Stolen (18 page)

Chapter 31

W
ES AND HIS TEAM HA
D BECOME
prisoners just as quickly as they'd been welcomed with open arms.
If you don't pass the test, you don't get to leave,
that young, obnoxious runner had told him.
One of these three is marked.
But who? Him? Shakes? Farouk? His friends were just as dark-eyed and powerless as he. No, this only meant the priests were on to them; they'd seen them arrive in the chopper, and somehow they knew Wes and his boys weren't who they said they were.

“You're making a huge mistake,” Wes said, as the guards disarmed and quickly ushered them down into the bowels of the temple. “Look at our eyes! We're not marked!”

“The Beloved is never wrong,” the priest said. “Do not fear, your sacrifice is an honor, and in sacrifice you will find freedom.”

As they were hustled into their cells, he saw soldiers everywhere: guarding doors, keeping an eye on tourists who were being led to another room. So many soldiers—this place was crawling with military.

Then he realized why Farouk had only encountered laughter when he asked about the location of the base. The base wasn't near the temple. The base
was
the temple, or the temple was the RSA base. He didn't know why he didn't realize it sooner.

It was all so simple.

We've got a base out there, a place to get rid of those we no longer need.

The military used the white priests as a cover to dispose of the marked captives once they were no longer of use,
and
profited from their deaths.

Wes felt ill. At least he knew where Eliza was now.

• • •

“Welcome to the abattoir. You bless us with your sacrifice,” said a disembodied voice. Wes and his team were standing shoulder to shoulder with the marked victims, whose brightly colored eyes were glowing in the dark. They looked thin, pale, undernourished. They were all in some kind of holding pen before the labyrinth. Across from the corridor, dimly, he saw a second pen with even more prisoners.

He couldn't see much; the maze was built into the caverns beneath the mountain, and their footsteps echoed on the hard surface. The echoes suggested a larger space, a vast nothingness, but looking up, he saw another path carved above theirs, where silhouettes lingered in shadow, men and women holding rifles, perched on catwalks, dangling above the path, just waiting for the poor saps who would run below.

This wasn't a hunt, this was a slaughter. It was then that he remembered “abattoir” was another word for “slaughterhouse.”

There were dozens of victims with them in the pen, and Wes gathered his team around him. “Okay, listen up, once those gates open and they let everyone out, don't run. The best way to stay alive is to find a place to hide. When the track clears, we need to get up on that ledge somehow, take one of their weapons, then find the exit.”

“I don't want to die,” Farouk said.

“I know,” Wes consoled, but Farouk couldn't shut up.

“I'm not freezing joking when I say that. Like, I really, really don't want to die,” the younger boy said.

Wes grabbed him by the shoulder. “You won't, icehole, I promise. Hide, and when I give the signal, come out.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” intoned a voice from above. “THE WHITE HUNT IS ON! REAPING DAY IS UPON US! GODSPEED AND GOOD LUCK TO ALL!”

The iron bars creaked open, releasing the prisoners. As the marked fled the pen, Wes noticed that the bars to the second cage hadn't opened. He guessed the organizers were staging the prisoners' release times, saving half of the marked, so they could release the remaining captives later. Perhaps they didn't want to choke the maze with kids, or maybe they just wanted reaping day to last a little longer.

Red lights flickered above the maze. The caverns beyond were carved with swirling niches, deep hollows, and winding passages: places where the marked could hide, for a time, from the snipers. It looked as if the passages were designed to prolong the hunt, to make the snipers work for each kill, to increase the hunters' pleasure.

The prisoners scrambled into a maze of caverns, dashing as fast as they could, the hunters above running and whooping after them. Just as planned, Wes and his team held back, and soon found a shallow crevice to hide in.

All around them, the marked victims screamed as hunters picked them off one by one. The floors ran slick with blood and the tunnels echoed with cries of death and victory. It was a stampede that quickly turned into a massacre.

“We need to separate,” Wes said, panting. “I'll go right, you guys go left. Give the signal once we find the exit. Got it?”

Shakes and Farouk nodded.

Someone shot at their feet. Wes looked up to see a hunter smile. The man was gray-haired and deeply tanned, like the men he'd glimpsed in the Dorado. Wes gave him the finger and kept running. He didn't look back to see if his friends had made it; he had to assume they had. They were too fast and too smart to be shot by some thrill-seeking tourist.

It had been a good call to hide at the beginning. Once he started running, he couldn't stop. The tunnels were long and twisty, and once in a while they opened to a huge space. If he could just keep out of those pockets and hide in the smaller tunnels where no one wanted to go, he would be safe.

Lucky for him, the tourists were awful shots. There was another one now, sighting him with his scope, fumbling with the lens. While the guy was trying to figure out how to target, Wes climbed the rocks and ripped the rifle out of the tourist's hands, then pulled off his oxygen helmet, too. The guy screamed, as if breathing the moldy air under the cavern was going to kill him.

Wes knocked him on the jaw.

“I should shoot you right now,” Wes said, putting the rifle in the guy's face, pressing it against his nose.

“Don't. Please don't.”

“Which way out?” he asked. “WHICH WAY?”

“That way,” the tourist said, pointing to a path that led deeper into the cavern.

“What do you think I am, a sucker?”

“No—no—there's a door there, a staircase, it will take you to the surface, I swear. It's the only way out of here. Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me.”

Wes pushed him away and ran. He had to get his friends first. He whistled the signal and waited. Shakes whistled back, then Farouk. Two more whistles to let them know the exit was on the right. He'd meet them there.

Then a few more bullets grazed his shoulder. Another hunter, a better shot, and this one didn't stop firing. Wes raised his stolen rifle and pulled the trigger. He squeezed once, twice, but nothing happened. The rifle was jammed. A bullet from the tourist's rifle pierced his leg. Wes tossed aside the jammed rifle as he collapsed to the floor in shock, and then the pain set in. The hunter closed in for the kill. This was it. This was how he was going to die, in this dark cavern, alone and bleeding.

“WES!”

He looked up.

It was Nat. She was crouching in a nearby crevice. “Here! Hurry! Hurry!”

With the last ounce of energy he had left, he crawled, dragging himself toward her, and she pulled him into the safety of the hidden cave as the hunter kept firing, bullets ricocheting against the stone, preventing them from escaping the cavern or approaching the cave's narrow mouth.

She took him in her arms and he could smell her hair, the heady scent of smoke mingling with the sweeter scent just below, which always reminded him of home. She was here. It was as if he had dreamed her up, the one person he wanted to see so badly, right in front of him. If it was a dream, he didn't want to wake up, and if it wasn't, he was glad he wouldn't die alone.

Chapter 32

N
AT HELD
W
ES IN HER ARMS
.
“Y
OU'RE
not dead yet, come on, don't be a drama queen,” she teased gently as she helped him sit on the rocky floor. He was bleeding and cold to the touch, probably from shock. “Donnie, we need to make a tourniquet for his leg,” she said. She knelt down and peeled back the fabric of his pants where the bullet had hit him. It was an ugly gash, but clean.

Nat, Brendon, and Roark had been hiding since the hunt started, deciding to wait it out before trying to find a way off the killing floor. She thought they'd been targeted until she realized it was Wes who had been shot right in front of her.

Brendon handed over his kerchief and, together with Roark, fashioned a bandage on Wes's leg. Outside their hidden cavern, the hunter had stopped firing and moved on to easier prey.

“Where are Shakes and Farouk? They're not—” she asked, fearing the worst.

“They're meeting us at the exit. I found out where it was before that heatbag shot me.” He smiled at the smallmen and thanked them for dressing his wound, then looked around. “Where's Cone?”

She shook her head. She couldn't say it.

His face changed, and his eyes looked pained.

“I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't keep them safe . . . they surrounded us, and they killed him because he was a deserter and wasn't marked. Right in front of us.”

“It's not your fault,” he said softly.

Hearing those words broke something inside her, and this time it was Nat who fell into his arms. Wes seemed surprised at first, but he held her, letting her grief wash over him. He was a bulwark, a rock, someone she could lean on who wouldn't break underneath her sorrow. “Nat,” he said huskily, wiping away her tears with his fingers.

“Yeah?”

He smiled. “People say stuff all the time. They don't mean it. I'm sorry . . .”

“Shut up,” she said, and then she didn't wait anymore. She pulled him close, tugging on the cords of his hood so that he had no choice but to lean toward her. She breathed into him, happy to find a haven in this madness. He put his hands against her face and kissed her, slowly at first, as if savoring every moment, and when she opened her mouth to his, their kisses turned urgent, breathless and dizzying.

When they finally stopped, he was smiling. “I should have done that earlier.”

“I can't argue with that.”

“I missed you,” he said.

“Me too. More than you know.”

“Really?” He was grinning broadly now.

“Really.”

“Good.” He picked up her hand and kissed it, his lips soft against her skin.

“Are you guys done? We're kind of tired of trying to pretend we didn't just see that.” Roark snorted. “Although the nausea will remind us.”

“I don't know, I rather enjoyed it,” Brendon said wickedly.

“You and me both, man.” Wes winked. “Now, what do you say we bust this joint?” he said, as he tried to stand and winced.

Nat slung his arm over her shoulders. “Can you put any weight on it?”

“I'll have to,” he said.

“That's okay, I have you,” she told him. “Did you find Eliza?” she asked.

He shook his head. “What about Liannnan?”

She sighed. “We'll find them. I know we will.”

One by one they left the safety of the niche and headed down the narrow, winding cavern, Wes hobbling along, leaning on Nat as they inched their way out. Wes gave the signal again, and was relieved to hear both Shakes's and Farouk's responses. Nat was starting to think they could actually get out when a voice boomed from above, along with the familiar click of a gun.

“Not so fast.”

They froze. Nat looked up. There was a hunter right above them. But this one wasn't a tourist—she recognized that voice and wanted to flee. It was Bradley, the commander. As if they needed any more confirmation that the RSA was behind this whole enterprise.

He was savoring the moment—that much was clear.

“Look what we have here. A two-for-one special. The girl who can fly and the boy who always says no. Oh, wait, and two littles to add to my collection. Maybe I'll wear their tiny little bones on my medals. I hear they're particularly lucky for finding food.” He aimed his gun right at Wes. “I have no idea how you got here, Wesson, but you are exactly where you need to be.”

“Say good-bye, ice trash.” He squeezed the trigger.

It was like everything happened in slow motion. Nat stared at the bullet that was whizzing its way toward Wes's heart. She'd been here before; she had saved him from death once already. That first time, on the black water, she had no idea what she had done. She had no idea how her love had saved him from death.

But this time she did.

She looked up at Bradley. There was no emotion on her face and she felt none in her heart. Not fear. Not anger.
Control
was the key to her power, Faix had told her. Control was the essence of her power.

The fire is within you.

She saw the man who had tortured and used her, the commander who had forced her to steal children from their mother's arms, who was going to cut down her friends one by one, starting with the one she loved most.

But she felt no rage, no anger, no fear, only a supreme sense of herself, of calm and logic.

Control,
Faix had told her.

Wes was still leaning on her shoulder, still smiling at her.

Maybe, to tap into your power, all you need to do is think of me.
Those were his words on the black ocean, when she had saved them the first time.

Faix was right, but not completely. Having control was not enough. Emotion was also part of her power, and love was stronger than fury, stronger than rage, and it was her love that she used now. Her fierce and abiding love for Wes, for Brendon and Roark, for Cone, who had died too young, for Shakes and Farouk, still hidden in the maze, and her love for her drakon, buried underground but alive inside her.

The fire is within you.

The fire burned deep in her soul, white-hot, as bright as daylight, and she screamed as she unleashed it onto the commander, melting the bullet he had sent toward Wes and setting him ablaze. Setting the cavern afire. Burn down this temple. Burn down this house of horrors.

White fire that could burn rock and melt stone.

Drakonfire.

“RUN!” Wes yelled, pulling her and the smallmen toward the exit, where Shakes and Farouk were already waiting. When they got there, they found that the force of her blast had opened the doors, and they all ran.

Inside the maze, the killing floor was burning as the marked victims ran out, as the screams of the hunters echoed through the tunnels.