The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) (33 page)

He grabbed for my arm. I twisted away, but his hand came across my face so fast I didn’t even have time to flinch.

Amory jerked in Troy’s grasp but couldn’t break free.

“Oh, look. He does care,” said the blond man. “This will be fun.”

His big sweaty hand gripped my arm, and he stuck the little piece of red film on my skin. It suctioned to my arm as soon as it made contact, and I felt an intense burning sensation emanate from that spot. I winced, and it spread like poison up my arm, my shoulder, my chest — paralyzing me where I sat. I looked at my arm in horror as the burning grew more intense.

“Enters straight into the bloodstream,” the blond man said. He sounded very far away. “It’s better than waterboarding. Although, there’s a flavor for that, too.”

 
And then I felt it: a searing hot throbbing throughout my entire body. I was on fire.
 

I sat there paralyzed — knowing I should move or scream — but I couldn’t. I tried to jerk away from the pain, but it was consuming me from the inside out. I tried to cry for help, but my throat was too dry.
 

Bright orange and white flared at the edge of my vision, and then it went black. I could feel the flames licking my skin, feel my skin scorching, burning off. I smelled frying hair and singed flesh — mine. I gagged and jerked, falling backwards and hitting my head.
Why was no one helping me?
 

Gasping for air, tears burning in my eyes and on my cheeks, I cried out. But the sound of my voice was stifled by the crackle of the flames.
 

Now it wasn’t just the flames licking my skin, lashing out like a thousand whips; there were waves of intensely hot air pressing down on me — suffocating me. I flailed around to escape but met only more flames. These were hotter than the first, and I yelped and rolled away.

I was vaguely aware of a tingling on my arms unrelated to the fire. Something was burning me from the inside out, spreading through my veins. The heat intensified, enveloping me, demolishing me.
 

How was I not dead yet? Charred and blackened from smoke, my skin was peeling off in delicate flakes. I held my hands in front of my face, but the skin fell away before my very eyes, and my bones crumbled to ash.

Far off in the distance, I heard someone yelling my name. I tried to call for help and felt the last gasps of precious air leave my throat, but I heard nothing. I tried to reach out, but there was only a wall of fire and heat.

“Haven!”

Yes! I’m here!
I wanted to shout, but I didn’t even have the energy to open my mouth again.
 

I felt myself stop moving, stop fighting.
 

I was giving in to the flames. I just wanted it to end.
 

A rush of red pushed at the edges of my vision, and then there was just darkness.
 

Slowly, I peeled open my eyelids. I was back in the abandoned kitchen with the blond man hovering over me.

I looked away and cautiously brought my hands up to my face. They didn’t look burned and blackened; they looked normal. The floor was cold and hard against my head.
 

The floor?
Why was I on the floor?

The fire was gone, and all that remained was a dull warmth throbbing in my arm. Something shiny caught my eye, and I understood. There was a glare on the plastic film stuck to my arm. Where there had been one rectangular strip, there were now three. They were completely clear instead of red, as though they had leeched all their color as the poison entered my bloodstream.

I felt momentarily grateful that I was still alive and not on fire, and then a dark cloud of dread settled over the scene, and I remembered why I was in the room in the first place.

A look of glee crossed the face of my torturer. He knew he had won. I was beyond caring. We had nothing to tell him, and he was going to torture us one at a time until we were all dead or scarred beyond recovery.

I jerked my head around, searching for Amory, and pain shot down the back of my neck. How hard had I hit my head?
 

Troy was still holding Amory in the corner, who looked completely ashen. His eyes were wild when they met mine. There was a dead, broken look there, and I felt my heart splinter in two. A new bruise was forming on the side of his face, and I wondered what they had done to subdue him as he watched me suffer. How long had I been under?

I heard a crash somewhere upstairs. A look of apprehension crossed the blond man’s face. Everyone turned their heads to the ceiling, listening intently.
 

There was the sound of cracking wood, heavy footsteps, and muffled shouts. I knew something was wrong. The blond man pushed his way through the swinging door and out of the kitchen.

The shouts continued, and the noise seemed to escalate. I heard a few people scream and the scuffles of hundreds of feet.

The man holding Amory released him, and he ran toward the swinging door and disappeared. What was going on?

Amory looked dazed and then scrambled over to me. He tripped over his own feet, which seemed very unlike him. Fighting the pounding in my head, I tried to sit up but only made it about halfway before a wave of nausea rolled over me.
 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Reaching a hand out, he touched my face with his warm fingertips. After the blond man’s rough hands and the fire, his gentle touch made me want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His brow was knitted together, and he looked absolutely devastated. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s —” I swallowed. “We have to go.”

Amory nodded, that broken, vacant look still in his eyes.

This was our only chance to escape. Fighting the urge to pass out, I forced myself into a sitting position. Amory crouched and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me up. Despite everything that was going on, the feel of his hands filled me with warmth.

He released me and stumbled to the closet where Greyson, Max, and Logan were being held. He was definitely injured. It was locked, of course. Amory pounded on the door.

Our two captors had the keys. Amory looked completely lost, but I could feel the strength returning to my muscles. Unlike him, my injuries were mostly mental, and I could feel the last of the poison leaving my system.

I looked around for something to use as a weapon — something heavy or sharp. My eyes fell on a propane tank sitting under the counter, and my stomach twisted as a grisly image flitted into my mind.
 

Ignoring the pangs of nausea, I crossed the room, grabbed the tank, and sprinted after the man who had tortured me and beaten Amory.

“Haven!” Amory hissed.

I ignored him.

I didn’t have to look far. The blond man was frozen in place just outside the door, and PMC officers in heavy riot gear were flooding down the stairs into the basement. Mingling with the rebels, the officers behind their plastic shields looked like spacemen exploring a foreign planet. It was now or never.
 

I turned the canister in my hands. It was heavy. Dread pulsated in every muscle, but I remembered him kicking Amory in the gut — the look of pain in his face. Mustering all my strength, I swung it down as hard as I could against the back of the man’s head.
 

The canister made a sickening
thunk
against his skull, and he crumpled to the ground. I pushed against his shoulder, rolling him over with great effort and fishing in his pocket for the key ring. I yanked it out, bolted back into the kitchen, slammed the door shut, and locked it behind me. Amory was leaning against the counter, looking nauseated and amazed.

I spread the keys in my palm and mentally eliminated the smallest ones. I tried the first key, but it didn’t fit. My hands shook slightly as I heard the officers’ shouts reverberating off the basement walls. Hopefully the rebels could hold them off for a while.

I tried the next one.
 

Nothing.
 

The third key slid into the lock. Amazed, my fingers struggled to obey my command as I turned it. I heard the gratifying
click
and pulled the door open. Greyson was already standing just behind the door, and Max and Logan were on their feet, alert.

“The PMC is here,” I choked out in one short breath. “We have to find another way out.”

They crowded out of the small room, and I turned to Amory. My stomach clenched. He was no longer leaning against the counter. He had sunk down on the floor and was holding his head in both hands.
 

“Are you okay?” I asked. Fear racked my body. I already knew the answer.

“Fine. Just a little dizzy.”

I bent down to examine his head injury, and my hand came away with blood. Anger lashed through me, but there was no time.

“We have to get out
now
. Do you think you can stand?”

Amory nodded half-heartedly. He looked as if he might be sick.

I turned to Max. “Help me.”

We each grasped Amory under the arms and hoisted him up. Once he was on his feet, he seemed steady enough. Just in case, I looped my arm under his shoulders, cradling his back, and held him tightly. His face was drained of color, but I swore I saw a slight smile ghost across his face.

He took a sharp breath.
 

“You’re going to be fine,” I whispered, hoping it was true.

A shot rang out, and people in the other room screamed.

A loud scraping sound nearby made me jump, and I looked over to see Logan pushing a table over against the wall.
 

“Here,” she said. She had her eyes fixed on a small window near the ceiling. “It’s the only way out.”

Greyson jumped to her side and helped her push until the table was flush against the wall.

Logan looked at me. I could see the concern for Amory in her eyes, but she didn’t say a word. I marveled at her coolness under pressure — a marked difference from the girl who couldn’t function when Amory was bleeding out from a carrier wound.

“You first,” I said.

She looked at me, and then her eyes flitted to Amory.
 

I shook my head once at her. “You’re small. You should fit through easily.”

“What about our weapons?”

“It’s too dangerous,” said Max. “We’ll worry about that later.”

Without further debate, Logan gracefully hopped onto the table, unhooked the latch, and pulled up on the window. She struggled for a moment, but it slid up with only a loud creak of protest.

Even standing on the table, I knew it would take her some gymnastics to hoist herself up over the ledge.

“Grab the chair,” she instructed, and Greyson passed it up to her. Using it as a stepping stool, she pulled herself up and out.

“Haven. You should go next,” mumbled Greyson.

I shook my head. “You go.”

He crossed over to me in two strides. “Max and I can help get him up.”

In my head, I knew he was right, but I was reluctant to leave Amory — worried that the three of them would try something heroic and stupid while Logan and I climbed to safety.
 

“Haven, go!” said Amory. His voice was scratchy, but the command was forceful.

“Fine,” I said, unwilling to waste any more time.
 

The sounds of fighting were escalating in the main room, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the PMC burst into the kitchen looking for more rebels.

I made eye contact with Max, who moved closer to Amory as I released my hold on him. Amory seemed steady now, so without another look, I climbed onto the table and to the chair.
 

Outside the window was cold asphalt, so I leveraged my arms against the window frame to hoist myself out. I emerged onto a quiet street running along the rear of the building. Logan was several yards away, peering around the corner for approaching PMC.

I knelt down at the window as Amory climbed up onto the table. He seemed to be regaining his coordination and stability, but Max watched him warily from the ground.

Amory saw me staring and tried his usual easy sideways grin to conceal a wince as he hoisted himself up through the window. I knew his injuries must be extremely painful. From the force of the rebel’s kick, it was likely he had bruised or broken some ribs.

I reached through the window and pulled him through with as much strength as I could muster from my crouched position. I knew he hated being helped along like an invalid, but his face looked pallid, and he seemed momentarily grateful. He raised himself upright with some difficulty, and I reluctantly loosened my grip on his arm.

“You go,” Greyson murmured to Max.
 

Without hesitation, Max followed Amory up, and Greyson hopped onto the table. He pulled himself through the window with remarkable speed and finesse.

I sighed and held out a hand to pull Greyson into an upright position.

“Do you think you can move?” I asked Amory.

He nodded, but I was doubtful. In the dim moonlight of the dark street, his head wound was glossy with fresh blood, and he carried himself differently. Usually tall and imposing in stature, he was now hunched over, and I knew he was in severe pain.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Max asked. “We were counting on the rebels to —” He broke off, and Logan came rushing toward us.
 

“People are coming,” she hissed.

“Can you tell who —”

She shook her head. “We need to move.”

We turned around and moved quickly to the opposite corner of the building. Greyson stuck his head around and motioned us that all looked clear. We broke into a light jog, but I slowed when I saw Amory’s grimace of pain.

“Go ahead,” he said in a strained voice. “I’ll keep up.” His face looked paler than before, and I worried he was losing too much blood.

“We need to treat your wounds,” I whispered, touching the side of his head. It was definitely still oozing copious amounts of blood, and I could see that some had trickled down his neck to the back of his shirt.