The Countdown (The Taking) (6 page)

“A lot more,” I finally managed, my hollow voice ringing in my ears. “Tyler,” I started, thinking this was the dumbest idea ever, and wondering why I’d thought it had to be done. Why I hadn’t just let him go on living in blissful ignorance, the absolute best kind according to the cliché. But I was past the point of no return . . . “I love you,” I blurted. My voice sounded hesitant but not half as unsteady as I felt. “What I
mean is, I’m . . .
in love
with you. I know you don’t remember this, and maybe you won’t believe it, but before you were taken . . . before your memory was so messed up, you felt the same way about me.” I ended in a rush, relieved, so damned relieved, to have it over with at last.

The silence that followed was something you could feel and taste and probably touch if you’d tried. It was smothering me. And on his face, he had that look again, that taking-it-all-in look. Like he was absorbing the bomb I’d just dropped on him.

I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

When I couldn’t stand another second, I whispered, “Say something.”

He blinked, remembering he wasn’t totally alone in the hallway. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why not say something when you first saw me at Blackwater . . . with Griffin?”

I struggled for a good answer . . . for
any
answer. I wished there were one. If I were in his shoes I’d be pissed to discover that
he’d
known things about
me
, and that he’d kept them from me all this time. I shook my head, and settled for the truth. “I guess I was worried you’d hate me.”

“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”

Closing my eyes, I went for it. The rest of it—the truth. “Because it was my fault you were taken in the first place. I was the one who infected you. It was a mistake . . . I didn’t know . . . about my blood being dangerous . . . and I bled in front of you.” I inhaled, squeezing my eyes even tighter, too afraid, too chicken to even peek at him. “You got sick. So,
so,
so
sick. And the only way to save you was to let them take you.”
God, saying it out loud sounded a million times worse than in my head
. “And then you were gone, for so much longer than you should’ve been. We couldn’t find you, and I was so worried I’d never see you again.” Opening my eyes, I looked at him. “When you were there . . . at Blackwater, I thought,
This is it. Our second chance. I can finally tell you how sorry I am
. But then . . .” Then. “Then you didn’t remember any of it. Not about us, or the time we’d been together. And there was Griffin . . .” I glanced at my feet and swallowed again, and felt the knives in my heart stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. “And I thought”—I shrugged—“you and her . . .” My eyes lifted. “I’m sorry.” I waited. There was so much quiet, so much time . . .

“Kyra,” he exhaled. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.” It wasn’t an answer or a vindication or anything really. His brow crumpled as he shook his head. “I don’t know what to think, how to process all of . . . this. I . . . think . . . I just need some time alone.”

It wasn’t what I thought he’d say. Yelling would have been better. Getting it out of his system.

Time alone . . . I had no idea what to make of that.

He left me there, in the hallway. I turned and the exit sign blurred while I blinked hard. I wished I could take it all back. Not just my confession but everything—infecting him, letting him be taken, loving him in the first place.

I was about to go after him, to tell him, one more time, how sorry I was. How honestly-utterly-
truly
sorry I was,
when the ground shook and the power flickered.

It wasn’t like when we’d broken into the Daylight Division headquarters in Tacoma, but I recognized it as an explosion all the same. It had the same forceful eruption, the boom that lasted just a split second, like the sound of a huge cannon being fired.

Tiny fragments of dust and maybe some plaster filtered over me, and from the diner I heard what could have been screams or sharp gasps. I turned toward the restaurant, toward where Tyler had just disappeared and to where my dad was, but before I’d even rotated all the way around, she was there.

The girl from the bathroom.

She reached for me and slung her arm hard around my throat before I could stop her. She dropped me to the floor, pinning me.

I saw a flash of blond . . . right before I felt the sting of a needle slide into my neck.

“HEY!
HEY!
” I SHOUTED AGAIN. “IS ANYONE EVEN listening?” Some poor kid walking by stopped, looking far too twitchy for his own good. “Yeah, you. What the hell? How much longer ’til we have some decent hot water around here? What are we, animals?”

He glanced around, and I could see him wondering how he’d ended up in this position in the first place when this clearly had nothing to do with him. “I . . . uh . . .”

Griffin saved his sorry ass when she appeared outside the makeshift shower stall, doing that thing again where she showed up at the least opportune moments—like when I was
naked. “Stop your bitching,” she half ordered and half sighed, pulling no punches. “At least you have running water.” The kid seized his chance and scurried away like his shoes were on fire.

I took my frustration out on the spigot, twisting it harder than necessary, and the hose dangling above my head stopped spitting its glacial runoff all over me. “Easy for you to say, they’re not your nuts being turned to ice cubes.” I pulled aside the sheet being used as a shower curtain and shook off.

Griffin threw a towel at me. “Cover up. No one wants to see your blue balls.”

“That’s not what I said—” I sputtered.

But Griffin cut me off. “Relax. After all these years running a camp, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides, that’s not what I came to talk about.”

Water still dripped from my head and chest as I cinched the towel around my waist. “What, then? Something happen?” Suddenly the cold-ass water wasn’t my number one concern. “You hear something, from Kyra . . . or Thom?”

I didn’t want Griffin to know how badly I wanted her to say yes. Or how much more I wanted it to be about Kyra than Thom. It had been days since the Blackwater attack, since I’d had to leave Kyra with her dad and Tyler, but I hadn’t stopped regretting that decision, not once.

At least when she was with me, I’d known she was safe. I’d seen to that myself.

Now they were out there, on their own, and I had no way of knowing where they were or what might be happening to them.

That shit was eating me alive.

All because of Thom. Thom, who I might not have liked, but at least I’d trusted. Thom who’d turned us in to the Daylighters before running off to save his own ass. Now we were stuck here in hiding. I had people out there, some of them still at Silent Creek, Thom’s old camp. What if Thom went back there? What if he decided to turn on them too?

Prick!

My fingers curled into fists as I imagined wrapping them around Thom’s throat, something I wanted to do almost as badly as I wanted to wrap my arms around Kyra, just one more time.

Now who was the prick?
I thought. I shouldn’t be thinking about Kyra, not in that way. She’d made her feelings more than clear—she had a guy . . . and it wasn’t me.

I stomped after Griffin who was already halfway down the hill. “Tell me. What do you know?”

“Nothing yet. But there was an incident at a diner in Wyoming, not far from a town called Sheridan,” Griffin explained as she trudged ahead of me.

We’d blown out of Blackwater after the attack, knowing the No-Suchers would never just leave it at that. They’d come after us. And when they did, they’d bring an army and enough weapons to annihilate us.

The mess at Blackwater had been bad enough, a massacre—the body count on both sides was inconceivable. As prepared as Griffin had been, it hadn’t been enough. Agent Truman’s Daylight squadron had come suited up in combat grade hazmat gear and bore an arsenal that far outmatched our own.

In Returned alone, we’d lost over two hundred. Good people
destroyed beyond their ability to repair. So many victims . . . so many sacrifices.

Griffin still hadn’t forgiven herself for letting Agent Truman—who’d turned out to be her long-lost father—slip through her fingers after Willow had knocked him unconscious. She’d only left him unattended for a minute . . . maybe two, while her camp was being overrun. But by the time she’d come back he’d vanished, either lugged away by his own men . . . or healed enough to walk away on his own, since he was a Returned as well.

Eventually, Griffin had finally realized her soldiers couldn’t win the battle against the NSA’s Daylighters and she’d given the signal . . . a signal Agent Truman’s troops had been unaware of, and the Blackwater survivors had disbanded. Griffin’s strategy had been simple: scatter far and wide into the Utah desert and wait a full forty-eight hours—an inside joke for the Returned, since that was the amount of time aliens had kept us—before meeting at the designated rendezvous points.

It had been almost unbearable to just scatter the way we had. To up and leave the bodies of our fallen soldiers. But the promise of a second wave of attacks by the Daylighters left us no alternative. We couldn’t even stay and give our people the burials they’d deserved.

But that’s the way it always was with the Returned—we didn’t get the lives we should; why should our deaths be any different?

Still, some of those soldiers had been mine. Some I’d even called friends.

When all was said and done, only twenty-three surviving
Returned had showed up at the rendezvous sites.

Twenty-three out of two hundred forty-nine. That was the official count we’d come up with between the two of us.

That’s one in eleven, according to Jett who was one of the twenty-three to make it out. As had Nyla.

Willow . . .

Christ, I could hardly stand to think it, but Willow was still unaccounted for. Griffin chalked her up to the over two hundred dead, but because there was no body, until we could go back to search for remains, her death could neither be confirmed nor denied, which left me in this strange sort of limbo where I couldn’t quite let myself accept it. Acceptance was too damned final.

I also couldn’t stand the idea that some douche bag Daylighter had gotten his hands on her.

So I let myself hope she was out there, working her way back to us. Same way a man gives himself just enough rope to hang himself. Eventually I’d probably end up on the wrong end of that noose.

It had been the right thing, sending Kyra away. She would have been a distraction if she’d been around during the massacre. Then maybe I wouldn’t be here either.

“What kind of incident? Did you get word about them or not?” I pushed away memories of the battlefield, of the dead Returned, as Griffin came to a stop in front of her new command tent, which was really just an ordinary canvas tent where she’d set up shop.

Griffin tossed a shirt at me. Not clean exactly, but clean-ish.
Cleaner at least than the one I’d been wearing before I’d hosed off, which was four days past rank according to pretty much everyone I’d come in contact with.

Combat wasn’t the only thing Griffin had prepared for. She’d planned for potential evacuation too, and as much as I might have despised her—and I had despised her—I’d come to credit her for this much: when push came to shove, she knew how to handle herself.

In other words, she’d saved our asses.

“An explosion,” she explained. “A big one.”

“Fuel line?” I asked as I shimmied into a pair of cargo pants she’d also thrown my way.

She shook her head. “Not according to reports. No gas lines involved, and not an engine fire either. In fact, not a single vehicle was dented. Only damage was to a Dumpster out back. Blew the hell up. Detonations like that don’t happen spontaneously.”

“So?” I waited for the punch line. “What does that have to do with us?”

“This.” Griffin held up a grainy image queued up on a prepaid cell that Jett had assured us was safe enough to activate. “Someone posted this on their FotoStream account.”

I leaned closer. The image wasn’t just grainy; it had been taken at night and the lighting was total crap. “Yeah. Okay . . . ?”

“Who does that look like?”

I reached over and used my thumb and forefinger to zoom in on the picture. I assumed the parking lot was from the diner she’d mentioned. After a second, though, I saw
who
she meant.
I snagged the phone out of her hand and held it right up to my face.

She was there. A girl who looked a whole helluva lot like Kyra—
my Kyra
—being toted away by two people toward what looked like a black van. The side door of the van was wide open, like it was waiting for them. Kyra didn’t look like she was in any condition to fight her abductors.

I gripped the phone in my palm, trying not to lose my shit. “No, goddammit,” I cursed. I was losing the struggle to keep cool. “Where the hell were Tyler and her dad when all this was happening?”

Griffin peeled the phone out of my fist. “You can ask ’em yourself. Call came in about an hour ago—they’re on their way here now.”

Day Unknown

VOICES. FROM ABOVE OR BEHIND, OR FROM somewhere inside my own head . . . I had no idea. But there were definitely voices.

“. . . fought . . .”

“. . . Returned . . .”

“. . . escape . . .”

I heard other things too, or I thought I did. It was hard to tell. Everything was muddled, like words in a blender set on high speed.

I wanted to say something back. To tell them I was here, in case they didn’t know.

I opened my mouth . . . or thought I did. My lips were hot and thick. I tried to make them move.

“M-m . . .”
My name is Kyra.

There was a sudden shuffle . . . a skirmish of sounds, blurry like all the rest.

Had I said it? Had they heard me?

And then: “
How
. . . ? She should be out for hours.”

Another voice: “Doesn’t matter. Hit her again.”

Me? Were they talking about me?

I didn’t get the chance to ask—or even attempt to—because something pinched me in the side of my neck . . . and then everything went hopelessly, endlessly black.