’s thunderous look made it clear Dysis didn’t have to explain how the feed was cut. “What do we do? If Pallas tells her contacts about the Aris doubles, or they warn her she’s made . . .”

  Nyx’s flinty gaze didn’t waver. “Go get her. Be discreet. Don’t give her reason to guess you know. But get her.”

  Dysis slipped out of the room and took off at a sprint down the hall. She’d only just been given authorization for a slow jog once a day, but she didn’t hold back. It was just before lunch; maybe Pallas was getting food. Dysis ran for the cafeteria. She skidded to a stop in the doorway. Otto was sitting at their usual table, but he was alone.

  “Have you seen Pallas?” she asked, panting.

  Otto shook his head, his mouth full. He raised a brow in question.

  She waved a hand. No time to explain.

  Pallas wasn’t in the rec room either.

  Dysis ran for their shared room, embarrassed at the growing weakness in her legs. As she approached, she put one hand on her solagun and used her other hand to swipe her passcard. The door slid open. She held her breath.

  The room was empty.

  Dysis slumped for a second. Then she hurried inside. A quick rifle through Pallas’s things produced nothing suspicious or obviously designed to send out unapproved comms. For a second, Dysis stood in the middle of the room, at a loss.

  Had Pallas already been tipped off that her cover was blown? Because if she was still on point, where was she? There were no formations this morning, no missions to fly. The only other place Pallas could possibly be . . .

  Dysis ran back into the hall, toward the room where Dianthe had set up her diatous veil equipment. Every second ticked to the stomp of her boots, the beats of her heart. Every second could be one less that Aris lived.

  As she rounded the final corner, a short, blond figure emerged f
rom Dianthe’s makeshift lab. Dysis slowed down, tried to look casual. Nyx had told her to be discreet.

  “Hey, Pallas!” she called. She tried to smile, but she wasn’t sure she quite managed it. She’d never been good at hiding her anger, and right now, she was blighting livid.

  Pallas turned, one hand slipping a small rectangle into her uniform pocket, an answering smile beginning to form on her small, angular face. “Hey—” she faltered when she saw Dysis’s expression.

  Damn.

  In desperation, Dysis opened her mouth to offer some banal greeting, but realization was already spreading across Pallas’s face. She knew.

  Dysis’s hand drifted to her solagun. “Come on, Pallas,” she said casually, striving to keep the moment from disintegrating further. “Let’s have a little chat. I need to ask you about something.”

  Sadness filled the girl’s sky-blue eyes; she turned and ran.

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.” Dysis had been sprinting around all morning on legs that were creaky and out of shape. Her back ached. Pallas had none of those issues to slow her down.

  If Pallas made it to an invisible wingjet, they would lose her.

  As Dysis passed the cafeteria, someone yelled out to her, but she kept going, lungs burning.

  When she burst through the main doors to the landing pad, Pallas was already two hundred yards ahead, close to the wingjets.

  “Stop!” Dysis yelled. She lurched to a halt and raised her solagun. She could make the shot. Pallas glanced over her shoulder but kept running. Dysis fired a warning shot just over her head. This time, Pallas froze.

  Slowly, she turned, raising her hands.

  Dysis stalked forward, trying to control her breathing. Her back was on fire. “Don’t move,” she ordered. Pallas was too close to the nearest recon for her liking.

  “Please let me go,” Pallas begged.

  They were the last words Dysis expected. She almost laughed. “Let you go? Let you go? Why in the hell would I let you go?”

  Pallas’s face crumbled. “They have my family. They tortured them. They told me—” Her voice broke.

  Shock radiated down Dysis’s spine. How did no one know this? How could the Safarans possibly have taken Pallas’s family? It had to be a lie. She hardened her face. “Walk slowly toward me. Keep your hands up.”

  Tears skated down Pallas’s cheeks. The bright sun bleached her pale skin and caught against her huge blue eyes, full of desperation and sorrow. “I can’t do that, Dysis. I can’t let my family die.”

  With that, she spun and scrabbled onto the wing of the nearest wingjet.

  Dysis lined up her shot, her hands steady.

  Her finger twitched once, and then—

  “Dysis! What are you doing?” The shout broke her concentration. Her shot went wide. Pallas ducked, but she made it into the cabin. The glass slid closed before Dysis could get off another shot.

  She spun to see Calix running across the tarmac. “I saw you run past. You’re not supposed to be running, Dysis. What is going on?”

  Dysis let out a scream of frustration and sprinted toward the row of wingjets. Pallas was speeding through her warm-up sequence; they had maybe thirty seconds before she took off.

  Calix yanked her to a stop. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Tell me what’s going on. I can help.”

  “I don’t have time! I have to stop her.” She pulled against his grip, but he held firm. “Let me go, Calix. She’s a spy!”

  “We’ll inform Commander Nyx.” Calix let go of her arm, his face reddening. With anger or frustration, she couldn’t tell. “They’ll shoot her down, then.”

  A hum filled the air. The wingjet rose, and with a flicker, disappeared.

  It was too late.

  Dysis sagged. “No, they won’t.”

  Calix blinked twice, staring into the empty sky. “What just happened? I don’t . . . that isn’t . . .”

  Her legs unsteady, she leaned hard against him. Misery threatened to choke her. “Commander Nyx told me to stop her. And I . . .” her voice faded.

  And I let her get away.

  Chapter 33

  Tia’s hands shook on the wingjet controls, and black spots danced before her eyes.

  They knew. Dysis knew.

  Shame roiled in her stomach. The wingjet wobbled. She needed to concentrate. Her family . . .

  Gods, her family.

  Pallas waited until she was a few miles from Mekia, certain no one was following, before she opened the secret emergency frequency her Safaran handlers gave her to use in the event she was exposed. She’d already double-checked that the tracking tech wasn’t turned on; she couldn’t risk any Atalantans following her.

  “Operation Serpent has been compromised. I repeat, Operation Serpent has been compromised.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but even to her ears she sounded like a scared little girl.

  Silence met her, and then a burst of static. “Message received. Proceed to the following coordinates . . .”

  Pallas entered the location in the nav panel. “Is that where my family is?” she asked, the words spilling out.

  No answer.

  Of course they wouldn’t tell her.

  But she was bringing them an invisible wingjet. They’d been asking her about the technology for weeks. Maybe her means of escape could be her salvation, too. Surely an invisible wingjet would be enough to buy her family’s freedom? Her freedom?

  By the Gods, hadn’t she done enough?

  ***

  Hours later, when the blue glitter of the ocean rose along the horizon and a large, flat-roofed compound came into view, the nav beeped and Tia descended. The structure was built into the steep cliff over the ocean, its landing pad perched precariously above the water.

  Dozens of black Safaran wingjets lined the tarmac. She’d hoped they were sending her somewhere smaller, the kind of place they might have been keeping her family, but this was a fortress prepared for war.

  As she landed, her heart beat wildly. Whatever she might have done, she was still Atalantan. She hid her fear behind blank eyes. It was the same look she’d paired with her diatous veil back when everything rested on her ability to pass as a man. By now, she was good at hiding who she really was.

  She climbed out onto the tarmac, her plastered wrist stiff against her side. Two soldiers met her. The first was older, tall, with light-brown skin and heavy black brows that sat low over his slightly bulging eyes. She recognized him immediately; he was the one who’d barked orders the night her family was taken. The other man was younger but just as hard edged, his mouth pursed into a narrow line.

  She immediately wished she could shoot them both.

  “You said you were compromised, Specialist,” the older man said. Tiksan, that was his name. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. They just knew.” She stood with the wingjet at her back, as if somehow that made her safer. Stronger. “But I’ve brought you something. An invisible wingjet. For this, you’ll release my family and leave us the hell alone.” She said the words as forcefully as she could.

  The younger soldier’s eyes widened.

  Tiksan cocked his head to the side, considering her. “An invisible wingjet. You actually brought us one.”

  “Oh, this is wonderful,” a voice interjected. Tia turned and bit back a gasp. It was Ward Balias. The man strode across the landing pad, his slim-fitting black tunic and pants accentuating his muscular form. His eyes shone with excitement. “Thank you . . . Specialist Pallas, isn’t it?” He rubbed a hand along the wingjet’s side. “This will do nicely for the mission tonight.”

  She raised her chin, clenching her hands together to keep them from shaking. “I want to see my family.”

  He smiled, all white teeth and predatory satisfaction. “Of course, Specialist. You’ve certainly done your part. Major Tiksan will
take you to them in a moment.”

  “They’re here?” The world rocked under her feet. After everything, it almost felt too easy. She realized then that she’d never truly believed she’d see them again.

  Balias ignored her question, turning instead to Tiksan. “Get someone in there, disable any emergency safeguards,” he said, gesturing to the wingjet. “We don’t want our little bird to try to escape her destiny.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tiksan nodded.

  “But don’t disable the invisibility, of course, and get the weapon installed immediately. The in-air escort will no longer be necessary. I want Haan in the air by midnight.”

  Aris?

  Balias nodded toward Tia. Major Tiksan took the hint, turning to his subordinate. “Please escort Specialist Pallas to her family.”

  The soldier nodded. Tia followed him into the building, with one last look toward Balias. What were they planning? And what did Aris have to do with it?

  Her concern didn’t last for long, swallowed by a wave of anticipation. She was about to see her family. She’d done it.

  The soldier said nothing as he led her through long hallway after hallway. They took a large lift four floors down and walked along another hall, this one cool and moist, with an unpleasant aroma. The farther they walked, the more frantic Tia became. Was her father alright? This air wouldn’t be good for his cough. And her brother . . . did he never see sunlight? Down here, underground, the only illumination came from buzzing lights that snaked in lines along the ceiling. Her mother would do her best to take care of Milo and Tia’s father, but who knew how long her rigid determination would last in a place like this.

  In their comms, they were never allowed to say their own words, give Tia their own messages. It was all codes and frightened eyes. Tia had no idea how her family really was.

  You’re here. You’re saving them.

  She couldn’t break apart now, not when she was so close.

  At last, the soldier stopped in front of a door. Before he let her through, he confiscated her solagun. The door slid open so, so slowly. Tia burst in as soon as she could slip through the widening crack.