Taken (15 page)

Marco flops arrogantly into Frank’s seat and eyes me with disdain. “The unHeisted boy. Such a mystery you are, and what a shame that it comes to this—you turning on Frank.” He clucks his tongue. “I hope Frank is creative with his choice of punishment. There are so many exciting options.”

He pauses, as if he expects me to offer up a suggestion for my own sentence, and then continues. “We could throw your girlfriend back in the Outer Ring and wait for her to burn, for example.” A sly smile. “But maybe that would be too quick, too painless. I think we should leave her in a cell, let her rot and wither into old age. That would bother you more, too. Wouldn’t it?”

My fists clench and Marco smiles. “Oh, Romeo,” he coos, “you should thank me. She’ll live a long life this way.”

An image of Bozo fills my mind: his tapping fingers, his crazed stare, his endless singing. Emma can’t sit in a cell for her entire life. It will break her. I tug against my bindings, and again, the metal drives into my skin.

The doors burst open, but Frank does not enter. Instead it is an older Order member who walks in briskly and motions for Marco to join him. They meet beneath the maybe-drawing of a family on Frank’s wall and talk quietly. I can’t make out a single word.

Marco eventually loses his patience. “All right, all right. What’s the verdict? What did Frank say?” he snaps.

The Order member jerks his head toward me and says, “Execute him.”

Straight ahead, out the open window, a black crow soars past. I think of the crow in the Claysoot meadow, how I couldn’t shoot him from the sky. I think of the crow atop the Wall, urging me to climb over. And I see this one now, flying along the roofline, guiding me again. I don’t think about it. I don’t contemplate if it’s the right choice. I react.

I bolt from the chair, scrambling over Frank’s desk and grabbing Marco’s keys in the process. I’ve darted between the two guards and am halfway to the window before Marco starts screaming.

“Shoot him! Shoot him now!”

My feet are almost there, then a boot on the ledge. I push off, throw my body from the windowsill. Gunfire erupts, loud and deafening. The fall seems to take forever, my feet kicking as though I am underwater and searching for the surface.

It is not a long drop to the roof below, but my knees buckle from the impact. I topple forward, my bound arms unable to break my momentum. Tiles scrape the side of my face. I feel the blood almost instantly, warm as it trickles past my ear.

The gunfire continues and I run. Bullets speckle the roof around me. I don’t know where I’m going, but I don’t stop. The crow is ahead, fleeing, and I race after his black form, running until I can duck behind the safety of a broad chimney.

I pant for a moment, attempt to catch my breath. My ears still ring and a stitch has formed in my side. I brush the blood from the side of my face with my shoulder and spend an awkward moment grappling with the keys. I find the one that fits my metal links, and swing each jaw open, freeing my hands.

I wait a moment longer, and then I run. The crow has disappeared and I am on my own. I sprint toward the sun, clambering down the varying levels of roof as I do. When I come to the lowest level, I am still rather far from the ground. The drop is not impossible, but I could break something. As I sit there, breathless and weighing my options, a dark shape appears on the horizon, beyond Taem’s dome.

At first, I think it is a bird, another crow maybe. But it is flying too quickly, and it is incredibly loud, an angry roar growing as it approaches the city. And there is not one but four. They soar in a precise line, wings never flapping. Soon they are directly overhead and the noise is unbearable. I cup my hands over my ears.

The first of the strange birds drops something, an abnormal egg tearing toward Taem’s dome. It hits with a monstrous clamor. The sound echoes through my ears, the world seems to shake. The sky is momentarily brilliant. The other birds drop their eggs as well, one right after the other. Taem’s dome holds.

The birds speed overhead, circling around. I catch an odd marking on their sides; a red triangle, like the Franconian emblem, only this one has a blue circle in its center, and a white star in place of the Order’s cursive
f
.

A series of alarms erupt behind me, ringing through Union Central. They are almost immediately echoed in downtown Taem. The noise is an endless shrieking, a sound of panic, of fear. I don’t need to be told that these flying contraptions are the enemy Frank spoke of or that his words regarding AmWest were honest and true.

As the birds flip on their sides and navigate their turn, several cars emerge from below me. They are large green things, much bulkier than the one Emma and I traveled in when we were brought to Taem. These models have flat tops and hinged doors on their rear.

“Head downtown!” I hear someone shout from below the roof. “We are Code Red.”

As the cars weave hastily toward Union Central’s gates, the birds attack Taem’s dome a second time. The roof beneath me vibrates, but again the barrier holds.

The man giving instructions, now in view, starts waving out a new stream of cars. “This batch to the Great Forest. Now!”

The map from Frank’s records flashes in my mind. The Great Forest lying beyond Taem, the suspected Rebel headquarters nestled somewhere in its dense northern mountains. Rebels mean safety from Frank and the potential for answers by way of Harvey. And at the moment, I need both.

Rather than heading downtown, the second group of cars wraps around Union Central, heading for a different exit. I’m on my feet instinctively, chasing it. Taem’s dome lurches under a new attack and I nearly lose my footing from the resulting tremor.

The cars turn away from the building and onto a dirt road, and I see my only chance. I jump from the roof and onto the last vehicle. Pain shoots through my right ankle. There’s nothing to grab hold of, and I’m sent sliding toward the rear of the car, thrown off as it hits a bump. I scramble to my feet.

The car is moving slowly because of the terrain and I manage to catch up to it. I twist open the back door and it swings wildly. I force myself to go faster, and when the timing is right, I jump into the rear of the vehicle just before the door slams shut.

I collapse on the floor. The car doesn’t slow.

Gear bags are scattered about, and a series of crates marked with the Franconian emblem are stacked neatly in one corner. A row of large, slender guns is mounted to the wall of the vehicle. There are no windows, no way for the driver to see me. For now I am safe.

As we jerk over uneven ground, I think of Emma, alone in a prison cell, and me, running from her. I tell myself that I can’t help her if I’m dead, that she will understand why I had to leave. This is the only way. Get safe, get a plan,
then
return for her. AmWest’s attack may have been conveniently timed with my escape, but if Taem is at risk, Emma is as well. For her sake, I need Taem’s dome to hold. I need the Order to fend off its enemy.

I snatch up a green gear bag and dig through it to distract my thoughts. Inside, I find an assortment of novelties. There’s an odd wand contraption that shines light out one end when twisted, maps, a box labeled Matches, a heavy-duty hunting knife, a medical kit, and a pair of bulky eye extensions that when held up to my face make everything seem far closer than it should. There is a canteen of water, too, and some dried fruit. I take a swig of water and then I wait.

Several hours later, we slow to a crawl. I eye the guns along the wall, but instead fish the sheathed knife from the gear bag and stuff it into the waistband of my pants. Then I sling the pack on my back and wait for the rear doors to open.

Voices come first.

“We’ll rest here for the night.”

“But delivering supplies to the field is never an overnight job.”

“We only left early because of the attack. Couldn’t risk getting stuck in Taem when Evan is expecting supplies tomorrow.”

Evan. The name sounds familiar, although I can’t remember where I heard it.

The doors to the vehicle are pulled open and I let my boot connect with the head of a surprised Order member. He falls to the ground and I start running. There is some shouting behind me, and another speckling of bullets, but I slip into the forest unscathed. There are trees again. Green trees and open air and woods that make me feel at home.

I have lots of labels now. Traitor. Rebel. Target. I am to be executed and my one hope lies deep within the forest. My arms pump, my feet fly north.

Toward uncertainties. Toward Mount Martyr. Toward Rebels.

PART THREE

OF REBELS

NINETEEN

I WANT TO BE AS
far from the Order as possible by nightfall, which gives me only a handful of hours to cover precious ground. I run until my lungs burn, and then slow to a brisk walk. The landscape has become rugged and rich. Trees seem uncommonly tall, and they grow so close together that I am forced to weave my way between them. It’s hard to imagine that just this morning I was recovering from a trip to the infirmary.

A strong breeze whips at my back. The sky above me is barely visible through the thick leaves. It is a calm, pale blue, but the air smells like rain. A storm is coming. It’s nice to feel these things again, to know and understand the world around me. It almost makes me feel like I am back in Claysoot, hunting in the woods. Almost.

I check my map. There’s a ledge ahead and some landform labeled the Hairpin, but it will be better to make camp now. The sun is already setting and the wind is too strong. I don’t want to get stranded on an open ledge in bad weather.

In the very bottom of my pack is a hammock, which I tie between two trees, and a tarp, which I string overhead. Fearful of being spotted, I refrain from making a fire and instead pull the collar of my uniform up high around my neck. When the rain first begins, it is gentle. The drops fall daintily, landing in uneven beats as if the storm may pass right over, but then the sky unloads itself in one fell swoop. I dart beneath the tarp. Water comes down in sheets so thick the forest about me becomes a blur of motion.

I wonder how long it will take for Blaine to realize I’m missing. I wonder what Frank will tell him.
Emma and Gray were caught in a crossfire downtown. Emma and Gray walked beyond the dome of the city and were killed by Rebels. Emma and Gray ran away.
Lies, lies, lies. I need to return for Emma, but I need Harvey, too, otherwise Claysoot will never be free. Continuing toward the Rebels makes sense, but I have no concrete plan, no strategy. Everything has been turned upside down and it’s giving me a headache.

When it starts to hail, I abandon the dried fruit I am eating for dinner, climb into the safety of my hammock, and sleep.

It rains all night.

I eat more fruit the following morning. I seriously contemplate hunting but know it will take too much time. I have just the one knife, and setting a trap would require waiting for something to wander into it. I break down camp, check the rising sun and the map, and continue north.

Maybe two hours later, I find myself walking alongside a cliff, the forest continuing beyond it, hundreds of feet below. From here, I can see for what seems like forever, an endless stretch of treetops spanning out before me. I follow a path along the ridge until suddenly it turns so sharply to the left, and downward, that it would be easy to overlook it altogether. I’ve reached the Hairpin.

It is slow going. The earth beneath my feet is loose from the previous night’s rain and I progress with careful steps. At the base of the cliff, where the decline meets the forest plane, I notice a footprint in the moist earth. It is identical to the markings my boots create.

My heart rate quickens. The Order must be nearby.

I stick to the shadows for the rest of the day. I walk on pine needles when possible. I pause often. I hear nothing but the sounds of the forest—wind between branches and birdsong—until later that evening.

It’s past nightfall, as I am setting up my hammock, when I make out the voices. I should stay put, keep a safe distance, and yet I can’t help but wonder who the voices belong to and what they are discussing. I repack my gear, and with the bag on my shoulder, I steal toward the conversation.

The terrain has grown rockier this side of the Hairpin, and it offers plenty of coverage. I dart from boulder to tree to boulder, staying out of sight. Ahead, through the branches, I can make out the faint glow of a fire. As I edge closer, I realize it’s a camp. An Order camp. There are perhaps two dozen of them, sitting around a central fire pit that casts warm light upon their faces. Some have their backs to me, but the man who appears in charge is fully visible. His hair is shaved so closely to his head, I wonder if any ever grew there at all.

“I want to be very, very clear about what we are doing here and how we are going to do it,” he says. “Operation Ferret is perhaps one of the most critical assignments our division has ever been tasked with. It is imperative we don’t screw this up.”

Operation Ferret: the folder Emma and I had discovered back in Union Central. It must be the mission Frank has been planning since he heard Harvey was spotted in the forest.