The Trap (18 page)

It hits me then, that this cool, clean weapon in my hands is the very instrument that will bring death to Ashley June. That the bullet will smash through her head, whipping past the fall of her
auburn hair. I remember all those years in high school when I’d sat behind her in the classroom, how I’d longed to reach out and touch her hair. I think back to not long ago, back at
the Heper Institute, the night of the Gala when we’d lain next to each other and I stroked her hair. I remember how those silky strands felt like a miracle, the warmth of her hand in mine,
the lilt of her voice in my ears.

Applause breaks out from the crowd of thousands, deafening and raucous. They’re alive, not just images on a screen. They’re alive, they’re here, everywhere around me, and the
thought, cold and wet, prickles my skin. I stare down into the stage floor, a pit of blackness. Somewhere in that mass of thousands stands Sissy. How many times has she been inadvertently bumped,
touched, had skin grazed across hers? How many times has she stifled a flinch, scream, jolt?

The master of ceremonies’ voice is rising, building into an excited crescendo. I hear his words in the back of my mind, distant, as if miles away. He’s talking about the Heper Hunt;
he’s talking about the hunters; he’s talking about Ashley June. The winning hunter, that’s what they’re calling her now, the Valiant Victoress. The audience is impatient,
starts clapping in rhythm, faster, louder, feet stomping the floor on every level.

Somewhere down there, Sissy is mimicking everyone around her. Trying to stay apace with the claps and foot stomps. One mistimed clap, one stomp too late, and eyes will turn, heads will pivot.
Noses will twitch.

I should never have let her go alone.

I shake my head. Can’t let these thoughts distract me. Let my mind slip one millimeter and that misaligned trajectory will send my shot a meter off-target. Need to blank my mind, sharpen
my focus. Because if I miss, Sissy dies.

The arena lights dim further. Only one spotlight blazes through the darkness, a hazy beam that hits the side of the stage.

A figure steps into that light. A pearly white luminescence, and a cascade of red lava flowing from the top. That is all I see at first: red and white, brilliant, stark, vibrant.

It is Ashley June. In a crisp white frock, a pair of satin white pumps. And her hair, more voluminous and longer than I remember, a deep pulsating redness emanating from it. She walks to the
center of the stage with confidence, her strides sure-footed and brisk. No shades. But something off about her eyes. She’s holding something in her hand, small enough to almost fit into her
palm. She stares up at the audience, drinks in the sight of tens of thousands of her new, adoring fans. She’s a natural at this celebrity thing.

I kneel into position, place the barrel of the sniper rifle on the top of the seat in front, stare down the scope. Thumb the focus wheel slowly. Trying to locate Ashley June, finding her, the
blurred, bloated outline of her body crystallizing into sharp clarity.

She is so close, she is only an arm’s length away. Her skin is an iridescent white, her hair the color of a rose in bloom. She is glowing. Her beauty has ripened. She seems more real, more
alive, than in all the years I’ve known her.

My hands tremble. I lose her in the sight.

She starts speaking in that inimitable voice that is both sweet and seductive. Except her voice is huskier now, more textured than before.

I close my eyes, inhale. Find her in the scope again, center her within the crosshairs. My index finger drifts along the trigger, curling around the metallic curve. I begin to pull.

Ashley June speaks, her head moving left to right and back left, along every level of the arena. Establishing eye contact with thousands, making every person feel personally touched. Even as I
feel her eyes reach the Luxury Level, even as they careen toward my suite, I can’t move. I’m frozen. My finger, pressed white against the trigger, comes to a stop.

She is not Ashley June. She has only the outward form, but Ashley June is no more. This is a mercy killing.
Take her out now. Take
it
out. Put it out of its misery.
Before its
eyes swing around, center on me, before it puts me in its crosshairs. Because although everything is dark as night to me, it is clear as day for her.

Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger, already.

I can’t. My finger’s locked into place. Or maybe it is the trigger, maybe it’s stuck. I pull harder, feel the trigger shift minutely. Any moment now, any split moment, and the
sniper will recoil in my hands.

Its eyes swing across my suite. Then stop. For a split second, I think it sees me, its eyes meeting mine through the scope. Black beads for eyes staring at me. It is wearing black contact lenses
to protect against the dim spotlights. The hair on my neck rises. A connection, thick as corded rope, forms between us. I feel it as palpably as the cold metal in my hands. Ashley June on the other
side, tugging. Then her eyes shoot past me, past my suite, to the one next to mine.

Take her out. Take it out. Plug it.

But my finger can’t seem to move.

Then a realization. Thumps me in the back of my head.

Sissy is still down there. My heart hammering again, a sick realization sinking in. Sissy is going to think I missed, she’s going to start pulling out her gun. And if Sissy shoots, Sissy
dies. There’s no way she’s escaping from the crowd on the floor.

I pull harder on the trigger. A millimeter. And another. One more, surely, and the bullet will be sent flying. It’s centered in the crosshairs. Now. Now.

Then it’s gone. Just like that. One second in my crosshairs; the next, vanished. I search the side of the stage. There: just behind the curtain, it is surrounded by uniformed officers who
are pulling it away deeper backstage.

Fire off a shot, damn it. Just fire off a shot—maybe it’ll hit her.

Another thought blazes into my mind.

Where’s Sissy? Why didn’t she take a shot?

Maybe Ashley June got off the stage too quickly for Sissy to react, to pull out the gun. Or maybe something’s happened to Sissy. Something terrible.

Something vibrates against my thigh.

It’s the TextTrans. A message has come in.

Ignore it,
I tell myself.
Take the shot.
Before Ashley June completely disappears. I bend my head down, try to find her through the scope again.

The TextTrans vibrates with insistence, growing warm.

Exhaling with frustration, I release the trigger, fish out the TextTrans.

A message. From Epap.

I
CAN
’
T MOVE
. Even as I feel valuable seconds tick by, all I can do is stare at the TT screen, try to thaw the
layer of frost that’s paralyzed my thoughts, my body. The audience suddenly starts stomping, snapping me out of my stupor. I type out a quick message.

No reply. Inwardly cursing at myself for wasting time, I start to stand when the TextTrans suddenly vibrates again. Seemingly more frantic than before, it almost tumbles out of my hand.