Redemption (Enigma Black Trilogy Book #3) (16 page)

I again pulled my t-shirt off and followed Jill as she gestured for me to sit on her bed. From the floor, she picked up a towel and draped it over a spot near the middle of the comforter. Obediently, I took a seat on the bed, leaned back onto the towel and closed my eyes, flinching at the sound of metallic objects clanging against each other in the red pouch before they were removed and placed on the bed, one by one. Small scissors, a scalpel and other sharp-looking instruments, the likes of which I hoped wouldn’t make it anywhere near my skin, sat next to me.

“Okay,” Jill assessed after inspecting the wound under slightly better lighting conditions. “The good news is it doesn’t look as bad as it did in the bathroom. The bad news is that I’m still going to have to break the skin in an area or two to retrieve the sutures.”

“Well, I suppose after being shot, how bad could that possibly be?”

“That’s the spirit.” She poured alcohol over a cotton ball she’d retrieved from the pouch and dabbed it on my wound. “Close your eyes and try to relax. Let me know if it gets too painful.”

“I don’t think that will be too hard.” I took a breath and gripped the comforter, focusing instead on the pain on the inside rather than on the outside, knowing that one would easily deflect the other.

“There’s one,” Jill said. I opened my eyes to see her placing the remnants of the stitch on the corner of the towel I was lying on.

“That wasn’t so bad.”

“Because that was the easy one. The next one’s going to be a real pisser.”

“So, how does your group function?” I asked. “Are you all assigned specific duties? I can’t imagine Marshall being the captain of anything other than a well-oiled ship.”

“We all have different jobs, tasks which we rotate out so that no one is putting themselves at risk all the time, though none of us is ever truly safe no matter what we do. We’re constantly on the run from Brooks’ men, who seem to be a step ahead of us most of the time. This is actually the longest we’ve been in one place, and we’ve not been here for more than a week.” I groaned as she gently cut into my skin to reach the stitch buried underneath. The whole process lasted no longer than ten seconds before she moved on to the next one. “This place is actually owned by a sympathizer who has some inside knowledge on the Brooks’ Administration. He’s really sticking his neck out by keeping us here.” She dabbed more alcohol on my wound, which created a burning sensation that was exponentially more painful than the actual stitch removal. “You’re bleeding a little. I’ll do my best to keep it from becoming infected, but there really isn’t much I can do with the limited supplies I have on hand.”

“So, what can Ian and I do to help?” I asked, ignoring the searing pain.

“They’ll divvy out tasks to you soon enough. We have runners tasked with keeping our food and medical inventories well-supplied by making trips around the city. We’ve lost the most people from that task due to ambushes by soldiers and store keepers who betrayed us by turning our people in. Then we also have scouts and lookouts who keep watch and report the comings and goings of the soldiers—the job I’m sure you and Ian will be doing mostly. And, of course, we have messengers who carry messages between our little groups and a few sympathizers in order for us to communicate.”

“What about the groups from other parts of the country?”

“We lost quite a few of them from the skirmish at the address, but their ranks are slowly rebuilding themselves.”

“How do you communicate with them? Surely, you don’t have runners for that.”

“Oh, no, of course not. Marshall created some code using letters and numbers that he shared with a few select people. A while back, he also created an email account using a generic name. When he can, he communicates by email back and forth with different representatives from different groups, using the code he created, never deviating from it. Of course, with the situation being what it is, he is only able to send messages every once in a while, but the other groups are pretty organized and through communications amongst each other, they all seem to be on task with whatever Marshall is organizing.”

“Ah,” I groaned, a burning sensation jolting me to my senses.

“Yeah, that last one is always a bitch.” Jill dug a bandage out of her pouch and applied it over my wound. “There. Now let’s go downstairs. Everyone’s dying to meet you.”

Paige stared straight ahead, mesmerized by the small streams of light that glinted off the top of the oak coffin from the mid-morning sun. The service, the streams of people offering their condolences, had been nothing but a blur. A bad dream from which she hoped to wake. Chase wrapped his arm around her waist, jolting her back to life as Paul was lowered down to his final resting place beside her mother.

“He’s gone,” she murmured, the realization striking her. “My mom is gone. My dad is gone. They’re both gone.” Her voice cracked; the tears returned to her eyes, and every thought she’d kept bottled up inside suddenly poured out as though the cork holding it all in had been removed. “What am I going to do? I have no family. With my dad gone, I have no job anymore. His shop will most likely have to close its doors.” She sobbed into his shoulder, only staying on her feet because his arm held her there. “Who’s going to walk me down the aisle and give me away? I have nothing left anymore.”

“I know, Paige, I’m sorry,” he said soothingly into her ear, caressing her long hair with his fingers. “But you’re wrong, you know. You do have a family. You have a mother and a father standing right behind you. You also have a sister who’s a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but she generally means well.” He looked up at Carrie, Jim and MaKayla, who stood just a few feet away, and smiled. “And as far as the wedding is concerned, I know Paul had big shoes to fill—both figuratively and literally—but I’m sure my dad wouldn’t mind stepping into them, if that’s what you want.” Jim nodded at his son in acknowledgement.

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it at all to care about anyone in the times we live in,” she said, the tears beginning to taper off, slowly drying on her pale face. “You let yourself care about others, to love them, and then you lose them through some means or another. What’s the point?”

The familiarity of her words struck him, instantly transporting him back in time to a place not so long ago. In his head, he saw Celaine standing on the roof of his apartment, casually leaning against the concrete ledge. Her hair shone, reflecting light from the moon in the otherwise blinding darkness. He’d walked over to join her, his heart beating erratically as it always did when he was around her. Both annoying and strangely invigorating at the same time.

Her hand lay pressed against the concrete, the moon making it appear deceptively pale as though she herself were glowing. He placed his hand on top of hers, feeling the coolness of her soft skin. “Chase,” she’d said his name as she had done numerous times in the few weeks he’d known her. But something in her voice had been different that night, as though all the joy had been sucked out of her, leaving her hollow and empty. “What’s the point in all this?” she’d said next. “Of you, me, of letting yourself fall for anyone anymore?”

“What do you mean?” he’d asked, his throat tightening.

“I mean, what are we doing here, in this moment, right now when tomorrow could be taken away from us? Every day is like a toss-up, a fifty-fifty shot that we’ll make it through the next twenty-four hours still breathing at their conclusion. Why allow yourself to care about someone if all you’re going to do is worry about whether or not you’re going to lose them that day? Why love at all?”

He’d stood in silence, his fingers playfully caressing her hand, thinking of the words he wanted to say. “Because love and hope are the only things that can’t be taken away from us no matter how hard anyone tries, no matter how impossible the world becomes. They’re one of the few choices we have left to make for ourselves. We can still choose to love, to have hope for tomorrow. If neither of those options existed, we’d be lost. We may as well give up and become the lifeless robots Brooks wants us to become. If love still exists, then there’s a reason to keep fighting, if not for ourselves then for those we love, no matter what the consequences. Love keeps us alive; it keeps us from disappearing into the shadows.”

“It sounds beautiful,” she’d said. “But what if it’s not enough?”

“It may not be enough. In fact, it probably never will be, but it gives us something to cling to, something to hope for, a reason for us to wake up every morning and continue fighting.”

He felt her fingers pressing up against his palm from their place underneath his hand, prompting him to lift his hand from hers, but instead of allowing him to take it away, she intertwined her fingers with his.

“If I would have heard someone say exactly what you just said to me three weeks ago before I met you, I wouldn’t have given any credibility to their words. But there’s something about the way you said them, with such conviction and belief in their meaning, that it makes me want to believe them too.” She looked up at him, the light of the moon catching her face and, at that very moment, he couldn’t remember having ever seen anything so beautiful in his life.

Without thinking, he cupped the side of her face in his hand and kissed her for the first time. Though she was caught off guard at first, she’d quickly embraced him.

“I want to believe. I want to have the ability to love again despite how terrified I am by the thought of it,” she’d said.

Her words echoed in his head, bringing him back down to the present.

“Are you okay, Chase?” Paige asked. “You seemed like you were a million miles away just now.”

“Love is the only thing we have left worth fighting for. It’s both beautiful and excruciatingly painful, but only because there’s no force in this world more powerful than its touch. Without it, we have nothing.”

“Whatever you say,” she sighed.

“So, can you, like, pick up cars and throw them all Superman-like?” Drake asked, eyes wide and expectant. His questions were numerous and strategically placed between bites of a partially stale bagel and melon that fell apart in my mouth with a strangely sweet, yet pungent taste that told me its freshness had been seriously compromised by time.

“No,” I said, trying to suppress a chuckle, “Superman is way cooler.”

“But you’re strong, right? I know you are. I’ve seen it on television.”

“Which means it must be true,” Jill said, rolling her eyes. “Really, Drake, leave the poor girl alone for five minutes.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Yes, we are strong, but we still have physical limitations, things we can and can’t do. We’re like you, only—”

“Freaks,” Max grumbled at the other end of the table. Jill shot him a warning look.

“Enhanced,” I finished. “How we are the way we are, I don’t fully understand. All I know is that it has something to do with the manipulation of adrenaline and our bodies themselves. The whole process was never explained, and even if it had been, I’m sure crucial details would have been left out or twisted into lies.”

“You left because you were being lied to, then?” Jill asked.

“We left for several reasons, the biggest of which involved the handling of things at the address. But I think the straw that broke the camel’s back as far as I am concerned involved the editing of my public statement, and the hateful words that spewed out of my mouth against the rebellion.”

“It sounds like you were victims of Brooks, too. Like the rest of us,” a middle-aged balding man who had introduced himself as Ben said from across the table.

“Victims, my hairy—”

“Max, that is more than enough.” Marshall walked into the room, commanding everyone’s attention without having to ask for it.

He sat down at the small oak table across from me. As usual, his lips were curved in a warm, inviting smile, and I found myself wondering whether there was anything that could ever take it away. I doubted it, considering it was still there as we sat in the midst of a dark war zone eating barely edible food. Maybe it was the source of his strength.

I took another bite out of the hardened bagel, somewhat worried about chipping a tooth while trying to chew it. Marshall watched me intently, seemingly embarrassed by the meager amount of food spread out on the table.

“We need to make a food run,” he confirmed my suspicions. “We’re quite low on canned goods, and I’m afraid the shelf life on some of what we have has long since passed.”

“Brad and Bruce took a trip down to the market,” Jill said. “They have a contact—a sympathizer—who promised them fresh produce.”

“Ian and I would love to help wherever we can,” I said. “With patrols, scouting the city, or whatever else you need us to do. We could even make a run to gather food for your pantry. We’d like to at least earn our keep to pay you back for your kindness.”

“Thank you, Celaine,” he said. “I appreciate it. But I have other plans for you and Ian that I would like to discuss with both of you in private later.”

“Sure,” I answered him, acutely aware of the worried glances exchanged by others sitting at the table. “Anything you need.”

By the look everyone had on his or her face, I really wanted to ask Marshall to elaborate on what it was he was planning. I wanted to know everything he knew and exactly what we were up against out on the streets. But before I could pull him aside to quell my curiosity, one by one the lights slowly flickered to life, understandably causing quite the stir in the dining area. Some people gasped in shock, the color draining from their face, while others did just as Jill had said they would do and hightailed it up to their rooms to quickly shower and wash away the film from the dirt that collected on their bodies that even wet wipes couldn’t reach.

“Drake,” Marshall called to the young man, “bring me the laptop, please.” He looked up at me and the others around the table. “Brooks must be preparing to make some sort of announcement for him to have had his men restore power back to the city. Something he thinks we need to hear.”

Drake ran into the room with the laptop in his arms, its power cord dangling from his fingers. He set it up in the middle of the table facing Marshall and proceeded with connecting the power cord, using an extension cord to reach an outlet across the room.