by Kyla Stone
“That’s enough, Sykes.” Another man stepped forward, flanked by two enforcers. He was as tall as Finn but scarily gaunt, his cheeks hollowed like a skull, his lips thin and bloodless, his black eyes dark wells that sucked in all the available light.
“My name is Tobias Voya Moruga.” He turned his sharp gaze on them, eyes darting from face to face. His body hummed with some invisible current, his feet constantly shuffling, his hands flexing and unflexing.
He held a silver lighter in his long, thin fingers. As he walked the line of hostages, he flicked it on and off, on and off. “Which one of you assholes killed my wounded, defenseless son?”
Willow sucked in her breath. Fear plunged into her belly like an icepick. For half a second, she’d allowed herself to believe that this was just a mistake, a misunderstanding, that they’d still be able to walk away from this. But somehow these people knew who they were, what they’d done.
“Oh, hell,” she whispered.
One of Moruga’s enforcers thrust the butt of her gun beneath Willow’s chin and forced her head up. “You have something to say?”
The Pyro was young, maybe only a few years older than Willow. She was Indian, with rich, velvet-brown skin. Her hair was shaved to her skull on either side, with a knot of purple braids on top that tumbled thick and ropy down her back.
She was slim but muscular and dressed in black, tight-fitting clothing, a knife strapped to her thigh and another longer knife sheath at her hip, along with a gun holster. She clenched a cigar between her teeth. A tendril of sweet-smelling white smoke drifted toward the cathedral ceiling. “Cat got your tongue, is that it?”
“No,” Willow said, willing the tremble out of her voice. She wouldn’t give these people anything. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of her fear.
“So that’s how it’s going to be.” Moruga tutted. He bounced on his heels, grinning fiendishly. “How unfortunate. How can we better encourage your cooperation?”
“Let me gut one,” Sykes snapped. “That should get them talking.”
Moruga held up a hand. “Not quite yet. Any ideas, Cleo?”
The girl smiled at Willow, the skin on the left side of her face crinkling. She turned her head, fully revealing the burn that blossomed from below her left eye across her cheek and jawline to the side of her neck—a shiny, jumbled topography of scar tissue.
Willow bit back a gasp.
Cleo’s smile widened. Her teeth looked like they were filed into fangs. But, no, that was just her terrified, overactive imagination. “See something interesting?”
She wanted to curse at her, claw her eyes out, and then strangle her for what they’d done to Finn, for the terror that raced up her spine and iced her insides. She licked her lips and glanced at Micah, who knelt next to her. He gave the smallest shake of his head. Don’t antagonize them, his look warned. Be smart.
She gritted her teeth. He was right. They had to be smart. She had to be smart and in control. For Benjie. For Finn. For all of them. “No, nothing. I’m sorry. Please just let us go. We’re good people. We won’t hurt anyone.”
Cleo’s eyes glinted fiercely. “Oh, is this the part where you think because I’m a girl that there’s some tiny little soft spot deep inside me that maybe you can reach, some pearl of empathy or pinprick of compassion?”
She had no idea how to answer. There were traps and tripwires tangled everywhere in that question. “Uh. Well, I—”
“Do you think that I should show you mercy, is that it? Girl to girl?”
Willow’s gaze darted frantically from Cleo to Sykes to Moruga, who fidgeted with the lighter as he watched, a sinister smile curving his lips. Like Cleo was putting on a show for his pleasure, and he was enjoying every second of it.
It was all scripted. They didn’t give a steaming bucketload of crap what she said, but she spoke the words anyway, a desperate futility settling over her. “Yes…we would be very grateful.”
Cleo cocked her brows, her features approximating a look of concerned sympathy. One arched higher than the other due to the burn scar. But it was her empty eyes that gave her away.
“We just want safe passage through the city,” Willow said.
She took a puff of her cigar and blew it out slowly, straight into Willow’s face. “Really? Why?”
Willow coughed and leaned back, turning her face to the side. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”
“You may not have been looking, but you found plenty.”
“We don’t have all night,” Sykes said in his disturbingly musical voice. He massaged his bandaged hand and stared daggers at Gabriel. “We’re wasting time talking when we could be killing.”
Cleo’s expression turned cold, savage. Without warning, she slammed the butt of the gun into Willow’s stomach.
Spasms of pain shot through her body. Her eyes streamed. Blinding whiteness burst inside her head. Everything went blurry and dim, like she was underwater.
“Don’t hurt her!” Finn cried.
Willow watched through blurry eyes as Cleo sauntered down the line. She stopped in front of Finn, raised the gun, and smashed it across the side of his head. He fell sideways with a groan.
Willow cried out. He was already wounded. How much more could he take? Acid burned her throat, roiled in her stomach. She fought not to puke all over the stage.
“I can do this all day,” Cleo said. “Who’s next?”
Willow managed to raise her head, fighting down the pain and dizziness. If psycho girl was gonna go after someone, let it be her. Not Finn. Not Benjie. “Leave us alone, you crazy bitch.”
Cleo tapped ash from her cigar as she strode across the stage back to Willow. She bent close, only inches from Willow’s face. “This one has a smart mouth. You need to know When. To. Stop. Talking.”
She seized a hunk of Willow’s hair with one hand and slowly brought the burning cigar end to within an inch of her right eye. Her already blurred vision filled with a burning circle of ash and smoke. She tried to jerk her head back, but Cleo’s grip was like iron.
“You want to know what it feels like to burn?” Cleo hissed. “Curiosity killed the cat. What’s it gonna do to you?”
“Don’t hurt her, please,” Benjie whimpered.
“You don’t have to do this!” Panic filled Micah’s voice.
“I’m sure we can have a civilized discussion—” Horne started.
“Shut up!” Moruga said. “I’m enjoying this.”
Heat from the cigar singed her eyeball, her eyelashes. Panic fluttered in her chest. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes, to block it all out, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t let Benjie see her cower. “Go to hell,” she spat.
Moruga smiled in mild amusement, as if he were humoring a small child. “Oh, I think we’re already there, sweetheart.”
A white-hot riot of anger, panic, and hatred exploded in her chest. So much for diplomacy. Willow reared back and spit in Cleo’s face. “That’s for hitting Finn.”
Cleo gave a hard laugh. She wiped the spittle from her cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re gonna regret that.”
She traced the cigar down the side of Willow’s cheek, so close she could feel the heat. Ash sprinkled her shoulder. She stiffened. The tension stretched unbearably. Just do it already.
Cleo yanked Willow’s head to the right, exposing her throat, and thrust the lit end of the cigar against the side of her neck.
Pain seared her flesh. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. She couldn’t help it. A low moan escaped her lips. Blackness flickered at the edges of her vision. She refused to pass out.
Cleo released her head and stood up, taking a slow drag from the cigar.
Willow glared at her, hot traitorous tears streaming down her cheeks, her teeth clenched against the pain. It felt like Cleo had burned a hole through her skin, scorching through muscles, tendons, and veins, searing the very center of her.
“Undo these handcuffs and fight me,” she grow
led. “Let’s see how strong and brave you really are. Only a coward strikes people who can’t defend themselves.”
Cleo’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing.
“Tobias,” Sykes said in a low voice. His left arm hung loosely at his side, his gun tapping impatiently against his thigh. “I can take care of this. Let me—”
“Anyone else wish to speak before we continue?” Moruga said, almost giddy. His gaunt body shivered like he was filled with some internal tension, a spring about to be released.
On the other side of Micah, Horne straightened. His lip was split, a yellowish bruise pooling beneath his left eye. “I wish to speak.”
“Ahh, you again,” Moruga said, coming to stand in front of him, his thin hands twitching at his sides.
Her thoughts came slow and groggy. The pain made everything disconnected and confusing. What did he mean by you again?
“Release this man,” Moruga ordered.
Cleo unshackled Horne’s cuffs and jerked him to his feet. Horne huffed and rubbed his wrists. “I have never been treated in so undignified a manner in my life.”
One of the lions yawned. Moruga flicked his lighter on and off, on and off. His lip twitched. “My apologies. Once the hoods were on, we didn’t know who was who.”
Dread and confusion roiled in Willow’s gut, a sickening sensation that made her nearly gag. A fresh wave of dizziness washed over her. What was happening? What was Horne doing?
“Is this all of them?” Moruga asked.
“Yes, of course.” Horne bobbed his head, his blonde hair flopping into his eyes. “It’s just as I told you. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”
Silas let out a string of curses.
Willow jerked her head up. A blaze of anger burned the fog away. “What did you do, you asshole?”
Horne’s gaze flicked to hers then darted away. “You would do the same in my shoes, I’m sure.”
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 b
e 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. Every 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.
