by Kyla Stone
He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to Moruga. It glowed with a faint, pulsing blue light. A tracking beacon.
Her mind raced, putting all the pieces together. It was Horne who led the Pyros to the Fieldwell’s furniture store. And it was Horne again who used the beacon to reveal their hideout in the office building.
Finn’s gunshot wound was Horne’s fault. Their capture was Horne’s fault.
But how had he gotten the beacon in the first place? The realization struck her, lodging in her brain like an ice pick. “That night you were lost—after you left Celeste for dead. The Pyros found you. You betrayed us.”
“I cut a deal.” He gave a scornful sniff, lifting his chin. His eyes flashed with righteous indignation. “Every single one of you is willing to do whatever it takes to survive—you fight, you even kill. You have no right to judge me for doing the same thing.”
“It’s not even close to the same thing!” Willow shouted. Horne was a selfish, arrogant bastard. Everyone knew it. But even she hadn’t thought he’d stoop this low. That someone she slept near, shared meals with, fought beside, and protected could hide such savagery beneath his smarmy veneer.
Silas swore. “I’ll kill you! You’re dead, do you hear me?”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Gabriel growled.
Horne’s face tightened. He turned his back on them and waved his hand airily to Moruga. “Like I said, I’ve kept my end of the bargain. These are the people you want. They’re the ones who murdered your son.”
22
Amelia
Amelia stared at Horne with a cold, crystallized fury. They should have known he was slippery and dangerous, the one who would betray them the second his skin was on the line.
There was something rotten inside him, some invisible poison. Over time it had eaten its way through to the outside, spreading into every part of him. She should have seen it. She could have stopped this from happening.
“Tell me everything.” Moruga tapped his lighter against his chin, bouncing on his heels and grinning fiendishly. He was enjoying this. It was all a game to him. An act. She blinked against the hot glare of the stage lights.
Horne pointed at Jericho. “He has a private security, special ops background.” He moved down the line, bypassing Finn, Benjie, Celeste.
Amelia gritted her teeth when he hesitated before Silas, expecting Horne to name her brother the killer. But he didn’t. Instead, he stopped in front of Gabriel. “This one is a New Patriot.”
Moruga raised his thin eyebrows. “A New Patriot?”
“A terrorist. An enemy of the state. A card-carrying member of the revolutionary group that released the bioweapon—”
“Yes, I’m aware,” Moruga said impatiently.
Sykes pointed his gun at Gabriel, his expression seething. “You people destroyed the world.”
“I did no such thing,” Gabriel said between clenched teeth, the muscle in his jaw bunching.
“We held him captive as a prisoner,” Horne said, “until Jericho got soft and released him.”
“Shut up, you filthy traitor!” Silas shouted.
“Shhh,” Amelia hissed. She kept her gaze on Moruga, dread filling every cell of her body.
Moruga seemed bored. His sharp gaze swept the auditorium, his fingers twitching. He was filled with a tight, bristling energy, a darkness begging to be let out. His men feared him. They stiffened when he neared them, their eyes darting to the floor. Everyone but Cleo.
She was different. There was a proud jut of her jaw, a ferocity in her eyes. The damaged skin on the right side of her face didn’t make her look ugly. It made her look dangerous. When she looked at Moruga, she gazed at him straight in his ghoulish face, without fear or hesitation.
She’d enjoyed burning Willow, fed off her terror. She enjoyed meting out pain, just like Moruga. They both liked to burn, to destroy. They reminded Amelia of her father. He, too, had fed on fear.
Moruga sighed, his gaze flickering out over the seats. The lavish trappings of the theater were garish, the stained glass windows, ornately carved box seats, and opulent tapestries grotesque in the face of the horror playing out on the stage. Moruga knew it. That was part of the pleasure, part of the game for him. “Anything else?”
“You’ll be interested in Amelia Black,” Horne continued hurriedly, trying to regain Moruga’s attention. “She was infected, but she survived. She has the cure in her blood. She’ll be very valuable to the Sanctuary.”
Moruga squatted in front of her. He cocked his head, examining her like a specimen with those black, depthless eyes. Eyes like eels from the underwater caverns of the deepest, darkest sea. Predatory eyes. Like Kane’s. “Is that so?”
Gut-wrenching terror clamped down on her, sucking out her breath, her thoughts, everything but the fear. She felt herself tipping into the blackness, into the void. She clawed her way back, her mind focusing on a single word. No.
She lifted her chin in defiance. She was afraid, she couldn’t help that, but she wouldn’t cower for him. She wouldn’t let him—or anyone—break her.
After a moment, Moruga seemed to lose interest in her. He unfolded his long, thin limbs like some grotesque praying mantis and stood, turning away from her.
“You could sell her for a high price,” Horne said, his voice high-pitched, almost squeaking. “I have experience negotiating as the CEO of—”
“Shut up,” Sykes snapped, cutting him off. “It’s time to get down to business.”
In an instant, the devilish smile dropped from Moruga’s face. Now he just looked like a devil. “Do you know what we do here?”
“You’re burning Atlanta,” Celeste said in a quivering voice.
“We’re burning the infection out of Atlanta. It’s difficult work. Do you know how many millions of people died here? In their cars, in their homes, in their places of work and pleasure houses? Who’s going to get rid of those bodies? Who’s going to make this great city livable again?” He gestured behind him at the silent guards. “We are. If the rest of the world wants to label us Pyros, so be it. A little fear never hurt anyone.”
Sykes laughed. The disconcertingly melodious sound echoed in the cavernous theater. He kept stroking his bandaged hand and staring murderously at Gabriel and Jericho, his pale eyes cold and lethal.
“Of course, certain members among us do enjoy fire.” Moruga flicked his lighter on, stared for a moment at the fire. Twin flames reflected in his black eyes. “Fire is so…cleansing. Only fire can rid the world of the infection. If half the world must burn with it, then so be it.”
“You killed people,” Amelia said.
His eyes flashed dangerously. “Only those who deserved it. The gangs, the infected, the refuse. We’re clearing the way by any means necessary.”
“Clearing the way for what?”
He made a grand, sweeping gesture with both hands, as if he were performing for a full audience. “For society to rebuild itself. The Sanctuary has plans for all of this.” He spun and scowled at the guard standing next to a now sleeping lion. “Wake him up!”
The guard was a Chinese guy in his late twenties, slim but wiry, with a sharply angled face. Below the flaming skull on his neck, a shimmering green snake tattoo wound from his collarbone, slithered around his Adam’s apple, and disappeared into his hairline.
He slipped his right hand into his pocket and jerked the lion’s silver chain with his other hand. The lion leapt to its feet, shook its mane, and roared.
The sound blasted Amelia’s eardrums. She felt the vibration all the way through her bones. A strangled cry escaped her lips. She clenched her teeth.
It was just a mod. Mods weren’t violent. They were genetically engineered to be docile and tame. But this lion wasn’t tame. It looked like it could swallow her whole.
The lion growled, revealing long, sharp teeth. It lunged at Amelia.
Her heart shuddered inside her chest. Her mind shouted at her to run, but she couldn’t move. Ev
ery instinct honed over thousands of years of human survival screamed that she was the prey, that a predator was seconds from mauling her to death in the most horrific, gruesome way imaginable.
The guard yanked the lion’s thin, silver chain. The beast jerked to a stop less than five feet from Amelia’s trembling form. It roared again, shook its magnificent mane, and settled back on its haunches with a low growl.
Amelia inhaled sharply, her chest heaving. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the auditorium, in the entire theater, in the world. That thing had nearly killed her. A single, lazy swipe of its clawed paw would have done the job well enough. Another shudder ripped through her body.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Moruga’s eyes darkened. A pained expression crossed his face. For the first time, he went completely still. “My son named him Apollo. My son, Hector. He was thirteen. Did you know that? I sent him with Harrison, my most trusted soldier, to tag his first buildings. He never returned. Imagine my heartbreak. Imagine the grief I feel.” His jaw worked, his tongue sliding over his dry lips. “Imagine my rage.”
She bit her tongue, the taste of fear sharp and metallic as blood. This man wouldn’t hesitate to kill Silas. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of them. She had to do something, had to at least try. “It was an accident.”
Moruga whirled on her. “There are no accidents. Not when bullets are involved.”
She swallowed. “It was a terrible mistake. Please—”
“Enough,” Cleo said. “You’re boring me. Worse, you’re boring him.”
Moruga held out his hand, his skeletal fingers splayed. Cleo placed her gun in his palm and winked at Amelia.
Amelia’s heart punched into her throat. Tension crackled the air. No one dared to move. No one dared to speak.
Moruga considered the gun, turning it over in his hands. He flicked the safety on, then off, just like the lighter. His eyes burned like twin, smoldering coals. “There’s just one more thing I need to know. One pertinent little detail. Who actually pulled the trigger? Which one of you is the killer?”
Before anyone could speak, Jericho raised his head. His shoulders were straight, his back stiff. His dark eyes blazed bold and fearless. “I did. I killed your son.”
“No!” Silas shouted.
Amelia had no time to react, to think, to protest.
Moruga’s gaunt, hollowed-out face was like a living skull. “Thank you for your honesty.”
Tobias Voya Moruga shot Jericho in the head.
23
Micah
Jericho toppled forward. His body struck the floor with a horrific thud.
Micah stared, helpless and horrified.
Amelia screamed.
“No!” A black hole tunneled through the center of him. Jericho couldn’t be dead. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. In a second. In a heartbeat. Before he’d even registered what was happening, it was already done.
Jericho’s face was turned toward Micah. A single bead of blood trickled down his forehead. His eyes were open, unseeing. His mouth was opened in a startled wet O.
Jericho. The man who’d rescued him on the Grand Voyager. The man whose strength and skills and quick thinking had saved them all. He was tough and grim, hard and unrelenting. He was also fair and selfless, risking himself again and again to protect the group. Jericho was the only reason they were still alive.
Now he was dead.
Something broke open inside Micah. Grief crested over him in waves. He could barely hold it back. He yanked against the electric cuffs, desperate to get free, to do something, even though it was already too late. A painful zap of electricity shot up his arms. The cuffs didn’t give a millimeter.
“We have our own justice here,” Moruga said. “For your parts in my son’s murder, I sentence you all to die.”
Micah barely heard him over the roaring in his ears.
Jericho was dead. Soon, they would be, too. He was helpless. He bit the inside of his cheeks so hard that coppery blood flooded his mouth.
Silas was swearing, Finn and Celeste begging for their lives, Benjie whimpering. Beside him, Amelia wept quietly, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
Micah was the one who believed, who trusted in faith and God and the goodness of others. But in this moment, his faith abandoned him. He prayed, his lips moving feverishly, but his prayers struck the opulent, cobalt blue ceiling. They fell back, unable to penetrate past the thousands of twinkling holo stars, as trapped in this place as they were.
Sykes pressed the muzzle of his gun against Gabriel’s forehead. Gabriel stiffened, unflinching. “We can take care of this right now.”
Micah stopped breathing.
“Do not sully my theater,” Moruga barked, whirling on Sykes. “Take them out back. Line them up and shoot them.”
“Happy to,” Sykes said, his pale eyes glittering with malice. “These pigs deserve a good slaughter.”
Cleo puffed a circle of white smoke. “Tobias, wait.”
He turned toward her, attentive to her every word. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a ghoulish smile. Micah stared at him, dread scrabbling up his spine. They were already facing certain death, but warning signals exploded in his brain like fireworks.
Things were about to get worse.
“These people murdered Hector,” Cleo said silkily. “Not just anyone. Your son.” She placed her hand on his arm and lowered her voice. Micah was close enough to hear every word. “What does the king of the Pyros, the prince of fire do to his enemies?”
Moruga traced the burn on her face, his fingers trailing from her lumpy forehead to her scarred cheeks to the damaged tissue of her jaw. His black eyes flashed with a fiendish delight. “You, my dear, are brilliant.”
She gave an impassive shrug and tapped ash from her cigar. “The punishment must fit the crime.”
“Gather the wood for a fire,” Moruga commanded Sykes with a flick of his wrist. His whole body was taut, thrumming with that dark, deadly energy. “And get them out of my sight. Tomorrow, they burn.”
The memory of blazing flames, scalding heat, and choking smoke seared his mind. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.
Micah gagged. Vomit and spittle dripped off his chin.
“What about the girl?” Cleo asked darkly, pointing at Amelia.
Moruga rubbed his jaw with his skeletal hand. “If what they say about her is true … we’ll keep her alive. But throw her in with the rest for now.”
Horne smoothed his clothes and hair, regaining his composure. He cleared his throat loudly. “I’m happy to facilitate negotiations with the Sanctuary.” His pleasant, jocular tone sounded grotesque in the same room as Jericho’s crumpled body, the friends he’d just betrayed sentenced to burn at the stake.
“And him?” Cleo’s lips curled in open disdain as she hooked her thumb at Horne.
Moruga took out a crisp white handkerchief, polished the gun that had killed Jericho, and handed it back to Cleo. His attention roved restlessly over the auditorium, not even pausing on Horne as he determined the man’s fate. “I don’t care.”
He bounced on his heels, that dangerous, jittery energy vibrating off him, and strode down the short staircase at the far right side of the stage. Sykes and another guard flanked him as he sauntered up the aisle past thousands of plush seats to the auditorium exit.
Cleo turned to the hostages. She flashed that lethal smile, like she wished she could kill them all herself, with her own bare hands. “Li Jun, please place this man in cuffs and throw him in with the others to await their fate.”
Horne blanched. “We had a deal!”
The Chinese guard grabbed Horne’s arms. Horne tried unsuccessfully to yank his hands free as the guard slapped electronic cuffs on him.
“Now, wait just a minute!” he cried in desperation. “I kept our end of the deal! I did everything you asked!”
The lion ambled up to Horne and sniffed hungrily at his stomach. It growled deep in its chest. Horne froze. A
dark stain appeared over his crotch and leaked down his pant legs.
Maybe Micah should feel vindicated that at least Horne would get his due, but he didn’t. He just felt sick. Sick with dread and fear and a bone-deep grief.
His mother always said God had a plan for everyone, a purpose for everything. Where was the purpose in this?
Cleo stroked the lion’s head, that predatory smile twisting her lips. She blew white smoke into Horne’s face. “What use do we have with a faithless traitor?” she asked sweetly. “If your friends can’t trust you, why should we?”
“You can’t do this!” Horne screamed.
Cleo ignored him. She signaled the guards, who dropped hoods over the hostages’ heads. One of the guards shoved a hood roughly over Micah’s face.
He was plunged into darkness. Strong hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.
“Please don’t do this to us! You don’t want to do this,” he cried through the thick fabric, hating the helpless pleading in his voice but pleading anyway.
He felt a presence hovering in front of him and smelled the sickly sweet scent of cigar smoke. Cleo leaned in close. When she spoke, her breath stirred the hood against his ear. “Enjoy the last day of your life.”
“Let me kill him!” Silas snarled. “I’ll rip out his guts with my bare hands!”
Micah seized his arm and held him back with all of his strength. Silas was lean but incredibly strong. His eyes were wild, his face contorted in savage rage.
Micah stood between Silas—between everyone—and Horne, who cowered in the corner, his hands clutching his head, weeping like the pathetic coward he was.
They were crammed into a single twenty-by-twenty room. The walls were white. The floor and ceiling were white. There was no furniture, no beds, no nothing. Just blinding whiteness everywhere.
A rectangle-shaped crack outlined a door on the far wall. A tiny, barely visible camera attached to the ceiling watched them silently. A drain in the opposite corner from the door served as a bathroom. There was no privacy. Micah was too numb and shell-shocked to care.
