Taken (18 page)

I roll my eyes, uninterested in arguing with her. “Maybe you should have shot me then, Bree. Me and my brother. Maybe that would have made things easier for you.”

“If you think I actually want another death on my conscience, you’re even dumber than I thought.” She snatches up her gun. “Do you want to see your father or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then shut up and follow me. You try to run, I shoot you. You try to attack me, I shoot you. You do anything else I find to be slightly suspicious, I shoot you. Got it?”

I nod. I don’t trust her, but what choice do I have? And there’s my father. Waiting. Holding answers. Going forward is the only way.

“Good. Now let’s move.” Bree nudges me with the gun. It’s not pressed straight into me, like in our earlier encounters, but it’s positioned well enough, screaming that she is in control and I am still a prisoner. I’m certain I could take her now if I really wanted. I feel well enough. But that doesn’t get me to my father, and it certainly won’t help me earn anyone’s trust.

“We don’t have all day,” she says, motioning more adamantly.

I raise my hands above my head playfully, as if I am truly threatened by her command. “We’re back to this again, I see?”

“Always.” She actually smiles a little. Not an angry smile, but a smirk, visible for a second and then gone.

It turns out I was being held in an interrogation center. We pass Luke on our way through the stone passageways. He holds bloody hands before us, an ugly, twisted tool in their grasp. From somewhere down a dark hallway behind him, I can hear a mangled cry ring out. It sends shivers down my spine that only multiply when Luke shoots me what I’m sure he intends to be a reassuring smile. I’m still attempting to shake off the chills when we step from the dark confines of rock and out into a sunny afternoon.

There is no path, but Bree leads as though there is one. After twenty minutes of a steep, uphill climb, I am out of breath. At the top of a crest, where the land levels out momentarily, I buckle over and heave for air. Bree waits patiently and then tosses me a canteen when I straighten up. Before I can thank her, we are moving again.

We hike silently until we come to what appears to be a dead end. The steep slopes of what must be Mount Martyr bear down on us. To climb over them would take days, and before us sits only a towering rockface.

“We’re here,” Bree announces.

I look around, thinking she’s speaking to someone, but we are alone. There is nowhere to go but back.

“We just climbed the lower base of Mount Martyr. And this”—she motions back toward the monstrous wall—“is the entrance to Crevice Valley.”

“Crevice Valley?” That name wasn’t on Frank’s Operation Ferret map.

She nods. “Headquarters.”

I stare at the massive mountain. “It sure doesn’t look like a valley.”

“That’s because you have to go through the crevice first.” She moves toward the rock towering above us, and as I follow, the passageway becomes visible to my eyes. It is a dark slit, running the length of the stone, from our feet toward the sky, so narrow it’s barely visible. No wonder the Order has been unsuccessful locating this place. The entrance is hard to see even when you are directly in front of it.

“You first,” Bree says.

“Through here?” I point doubtfully at the cramped break in the rock. “Isn’t there another entrance?”

“Yes, but that would require us to hike all the way around the mountain, and we don’t have the time. Now move.”

Shimmying through the crevice ends up being easier than I anticipate, not because it’s spacious or well lit, but because there is only one path to take. We wiggle sideways through the tiny space, our backs pressed to rock behind us, and our noses nearly scraping the opposing side of the mountain.

Eventually, the passage begins to widen. Soon I can walk normally, the space large enough to house my shoulders. Moments after that, Bree is at my side. The light from the entrance has nearly faded out completely when a new light appears ahead.

“What if you need to escape?” I ask as we continue down the ever-widening path. “What if the Order infiltrates?”

“Then we leave through the rear.”

“And what if they infiltrate both at the same time? You guys are sitting ducks in here. You’ve trapped yourself.”

“You give us so little credit.” I stare at her, confused, and she points up into the clefts in the rock walls surrounding us. High up, hidden like insects in the crannies of the crevice’s tall rock face, are armed men. “Both entrances are patrolled day and night. And there’s always the tear gas if needed.”

Her words are foreign to me, but I shudder nonetheless. How had Evan and his team expected to be even remotely successful? This is a fortress, with no way in other than by invitation.

Eventually, the place lives up to its name. The crevice’s width doubles, triples, quadruples. It grows so wide that it is immeasurable, at least to my eyes. The rock walls continue to surround us but give way to clouds and fresh air overhead. And before us lies the valley, a footpath twisting down into it. Fields and gardens are plowed out beneath the open-air ceiling. Dirt streets snake between houses and livestock pens. A market in the distance brings the scents of herbs and roasting meat to my nose. There are people, too, hundreds of them. I never would have guessed that Harvey had amassed so many followers. Or maybe it was Elijah. I think back to the records in Union Central, perplexed. I’m starting to question the accuracy of Frank’s information. Something doesn’t add up. Maybe Harvey’s not even here.

I look down at the town. From our elevated position, the people appear as tiny dolls, dressed in drab clothes. They are young and old, women and children, men and boys. The place is oddly familiar, like Claysoot, only picked up and shoved into a hollowed-out mountain. On the outskirts of the open valley, where the steep walls begin reaching for the sky, tunnels and passageways twist into the rock’s depth. If Harvey really is here, finding him will be no easy task.

“What’s to keep your enemy from coming in the top?” I ask.

“We have our defenses, even if they can’t be seen, but I’m not sure you can be trusted with those details yet. Better wait ’til after your vote.”

We hit the base of the valley floor, and Bree cuts up the street that passes the market. People stare at the red triangle atop my chest, the
f
stitched in its center. They have hatred in their eyes, hatred so clear I know they wish me dead.

“This vote,” I say as we leave the market and turn up a side street. “What do you mean when you say it’s mine?”

“Exactly that. It’s
your
vote. They’re deciding if you live or die.”

“What? I . . . I thought that’s what my father was deciding, back when he met me in the interrogation center.”

“Well, yes and no. Owen was deciding if you lived to see Crevice Valley, but he doesn’t make all the calls. Now the others get to weigh in.”

“What others?”

We are approaching two men near one of the dark tunnels that breaks off from the valley. They are monstrous, both taller than me and nearly twice as wide.

“Bree, what others?” I ask again anxiously. She doesn’t answer. Instead, the two men swipe me up effortlessly, each one grabbing me beneath an elbow. I struggle against them, but it’s pointless. Why had I trusted Bree? My father? Why did I think the Rebel headquarters would be any safer than Taem itself? They are going to have me killed, just like Frank ordered.

I shout to Bree as the men drag me away, but she remains rooted in place, quiet and stoic. She has a look of pity in her eyes, if only for a moment.

The next thing I know, we are bursting into a large room housed off a torch-lit tunnel. The men throw me into a chair and bind my wrists to its armrests. Circling the table are five people: the votes for my sentence. Four are strangers, but one is my father.

TWENTY-THREE

THEIR EYES BEAR DOWN ON
me, inquisitive, curious. I have no clue what happens now. The only thing I know for certain is that this vote could be the end. I’ll have spent the last days of my life chasing after truths that never revealed themselves, hurting the people I love in the process.

Why was I so stupid, so reckless? I need to get back to Emma. I struggle against my bindings. I
have
to get back to her. My breathing is suddenly erratic.

“Screw you. All of you.” I spit at the center of the table. The liquid lands in front of a tall, thin woman. Her brows dip toward the bridge of her nose. “You especially,” I shout again, eyeing my father. He looks hurt, but he betrayed me. He shook my hand knowing this vote would come; and shouting feels painfully good, like salt in a wound.

“You’re going to cast my life away with a vote?” I continue. “Do you know what I’ve been through to get here? Do you know what you’ll take away from me if you don’t vote in my favor?”

An aged man with little hair smiles from the head of the table. “We’ve caught a fiery one, I see.”

“Ryder, he’s just upset,” my father interjects. “And confused.”

“Easy, Owen,” Ryder says, running a hand across his dull scalp. “I never said fire was a bad thing.” The way my father retreats at his words, slouches back into his seat, tells me who is in charge. Not Harvey, not Elijah, but this man: a face I have never seen until today.

“What’s going on here?” I ask. “I want answers. I demand them.”

Ryder pushes back his chair and stands, using his arms to support his weight on the table before him. His gentle nature, but unmistakable confidence, reminds me so much of Maude. Maude, who I once trusted.

The old man looks directly at me and says, “My name is Ryder Phoenix, Gray. We come from the same place, you and I, from Claysoot. I understand your frustrations because I lived them myself. Several of us here have. I give you my word, regardless of your vote’s outcome, you will have the truth.”

Answers. I should be relieved and yet I’m hung up on his name. Ryder. Ryder Phoenix. Why is it so familiar? And then I remember; the early scrolls. The boy Maude had run the first experiment on. The boy that led to the discovery of the Heist. He is so much more than a boy now, aged and grown before me, but it must be him.

“The whole truth. All of it,” I demand. “About the Laicos Project and why you’re working for Harvey after what he did to you.”

The lone woman at the table snickers. “The boy is hardly in a position to be making demands.”

“It’s fine, Fallyn,” Ryder says. “The whole truth, Gray. I promise.”

I don’t thank him, even if I should.

“This is a vote in regard to the life of one Gray Weathersby, son of Owen Weathersby, captured from the Franconian Order and brought in by Brianna Nox two days ago. Votes will be one per person, nay for death and yea for mercy. Majority rules.” Ryder turns to me and adds, “Do you have anything to say that has not already been spoken?”

I look around the rock-enclosed room. Eyes glare at me, my father’s the only pair that look remotely kind. Blaine would tell me to reflect first, to ready my words before I spill them. I take a deep breath and begin, speaking as calmly as I can manage.

“I was supposed to be executed. I came in search of safety, but I was planning on coming here either way. I saw records in Taem. Records that documented executions at Frank’s hands. The truth is, I climbed over the Wall for answers and found only more questions. And all those questions led me here. Because I think you have answers. I know you do.”

It’s a fragment of the truth, and maybe that’s why it comes out so easily. I
had
come for safety. But I’d also come for Harvey, for the answers
he
possesses. I keep that small detail to myself for now.

Ryder nods and sits back into his chair. “And now, we vote.”

The man immediately to Ryder’s right stands. He is about my father’s age, maybe older. I’m not used to seeing men over eighteen and it’s hard to tell. “Raid Dextern,” he says, announcing himself to the room. “Yea.”

That’s it. No reasoning. No motive. Just yea, a vote for life, and he returns to his seat.

My father stands next. “Owen Weathersby. I’m sorry, Fallyn,” he says, addressing the woman to his side. “I understand your reasoning, and I even know it possible, but if we are wrong, and he is truly my son—well, I just can’t take that chance. My vote is for life.”

Fallyn stands, palms pressed into the table. She has a wild look in her eyes, not unlike Bree’s when I first encountered her in the forest.

“Fallyn Case,” she says. “He could be a Forgery, another trick of Taem, engineered to look like something that will tear at our heartstrings and later murder us as we sleep. And even if he’s not, he’s just too much of a risk. You’ve heard him. Irrational. Vengeful. I vote death.”

This is the first vote for my death, and yet instead of fear or dread, I am hung up on her mention of
Forgeries
. What are they? Is Harvey responsible for them as well?

The next man stands, and I suddenly recognize him. It’s the boy from Frank’s records. He looks even younger in person than he had on paper. “Elijah Brewster,” he says. “I have to agree with Fallyn. It’s too risky. Nay.”

It’s all tied up, and down to one vote. One measly vote.

Ryder does not stand. “I do not think the Order would have engineered such a rash Forgery,” he says. “Forgeries are far more reserved. They are so plain that you overlook them. But this boy is emotional. The rage in this one, the anger, the bitterness, the fire—that is real. That is what is left of a Heisted boy, a life plucked from one world and thrown without background into another. I vote mercy in this case. I vote yea.”

Fallyn slams her fists on the table. “If you’re wrong, Ryder, the blood is on your hands.” She storms from the room. Elijah follows her, knocking his chair over as he leaves.

“You’ll pardon Elijah and Fallyn,” Ryder says, removing the rope that bound me to my seat. “They’re only trying to protect our people.”

I scoff at this and Raid whispers something to my father before skirting after the others.

“Well, that about does it,” Ryder says. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have plenty of catching up to do.”