We have to hurry. I don't have time to square these guys away.
“I'm really sorry.”
I hop over their legs, slide through the door, and hit a button. The door slams shut, leaving them on the wrong side of the glass.
“What's the passcode?”
The guard still on the floor shakes his head. “I – I don't – ”
“Tell me! Now!”
“1-7-7-6,” he squeaks.
I wouldn't be at all surprised if the guy's soiled his briefs.
I sprint across the room, punch in the code, and practically sag with relief when the door pops open.
Inside, everyone stands at the ready, waiting for instruction like good little soldiers. I don't hesitate to take charge.
“Get changed and get your gear. We're going after them.”
It's crazy.
It's stupid.
It's dangerous.
But I don't have a choice.
None of us do.
Our bare feet slap against the concrete floors of the hallway, but there's no use being quiet. Aside from the chattering of nurses in the lab, the entire base is deserted. Anxiety crashes with dread in my stomach and I embrace it. Feeling something is better than being numb.
In the dorm, we dress as quickly as we can. Everyone is silent, only sparing a few seconds to glance nervously around at the others. This isn't like anything we've done before. Beyond the walls, we know what the threat looks like. We know the mission.
But now the threat isn't out there. It's hidden within our own ranks. It's someone we looked up to. Someone we trusted.
I finish tying my shoelaces, only to find everyone standing next to their cots, looking to me, waiting for me to give an order. Even Celeste waits. Even Brian.
His eyes are still red-rimmed and filled with unfathomable pain, but he's standing at attention, ready to give this his all. He's not healed, but he's present, and that's all I can ask of him.
We're no longer Alphas and Betas. There is no division. No teams. Today, we're all pawns. All willing to jump to the front lines.
All willing to sacrifice.
“Armory.”
We thunder down the stairs, all the way to the basement. It's locked, as it always is, but I cross my fingers and toes and hold my breath as I enter a four digit number.
1-7-7-6
Green light.
Bingo.
“She's on fire!” someone exclaims from behind me.
Yeah, right. I can't believe that actually worked.
Clicks and slides reverberate through the cold room until everyone is locked and loaded. My machete and ax hang from around my hips, but I falter. These aren't the weapons I need today. These are for savages; for brutality. That's not what I'm after.
Today, I don't need them. Really, I'm not sure what I need, but I keep them holstered, just in case. I also abandon the guard's Glock. It just doesn't feel right to use someone's personal sidearm for this.
My eyes swing around to find the Ruger LC380. It's what my father owns. What I learned to shoot with.
What I first killed with.
Jared's face looms in the shadows of my mind, but I shake it away. Not now. Not here.
I pick up the gun.
“Ready?” Cain stands by my side, looking down at me with something that looks an awful lot like pride.
“Yup.” I check the chamber to make sure it's loaded. It is. “Let's go.”
We head out the side door, the one no one but the guards use, and when we burst through the door I'm thrown by the amount of sunlight beaming down. The life-giving star stands proudly at the top of the sky and I assume it's near noon. I've lost all sense of time. Somehow, I thought it was closer to nightfall.
“Which way to the airfield?” I ask, slightly disoriented.
Cain nudges my shoulder and cocks his head. “South.”
“Got it.”
We take off at a jog, and as soon as the building isn't obscuring the land beyond, I see it. One long stretch of pavement dotted with parked choppers and the hangar that houses Air Force One. But it's not the president's plane that's set for takeoff. It's the Boeing C-17. The cargo plane.
“Why are they taking that?” Tara asks.
Stones settle in my stomach, and I know the answer.
“So when they land with a dead man on board, no one will know it's the president.”
“How would they not know? He's the most recognizable person on the planet right now.”
A sickening image of what this traitor might be planning flashes before me.
“That all depends on how March decides to kill him.”
I kick my jog up to a run, hoping we're not too late. Behind me, lungs go to work and my teammates struggle to keep up. But I'm not slowing down. I don't need oxygen. My muscles won't cramp. I'm built for this.
“We're not going to catch them!” someone puffs.
I refuse to believe that.
“Yes, we are!”
Up ahead, I see they're still loading and making checks.
I have to get on that plane. I have to end this.
The door begins to close.
No!
“We're not going to make it!”
Whoever is screaming is right. We're still too far away. It will be closed by the time we get there.
“No. We're not.”
My heels bury in the dirt and I slide to a stop. Cain stops beside me and, without explanation, I grab his gun and force my pistol into his hand.
The 10/22 will do what my .380 can't.
Rifle raised, eyes on the prize, I pull the trigger.
BAM!
Sparks fly off the landing gear and a tire explodes.
BAM!
The back hatch closing them in shakes violently as the closing mechanism squeals and groans. Not what I had in mind, but it will buy us some time.
“Maya!” Cain screams, grabbing my arm. “They're going to start shooting back!”
He's right.
I take off running again. The others trail me, but at a safer distance than before. When I whip my head back, Cain is the only one within reach, so I thrust the rifle into his hands before sprinting out onto the tarmac.
“Maya!”
I'm close.
The plane isn't moving.
This could work.
“Maya, wait!”
My feet push off the ground when I'm in range, and I grab hold of the cracked door. My hands slide along the ridged metal, digging into my flesh, but I don't let go. I can't. I can't fail him.
The muscles in my arms burn for the first time since my death, but I manage to lever myself inside as the door begins its rapid descent back to touch the ground.
I'm in!
My body hits the floor of the hull with a painful thud, but I roll to my knees and stand. When I lift my eyes, I see exactly what I expected to see.
Every man in the cabin stands, staring at me the same way I've seen them look at the reanimated corpses we fight. In their eyes, I'm one in the same.
I'm one of them.
Every gun in the cabin takes aim, and a chorus of clicks plays through the air as safeties are disengaged and rounds slide into chambers. There are more guns aimed at my face than I can count.
I have to be smart. I can't be reckless. This has to work.
I raise my hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Someone my age shouldn't think about death all that often. To teenagers, the world is bowed down at our feet. We have room for mistakes, room for second chances.
But for someone like me – someone who isn't one thing or another – there's not a whole lot of wiggle room when it comes to the future.
All I have are my words. I can't shoot my way out, can't fight my way out. There is only the truth, and it's going to be a bitter pill to swallow. So bitter, their faces will be ripe with doubt.
But I only need one man to trust me.
Just one.
“I'm unarmed, sir.”
/>
I cast my eyes around the shoulder of a guard and straight into the startled face of the president.
“That means very little considering what you are,” March sneers from his side. “Shoot her.”
“No!”
I flinch at Decker's order, but keep my eyes on his – the man I came to save.
He gets to his feet and brushes a few guards out of the way. They look to their leader in shock and dismay, but they'll see soon enough. They'll understand.
“Stand down,” he instructs. His voice remains even and low. “Explain yourself, Winters. What are you doing?”
I swallow the lump in my throat and stand just a little taller.
“Saving your life, sir.”
March scoffs. “Nice try, but that's not your job.”
Decker stills, turns on his heel, and glares at his Secretary of Defense. “Actually, it is her job.”
From where I stand, I have a front-row seat to the entire living cabinet, so I see the confusion tugging Wilder's eyebrows together. I see the moment March's face falls. And I see my greatest enemy grow red in the face.
“She's a savage, sir!” March screams. He's livid, as is to be expected. “She's what we're fighting here! She's the threat! She's the disease!”
He wants to point fingers?
Fine. I can give just as well as I can take.
“A disease you spread.” My voice doesn't shake, doesn't rise, doesn't falter.
Even in the face of my demise, standing toe-to-toe with some of the most powerful men in the world, there is no doubt. I'm not tempted to run away and hide. I'm, in a sense, proud of myself. And if this is the last thing I'm ever able to do on this earth, well... it's worth it.
Decker makes his way to me. Guards scatter like cockroaches as he barrels forward, but I don't move a muscle.
“What did you just say, Winters?”
I take in a deep, bracing breath, even though I don't need it.
“He planned this,” I say, raising a finger to point at the joke of a man squirming where he stands. “He paid a scientist to create the virus, planned the attacks on the state capitals, and put the entire thing into action.”
Decker takes this all in while searching my eyes. What's he looking for? A tell? A tic? Doubt? Malice? Whatever it is, he won't find it. Because I hold the truth, whether he decides to believe me or not.
“What makes you think that, Winters?”
“Because he told me, sir. Right after he had us contained. After he sent us out to be ambushed because he thought someone was onto him.”
March laughs. “This is insane!” He points a finger at my face while looking around to the guards. “She needs to be restrained!”
Like they're going to listen to him.
“Why, March?” I counter, daring him to push just a little harder. “Because I'm a threat? Because your secret is exposed and your plans are going to crumble?”
“She's showing signs of dementia and hysteria!” he shouts. “She needs to be taken to a safe place, far away from the president.”
A guard behind me lays a hand on my shoulder, but I jerk away.
“I can prove it!”
“There is nothing to prove,” March argues. “You need to get off this plane. We have a schedule to keep.”
Decker stands still, saying nothing. He's still searching my face.
“Mr. President, please.” I'm not above begging. If it stops this man, I'll get on my hands and knees until someone listens.
“Get her off the plane!”
“SHUT UP!”
Decker explodes, making even the guards jump. He's not known to lose his temper, so seeing him red in the face, teeth bared in anger, is nothing short of terrifying.
“Winters.” He snaps his fingers and I take a step closer. “Prove it.”
“Oh, uh, of course, sir.” I fumble for the papers in my back pocket and pull them out with unsteady hands. “Here.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the secretary move toward me, but he's quickly stopped by two guards. He's not going anywhere. The proof is in the president's hands now. It's done.
Decker's eyes bounce around the paper, and with every quick blink, his mouth draws into a deeper frown. As I watch Decker, March watches me, and the guards watch March.
Everyone waits.
When Decker finally turns an accusatory stare toward his trusted Secretary of Defense, March comes unhinged.
“Fabricated!” he screams, pointing a finger my way. “She created all of this!”
“And why the hell would I do that?”
“Why do you do anything?” he rushes to say. “I don't know. You have no heart! No future! The dead have no moral or ethical code to adhere to. Who's to know why you did it!”
I sigh. There's no winning with this guy.
“Sir, the original plans are on his flash drive.”
In a blink, a guard jerks the drive off his lanyard and tosses it to the VP. Wilder fumbles to drag his laptop out of its bag and we all wait – rather impatiently – as he plugs it in and clicks a few buttons. I can see the reflection of the screen in his glasses, so I know when the files are loaded.
He clears his throat. “Sir?”
Decker stomps toward him, fists clenched at his sides. When he crouches down to look at the screen, I notice his face isn't just flushed, it's ruddy. I hope to God he doesn't have blood pressure problems.
“Right there.” He points at the screen. “Brazil. Open that file.”
March tries to move again, earning him a rough shove to the shoulder by the nearest guard. I try not to smile. I fail.
When the president's eyes go wide, I know it's clicked.
He knows.
He believes.
I've done my job.
“You're quite the schemer,” Decker says, looking down his nose.
March keeps quiet, and it's one of the smartest things I've ever seen him do.
“You were really going to do it.”
Still nothing.
When Decker speaks again, his voice is sad, discouraged. “I trusted you.”
A hand raises in the air, and all the guards shift to move.
“Take him back to the base,” Decker instructs. “Put him in holding.”
Ah, justice.
Beautiful, amorous justice.
It's going to taste so, so sweet. I can't help but grin.
I'm already celebrating, but I shouldn't be, because March explodes.
Completely. Explodes.
The man must be stronger than he looks because he knocks back the guards holding him by the shoulders, runs across the floor without being caught, and lunges for someone.
Me.
His weight slams into my frame and before I can do a thing, we're rolling down the door and onto the ground, our limbs tangling, curses spewing from March's mouth, me trying my hardest to get him the hell away from me. We roll to a stop with him on top, and I thrash around to throw him off.
His eyes blaze in a way I've never seen on a human being before. He's thrown everything away already. He knows this, so he has nothing left to lose. There's no fear there. No fear or guilt or restraint over the thought of taking another person's life.
One punch to the face and I'm disoriented.
The world tilts.
I hear guards racing toward us, but I hold up my hand, telling them to stop.
This isn't their fight.
March punches me again, only this time, I let him.
He's digging his own grave.
His hands reach forward, on their way to encase my throat. He means to strangle me. To end my life. Not smart.
I strike.
My teeth close around the fleshy pad of his hand, canines sinking in deep. He cries out, but it's a glorious sound to my ears. I thrash my head wildly, tearing skin, ripping muscle. My teeth vibrate with the fight, my tongue grows wet, and I bite down harder.
Harder.
Screams rise up around me, this time more than j
ust one.
Hands pull at me, but I don't stop. I can't.
I want more.
His frazzled nerve endings are electric. The meat of his palm is warm and heavenly against my tongue. It tastes like the first raindrop after a drought. A spoonful of crème brulee after a fast.
It tastes like life.
Like sin- the good kind.
I need more.
Arms pull against me, but I'm strong.
They're weak.
We roll, and I take the upper hand completely, with his body pinned beneath me.
No one stops me. They can't.
My teeth clamp down on the soft flesh of his neck.
He screams. I growl.
He thrashes. I tear.
I chew through muscle and skin and tendon. I chew and swallow as fast as I can. As much as I can.
God, this is everything.
I need this.
I need him.
I need more.
More!
Arms come around me and pull.
They tug.
They're so strong. Stronger than me.
No!
I'm not done!
Not yet!
Skin rips from my mouth as someone pulls me away and I hurry to swallow what I can. My feet flail out to kick at the air, to get any anything I can. I scream, guttural cries bubbling up my throat. I groan, already in withdrawal, needing more, craving it.
I have to get free. Have to. I can't leave him. He's right there. There's so much of him.
“No!” I scream, voice cracking as blood gurgles in my throat. “I need him! I need him! Stop! Let me go! I need him, please! Let go!”
“Maya, STOP!” Cain's voice booms in my ear. He's so close I can feel his lips on my skin. “You have to stop!”
I don't want to stop.
No, no.
Can't stop.
“You could have killed him.”
Yes. Yes, that's what I want.
“I'll kill him. It will be on me. Me. Mine. Let me go!”
“No!” Cain shakes me in his arms, and I hate the feeling it brings. I feel weak. Contained.
Tamed.
He's trying to tame me.
No, sir.
No, no, no, sir.
“This isn't what you want.”
“Yes, it is!” I squirm in his arms, every inch of my skin is coming alive. Everything is amplified. I can feel it all. “Oh God, it really is. I want him.”
I reach for him. He's still right there, on the ground.
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