by AJ Steiger
She makes it sound simple. Of course, if something goes wrong, we’ll all be killed or captured.
Brian raises his hand.
“Yes?”
“How will we get in without attracting attention? Isn’t there a fence around the building?”
“A cleaning supply truck is scheduled to arrive this morning,” she says. “We’ll be inside that truck.” She presses another button, and different routes light up with different colors. “Each of you will be assigned a specific route. Memorize it. We’ll be wearing our communication helmets, which will contain a map, but this will go a lot more smoothly if you don’t have to pause and think about where you’re going. Lain, you’ll be the green route.”
She keeps talking as I study the route—only a few turns, so there’s not much chance of getting lost. I can feel Ian’s and Steven’s gazes on me, a pressure against my skin. Ignore them, I tell myself. Focus. I’ll need all my concentration for this.
After going over the routes, one by one, Rhee deactivates the screen. “We’ll leave the Citadel at 4 a.m. Go back to your rooms and get some rest. You’ll need it.”
I leave the room, walking quickly, not looking back. We only have time for a few hours of sleep before the mission.
Behind me, I hear footsteps and freeze.
“Lain…”
I turn slowly to face Ian. His expression sags with weariness. I wonder if he’s told anyone that the woman in the recording was his mother, or if I’m the only one who understands the real reason he volunteered.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then starts again. “I won’t try to talk you out of this. Because I know it won’t work. I just wanted to say…” The muscles of his throat work as he swallows. He looks at me, and I see the longing in his eyes. The pain.
“What?” I whisper.
He drops his gaze and shakes his head. “I’ll tell you when we get back.”
Before I can respond, he turns and walks away.
I don’t see Steven anywhere. Maybe he’s already gone back to his room. Probably, he’s still angry at me—even though, logically, he should be delighted with this turn of events. I can’t leave things like this, can I? I need to say something to him.
I make my way toward the dormitory wing. I can’t feel my legs; I have the sense that I’m drifting down the hallway like a ghost. I stop in front of Steven’s door, and knock. “Steven?” No answer. I try again; still nothing. Where is he?
I retreat into my room and lie down, staring at the ceiling. Rhee said to get some rest. I should probably take her advice, though I know I won’t be able to sleep. The details of the mission replay through my head over and over. When I close my eyes, the map hovers in bright lines against my eyelids.
Tomorrow, I will become a terrorist. We’ll strike back against IFEN. We’ll stain our hands with blood.
I think about all the horrible things IFEN has done to Steven, to Rhee, to Father. I think about the collars, about Somnazol, trying to make myself angry enough to blot out the fear, trying to fill my veins with rebellious fire. But the fear remains—a hard, cold center.
There’s a knock on my door. Thinking it must be Steven, I sit up and call, “Come in.”
The door opens. It’s Rhee. In one hand, she grasps a tattered black trench coat. In the other, she holds a pistol. It’s large and old, its metal dull and tarnished. “These are for you.”
Slowly, I stand.
She approaches and hands me the coat. The leather is old and butter-soft against my fingers. I study the high collar, the long sleeves. There are no designs, no frills; it’s a simple, functional coat, but it has its own stark beauty. Wearing this, maybe, I could feel like a revolutionary. Still, I don’t put it on. “Have you seen Steven?” I ask instead.
She shrugs. “He’s sulking. He didn’t expect you to join the mission and he doesn’t like the idea of you being in danger.”
Of course; he made a promise to keep me safe. Though that feels like an eternity ago. Despite the emotional wall between us, he still takes that promise seriously. Is that why he’s angry? “He wants to protect me,” I murmur.
“It doesn’t work that way,” she says. “We’re all soldiers, and no one’s life is prioritized above the cause. I explained that to him after the briefing.”
A tiny smile tugs at my lips. “Somehow, I don’t think he was very receptive. He doesn’t like being told what to do.” My smile fades. “I thought he’d be happy about me joining.”
“Just give him some time. He’ll get over it.”
The words should reassure me, but all I can think is that Steven and Rhee must be even closer than I imagined. She’s grown to know him so well over such a short time. I swallow. “Rhee… is Steven… I mean, are you and he…” I can’t bring myself to ask it aloud.
Rhee just stares, a small furrow in her brow. Apparently, she’s not going to help me fill in the blanks.
A quiet sigh escapes me. “Never mind.” I need to focus. I’m about to venture into the field of battle. Well, okay, not exactly—I’ll be sneaking around in an empty building to plant a bomb, which sounds a bit less noble. Regardless, if my head is clouded with relationship drama, I’ll likely end up dead. Whatever is going on between the two of them, we can sort it out once we’ve all gotten back alive.
I turn my attention back to the black leather coat in my hands. There’s a bullet hole in the chest. I run my thumb over the small, ragged aperture. “Who wore this before me?”
“I did,” Rhee says. “I outgrew it. Look.” She pulls down the collar of her shirt, revealing the puckered white scar just beneath her collarbone. “I was shot during one of my first missions.”
My eyes widen. “You’re okay with me having this?”
“I wouldn’t have given it to you if I wasn’t.” She hands me the pistol. “This is a Beretta. For your build, I think, something small would work better. After the mission, it will be yours to keep.”
I curl my fingers around the grip. It fits neatly in my hand, but it’s heavy compared to the plastic training gun. I slide it into the holster at my hip, uncomfortably conscious of its weight, and button up the coat. The buttons are silver, faded to the same tarnished, matte patina as the pistol.
She nods toward the adjoining bathroom. “Take a look at yourself.”
I step inside and look at myself in the mirror. In the black coat, I look like another person, someone dangerous and wild, and I understand why the Blackcoats chose this as their symbol, their namesake. The leather whispers against my skin; it smells, very faintly, of gun smoke and blood. Perhaps it’s my imagination. “It’s…” I trail off, not sure what to say. Beautiful doesn’t quite fit, but it’s certainly something. “It’s a good coat. Thank you.”
“You’ve earned it. And you wear it well.”
A flush rises into my cheeks. Everything about her makes me uneasy, yet a part of me still craves her approval. I wish I understood why. “Thank you.”
She nods and starts to turn. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Rhee—”
She stops.
“Why did you agree to let me go on this mission? I mean, you were right. I’m not very experienced.”
Her sharp green eyes flick toward me. The bronze flecks catch the light. “I saw that you’d come to a decision. You wanted to demonstrate your commitment, and that’s something I respect.” Her gaze cuts away. “Zebra was reluctant. He doesn’t want to send you into the field, because your skills are valuable to him. He’d prefer not to risk your safety. But I told him that you couldn’t truly be one of us until you’d stained your hands. And once you’ve crossed that line, you can’t ever truly go back.”
God, what have I gotten myself into? I swallow, mouth dry. “And Ian?”
“Same reason, more or less. Two Mindwalkers. A valuable asset to us, but only if your hearts are committed. This will burn out your uncertainties, make you like metal purified by flame… assuming, of course, that you don’t crack. But I don’t believ
e you will.”
“Glad to hear it,” I mutter, staring at my feet.
She cups my chin, lifting it, and I tense in surprise. I see myself reflected in the centers of her clear, brilliant eyes. “I see the warrior in you. Even if you don’t.”
Once she’s gone, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring into space. I take out my gun and hold it, feeling its heft. The power of life and death in my hands—a terrible power.
26
Green numbers glow on my wristwatch. 5:15 a.m.
I sit in the back of a truck, the pistol tucked in its holster. I’m carrying a faded black backpack, like everyone else. Next to me, Joy wriggles in her seat like a puppy. I’m not sure if it’s excitement or nervousness or both. We’re all huddled together in the dimly lit space, breathing quietly.
An hour ago, before we left the Citadel, Rhee handed us each a bomb—a simple black cube no larger than a softball—and said, “You activate these by pressing in the code on the top panel, four-four-nine-one. The bomb will detonate ten minutes after activation. These are a new technology, designed by Zebra himself. Extremely powerful. Needless to say, do not activate them until you’re absolutely sure you’re ready.”
Ian gives me a nervous smile, which I return. Steven hasn’t looked at me or spoken to me once since the briefing last night. He seems determined to pretend that I’m not here. I have an urge to step on his foot or start poking him in the face like a child, just to make him acknowledge me. I might do it, if silence wasn’t crucial to our success.
Rhee sits very still, eyes closed, legs folded in front of her, hands resting on her knees with the palms up, as if she’s meditating. Maybe she is.
The truck slows, and I hear the creak of a gate opening. A few seconds later, we pull forward. We’re inside the fence. Almost there.
My heart punches my sternum. I’m very conscious of each beat. It feels like a countdown. If I die tonight, I have a finite number of them left. No. I need to stop thinking like that. We can do this. I know the layout of the facility by heart; I can see the map traced in my head when I close my eyes. The plan is perfect. As long as we all do our part, it won’t fail.
My breathing echoes through the confines of the truck. It’s so loud, I feel sure that everyone within a mile of us can hear it.
The truck jolts and lurches to a stop. Silence falls over us, thick and oppressive. We sit in darkness, waiting. Then the doors of the truck creak open, revealing a wide, empty parking lot surrounding a plain gray building. The truck is parked close to the back of the building, near a row of dumpsters and a pair of wide metal doors. It’s still dark out, not yet dawn, though I can see a pale glow on the horizon.
Rhee climbs out of the truck and motions for us to follow. We hustle out, single file. She kicks the doors, and they swing inward, revealing a dark, empty hallway. Rhee gives us a nod, and we enter, guns drawn. Silence covers everything like a layer of dust. Dimly, I can make out nondescript gray walls and a beige-tiled floor. Earlier, Rhee told us that the security system had already been disabled. Still, this feels too easy.
Don’t think. I just have to plant the bomb and get out. A map appears in glowing blue lines on the visor of my helmet, and I follow my route, breaking off from the others and veering down another, narrower hallway. The silence is deafening. There’s only the dull thump-thump of my footsteps and the rattle of my heart in my chest. Fear presses against the walls of my mind, trying to overwhelm me, to paralyze me.
I pretend that I’m back in the training room, running through a simulation. Just another day at the Citadel.
The blinking dot on my visor-map moves slowly, slowly up a hallway toward the target, which is marked with a bright green X. Almost there—
“Freeze!”
Two figures in dark clothes leap in front of me, blocking the hallway. In the near-darkness, I can’t make out their features, but I can see the guns in their hands.
“Don’t move!” a deep voice barks.
There’s no time to think. My body moves automatically as I turn and bolt in the other direction, zigzagging to make myself a more difficult target, as I learnt in training. Gunshots go off just as I round a corner. Adrenaline shoots through me, making me run faster than I thought myself capable of. They were waiting for me. A trap. Are the other hallways blocked off too?
More gunshots go off. I ignore them and keep running blindly. “Lain!” a voice cries out. I whip my head to one side and see Brian stumble from an adjacent hallway, his face pale and bathed in sweat, his eyes huge and twitching back and forth. “They were waiting for me,” he gasps out.
“Me too.”
“What do we—”
“Run.” Unthinkingly, I grab his hand, and we keep running. I hear other voices shouting in the darkness—there’s Joy, tears streaking her small round face, and there’s Steven, grim and silent. When his eyes lock with mine, I see a flash of relief on his face.
“Have you seen Ian?” I call out.
His expression closes off. “No.”
“We have to find—”
“We can’t afford to wait,” he says. “Keep moving. The mission’s been aborted. We have to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving without him!”
“He’s probably waiting for us at the exit. Go!” Steven grabs my arm and drags me forward.
Finally, we come to the open doors, and I stumble through.
Glaring halogen lights snap on, dazzling my eyes. I fling up my hands, shielding my face. A row of figures stands about twenty feet away, aiming guns at my face. Beyond them, red and blue lights flash. Police cars, parked in a jagged row across the huge, cracked parking lot surrounding the plain gray building. I can see more armed figures standing outside the cars. My stomach sinks. The building is completely surrounded.
“Put your hands in the air,” a woman calls. When I don’t move, she snaps, “Now!”
Then the rat-tat-tat-tat of a machine gun rings out, and the police fall in a row, like dominos. I spin around to see Rhee charging out of the building, calmly mowing them down.
“Run,” she says. She marches forward, spraying bullets. Some of the officers return fire; some duck behind the vehicles, hiding. But none of them is fast enough. Bodies flop to the pavement like dolls. Screams slice through my ears.
“Come on!” Brian shouts. He charges, brandishing his rifle. We all follow, pouring out into the cold, dark morning, feet pounding the pavement. My body seems to be moving in slow motion through a blurry chaos of lights and yelling. Someone throws a small object, and clouds of foul-smelling orange smoke belch into the air, burning my nostrils and tear ducts. It’s like breathing in poisonous nettles. Tears flood my eyes, blinding me.
More gunfire rattles. Brian goes down, his chest stained with blood. He gurgles once, then falls silent.
I’m going to die within the next ten seconds. The thought is strangely clear, strangely calm. My body keeps moving forward, feet pushing off the pavement, propelling me through the dreamy unreality of smoke and lights and gunfire. It seems like I should be petrified, but I feel disconnected from my body, my fear. It’s remarkable, the mind’s ways of protecting itself.
Ian is running beside me. Ian! His face is pale, cast in harsh shadow, his eyes enormous. Shana howls like a wounded animal, charging straight ahead and spraying bullets as she goes. A shot clips her shoulder. She stumbles but keeps going, plowing through clouds of smoke, and disappears.
“Lain!” Steven shouts. “Behind you!”
I spin around and find myself staring into the dark muzzle of a gun. The man at the other end is wearing mirrored shades that reflect my own terrified face back at me. “Put your hands up!” he brays. My body reacts automatically; I whip up my pistol and fire. Blood blossoms from the man’s shoulder, and he staggers backward and falls to his knees. The gun slips from his fingers, and he clutches his wounded shoulder, squeezing curses between his teeth.
I shot someone. I shot someone.
&n
bsp; The gun slips from my hands. Breathing fast, I turn and start to run. I don’t even know where I’m going, just that I have to get out of here. The smoke scours my lungs, choking me. A thin stream of bile surges up my throat and into my mouth, and I double over, retching onto the pavement, then keep running. I nearly trip over a body; I look down, into wide, glassy dark eyes. Joy. Blood spreads on the pavement beneath her head. I stop, transfixed.
Minutes ago, she was running alongside me. Now she’s dead. This seems like a logical fallacy, somehow, like an error that will be rectified at any moment.
Beside me, I hear a ragged sob. I snap out of my trance and spin around. Ian is on his hands and knees, his body shaking so hard, it looks like he’s having a seizure. I grab his arm and pull him upright. “Come on!” I scream close to his ear. Then we’re running, feet hammering the pavement, toward the fence. It’s about eight feet high, chain link. We might be able to climb over—
A shot rings out, and he stumbles. I scream his name.
“Don’t stop,” he gasps. His leg is bleeding. He lurches forward another few steps, then cries out in pain and collapses.
Men in uniforms are running toward us, pistols aimed. I reach for my gun, but it isn’t there. Oh God. Did I drop it? Why did I do that?
