I take in their set expressions. They will never agree. But it isn’t a fluke. There is no such thing as a coincidence when you’re a recruit for the Montauk Project. Wes was the one who taught me that, almost a year ago.
No matter what happens, I have to make it to New York.
Chapter 11
I push my way between the gnarled branches. From somewhere through the trees I hear the highway, the soft whoosh of cars as they pass. I just need to find a house, or a small town, anyplace where I can steal a vehicle to take me north.
It wasn’t easy leaving Wes and Tim behind in the clearing. The rain had sent us west, close to the edge of the woods. I left them sleeping, grabbing the last few minutes of rest before we tried to steal a car from a nearby home. But we all knew how small our odds were and were silent as we made camp earlier. Twenty-two went out to scout again, to see how close the Secret Service was. I was supposed to be on patrol, but I decided I would leave as soon as the two boys closed their eyes. I am tired of looking for ghosts in the trees, of wondering how we will be tortured if we’re caught. The others might not believe this message meant anything, but I know it did. It has to be from the Project. If I can get to New York in two days, then I can come back with a new team and save everyone else. It’s the only chance we have of making it out of here alive.
I am stepping past the black trunk of a tree when a hand reaches out and yanks me against something solid. I do not scream. I grab the arm across my waist and use it as leverage to swing my body to the left, hard enough to break the unknown hold and twist myself around. I lunge at the dark figure from behind, but he locks onto my arm, flipping me through the air. I land on my back on the forest floor and before I can move the figure straddles my body, pinning my arms up over my head.
“It’s me.”
Wes. I pant under him, my chest rising and falling against his. “Let me go.”
“Are you going to attack me again?”
“You were the one who attacked me.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t the one who snuck off alone. Jesus, Lydia. What the hell were you thinking?” Instead of getting up, his fingers flex against my wrists, pushing my hands into the dirt. I am suddenly aware of how close his face is, of how heavy his body is against mine.
I clear my throat and turn my head away. “I have to get to New York.”
“At the risk of your life? Just to follow a hunch?”
“It’s not a hunch.”
He lets go and twists his body until he’s sitting next to me. “I forgot how stubborn you are.”
I sit up, brushing a crumpled leaf from my hair. “I thought you were asleep. You weren’t supposed to follow me.”
“I knew you’d try something like this. I was just waiting.”
“I have to go. I know it’s a long shot. I know it’s almost ridiculous to attempt, but the Project isn’t coming. The four of us trying to steal a car together is too dangerous. We have a better chance if we split up. This is the only hope we have. I had to do something.”
“I would have come with you.”
I shake my head. “You wouldn’t have agreed. None of you would. But I know the ad means something. Just let me go.”
He is silent for a minute, watching me. Then he leans forward, resting his arms on his bent knees. “Your face in that cell, the moment you started to believe I didn’t love you, it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. Worse than all those dead recruits. Worse than the years of brainwashing. I’ll never forget how pale you were. Your eyes were so big and green. I watched a light go out in them.”
I push back, away from him. “I can’t—”
“If you insist on this suicide mission, you need to know the truth first. You have to listen.”
“Please.” But even I don’t know what I’m begging for anymore.
“It killed me to hurt you. You have to know that, Lydia. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Then why did you?”
“The Project knew everything and they were coming for you.” His voice lowers. “I thought if I could control the situation then I could protect you.”
“You keep saying that, protect me; you’ve said it since the beginning.”
I let the words hang there, and Wes frowns. “I never did a very good job of it, did I?”
I don’t answer. It is not fully dark yet and around us the forest is so still. The usual sounds of night—crickets chirping, frogs in a faraway bog, the screech of a bird—have disappeared.
“I was supposed to check in with General Walker that morning.” Wes watches me closely, as though he’s afraid I will launch to my feet and start sprinting away at any moment. “When I did he told me they were coming for you and that you’d start the first stage of training as soon as they brought you in. I wouldn’t let that happen to you, but I knew they would reach you before I could. So I made a deal.”
“You gave me up so I wouldn’t be brainwashed,” I whisper.
“It wasn’t just you.” He moves his body until he’s turned toward me, but I cannot bear to see his face right now, even if it is hidden in the deep blue of twilight. “They were going to kill your grandfather. I told Walker he’d have an easier time with you if they used him as collateral, that it would get you into the field faster.”
“You saved us both.” I take a slow breath, feeling the knowledge sink in. He didn’t betray me for no reason. He was trying to keep both my grandfather and me safe.
But now I’m trapped by the Project, and Grandpa is in a cell, sick and alone. Is this life better for him, even if the alternative was death?
No. I won’t let myself think like that. Wes knew that I would always pick the option with hope. He was trying to help, regardless of the outcome.
“Walker was eager to start the assassination mission, so he agreed,” Wes says. “But he was suspicious that maybe I had . . . crossed a line with you.”
I bury my face in my hands. “He made you come to the cell. He made you tell me those things.” My voice comes out muffled.
“I had to prove you meant nothing to me.”
He rises until he’s kneeling. I feel him move closer. His fingers curl around my bare arms. “Lydia, I’m sorry. This isn’t what I wanted for you.”
I let him pull my hands away, let him see the tears that are sliding down my face.
“But they did break me, Wes. I’ve been broken for months.”
“You’re not.” He reaches up and rubs his thumbs across my cheeks and I feel the wetness there, seeping into his skin too. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“I thought I could learn how to block it all out, but I can’t. It’s too much. I hate this life.”
“We’ll get away from it; I swear we will, Lydia.”
“How? We’re being hunted. When we’re not, the Project is everywhere, controlling everything. I don’t even know if that resistance movement is real, if they can help us. There’s no way out.”
His brows are narrowed. “There has to be. I don’t know how we’ll break away. But we will. If we’re together, we can do anything.”
I think of the lies he told from the beginning, what he kept from me. It has haunted me for months, his betrayal, and I do not know if this confession is enough to erase that.
I open my mouth to say something, but then I hear a sharp, sudden noise that cuts into the night. Wes is solid beside me. “Gunshots,” I gasp.
“The clearing.”
We both jump to our feet and run through the woods, back toward Tim and Twenty-two. I wipe the tears from my eyes, chasing after Wes’s black form as he ducks below branches, leaps over rocks. When he gets near our makeshift campsite he slows a bit, and I see what he does—Tim and Twenty-two tucked behind separate trees.
Tim raises the shotgun and points it into the opposite woods. He fires and the noise is as shocking as thunder, ringing in my ears long after the bullet has disappeared. I duck behind a tree as the other side opens fire—quick, relentless blasts. Small piece
s of bark explode around me in a shower of dust and wood.
This is the FBI. Surrender, a booming voice calls out through a megaphone. It is closer than I thought, maybe only twenty feet away. In the near dark it is impossible to tell how many agents there are, and I picture body after body hidden in the trees, armed and ready.
“Move back!” Wes shouts as soon as the shooting stops. Twenty-two sprints away, darting from tree to tree to maintain cover as she makes her way toward us. Tim does the same but he is slower, clumsier. When they reach us we fall into one of the formations I learned in training—a rough square with Twenty-two and Tim on point, Wes and I behind.
I can hear them out there, twigs snapping under their feet, guns jostling as they move forward, coming for us. The sulfur from Tim’s shotgun burns at my nose, and I struggle to take a breath.
Wes taps his head twice with his index finger, the code for retreat. Our only choice now is to run.
Suddenly a yellow light erupts through the forest, so bright I blink and cover my eyes with my hands. They have a spotlight on us, and our cover behind the trees is now almost worthless.
“Now!” I shout. “Go now!”
Twenty-two is already moving, but Tim winces, doubling over to clutch his side. I grab his arm, ready to pull him after me, when I feel it, wet and hot and red.
Blood. He’s covered in blood.
“Oh God, Tim.” I wrap my arm around his waist and he falls into me. “Wes, he’s been shot.”
Wes grabs the shotgun from Tim’s hand, pumping the barrel once. As he winds one arm around Tim’s body, he turns and fires the weapon into the woods. The bright light disappears, shattered by his bullet.
We run as fast as we can, Wes on Tim’s left side, me on his right. Twenty-two is up ahead, darting from tree to tree, her small body almost invisible in the darkened forest.
Tim is moaning, his head lolling back and forth, and even with Wes’s help I struggle under his weight. He was shot on the right side, under his ribs. The bullet pierced his lung; I can hear it in every gargled, jagged breath he takes. Blood pours out of the hole, staining my T-shirt as well as his.
“He has to lie down,” I yell at Wes. “I need to stop the bleeding or he’ll die.”
Wes’s face is grim as he steers us around a large fallen tree. He lifts the shotgun, pumps the chamber again, and points it into the woods. “Lydia . . . we won’t have long.”
“Just let me stop the bleeding.” I help Tim lie back against the old, rotting wood. He closes his eyes and tries to lift his arm, but his hand just spasms in the air before it falls limply back to his side. It reminds me of him in the stream at dusk, slowly moving his fingers through the dark water and waiting, waiting for the moment the fish would swim close enough to touch.
I grab the edge of my shirt and rip a long strip off, then press it down onto the wound. The cloth is almost instantly soaked through with blood. I press down harder and he moans again, low and raspy. “Open your eyes, Tim.”
He does, but they are glassy and unfocused. “Me,” I say, “look at me.”
He swings his gaze wildly, but finally his eyes settle on my face. “Lydia. Is it bad?” The words sound like they are spoken through liquid.
“No,” I lie, shaking my head so hard my teeth rattle. “You’ll be fine. Just keep your eyes open.”
I hear Wes fire from above, see Twenty-two crouch behind a boulder in front of us. The men in the trees are coming closer, with their larger guns, their endless ammo.
“I thought the Project would come for us—” Tim gasps and his body goes tight. He bares his teeth and blood slides out the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t think about that. We’ll make it out of this. The Project will find us and we’ll go back in time and erase this whole night. You just have to hold on for a little longer.” I fight to keep my voice even.
“You told me your name.”
“Because I trust you.” I didn’t know a body could have this much blood, and my hands are slick with it. I press down again. Tim doesn’t even moan this time. There’s a large bruise blossoming on his neck in shades of blue. His skin is turning to rice paper, translucent and fragile.
I can stop it. I have to stop it.
“Lydia.” He sounds so faint, and I lean in close to hear him. “Get out. Promise me you’ll get out.”
“We’ll both get out.” Tears are clouding my vision, making it hard to see. A sob rips at my throat but I swallow it down. “Don’t give up.”
“Please.” The word is less than a whisper.
“No, no, no, no,” I chant. I feel Wes squat down beside me, his hand heavy on my shoulder.
Tim takes a splintered, shallow breath, and then his chest stops moving. The seeping blood slows. His eyes are open and unseeing.
“Wake up. Tim, wake up.” I shake him, but he doesn’t blink or move. “Wake up, Tim.”
“Lydia.” Wes’s arms wrap around my middle, trying to pull me back. Away.
I fight against his hold. “I have to stop the bleeding. I have to stop it. I have to—”
“Shh.” I feel Wes breathe into my hair. “He’s gone. Lydia, he’s gone.”
“No.” I close my eyes. If I keep my eyes closed then it didn’t happen. “This isn’t real; this isn’t real.”
New bullets burst through the woods in a torrent of gunfire. Wes pushes my body down until we’re both hidden behind the fallen tree. I keep my eyes closed so that I won’t have to see Tim lying dead next to me. The bullets seem like they will never end and I know we need to get up and keep moving. I cannot fall apart now. There is no time for grief.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
There’s a pause in the shooting and Wes pulls me to my feet, keeping me angled away from the log. His hand clutches mine; he signals to Twenty-two and then we are running. I do not look back at the soldiers hunting us, at Tim’s body, bloody and still.
We rush through the trees and the gunfire is everywhere, never stopping. I feel a burning on my arm and know that a bullet has nicked my skin. “We’re not going to make it!” I yell. Wes hears me but doesn’t say anything, just pulls at my arm, speeding up the smallest bit.
They keep coming and coming. I hear a thud and turn to see Twenty-two’s body facedown in the dirt, a dark spot spreading on her back.
“Twenty-two.” I tug at Wes’s arm. He stops, dropping my hand. I start to move toward her, but bullets rain down again, forcing us behind two trees.
“There’s no way to reach her.” His voice is still calm, the same way it was during that car chase so many days ago, and this time I find it comforting. Maybe he thinks we have a chance, however small it is.
“We can’t just leave her here.”
“There’s no choice, Lydia.” His voice is drowned out by the constant shooting. It lights up the woods on their side, and behind the sparks I see the shadows of hundreds of bodies, the long barrels of their rifles.
Twenty-two’s arm trembles on the ground. She’s still alive, but I can picture her bleeding out, her olive skin turning chalky, her small body racking as she struggles for breath. Even if we can get her away from here, she will die just like Tim did. We have no medicine, no ambulance. Maybe she has a better chance with the FBI, who will at least keep her alive so they can interrogate her.
I turn away from her twitching form. The minute there is a pause in the gunfire Wes takes my hand and we are running through the woods again, the bullets flying all around us.
In the space between two rounds of gunfire, I hear it again—the quick rise and fall of cars passing on a highway. I yank on Wes’s arm, changing our direction until we are running toward the sound. He squeezes my hand in his, and then he falters, stumbles, and I turn to see him grab his leg. “Wes!”
“I’m fine.” He says the words through gritted teeth. “It’s just my thigh. I can keep going.”
We are so close to the road, to escape. I tighten my grip on his hand and pull him forward. He is slower, limping, but he do
esn’t stop running.
“Just hold on,” I whisper. “We’re almost there.”
We break through the edge of the trees and onto an open stretch of land. Sometime in the past few minutes night has fallen, and the moon is a low ball on the horizon. Ahead of us is the highway, the cars rushing back and forth, their headlights a slash against the black tar.
We are too exposed in this open space, but we do not hesitate, running forward and hunching down to make our bodies small. When we are halfway to the road, the agents emerge from the woods behind us and I glance back, startled by how many there are, hundreds of black uniforms stretching out, their bulletproof vests bulky against their dark silhouettes. “Keep down,” I shout to Wes. He is sweating, the drops beading like dew on his forehead, but he curves his back over, keeping as low as he can with a bullet in his thigh.
We are only a few feet from the road when I feel him jerk forward. This time he clutches his shoulder and falls to his knees.
“Wes. Wes. No.” I kneel beside him in the tall grass. “Get up. You can do this. Get up.”
His hand wraps around my arm, his grip still strong.
“You’ll be okay. Just get up.”
The gunfire stops. I imagine they do not want to hit a civilian car, or maybe they think we are defeated, that we have nowhere left to run.
“Lydia. Go. This is your chance.”
“Not without you.”
He shakes his head, swallows hard against the pain. “We both know I can’t jump on the back of a car right now.”
I look over his bleeding shoulder. The highway is on the grid and the cars fly past at seventy miles an hour, maybe more. If we’re going to make it, we have to be quick and strong and ready to hold on for hours.
“Go,” he repeats. “I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t leave you here.” It was hard enough watching Tim die, abandoning Twenty-two. I cannot lose Wes.
“You have to.”
The soldiers are coming closer, moving quickly, their bodies angled to the side, their guns cocked and pointed at us. Wes abandoned the shotgun after Twenty-two fell. He still has the knife that she found in the barn, but it is no match against all these agents. We are helpless now, with no way to defend ourselves, no way to fight back.
Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You) Page 11
