"I’m coming," I say.
"Ten minutes now," Silas says. "Don't be late."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the blank screen, my breathing shallow and rapid. The reservoir road is eight miles out. In fifteen minutes, I’ll have to hit ninety on the dirt track just to clear the ridge.
"Echo, get the trackers on the line," Kieran says, reaching for his radio. "We’re deploying the mobile units—"
"No," I say, my voice quiet, flat, and absolute.
Kieran stops, his hand hovering over his belt. "Boss, you can't be serious. It’s Silas. He’s baiting you. He has a dozen men waiting in that warehouse. If you go alone, you’re a dead man."
"If I don't go alone, she dies," I say.
"We can flank them!" Kieran argues, his voice rising, his face flushed with frustration. "We can put Marcus on the ridge with a rifle! We can clear the perimeter before you even cross the threshold!"
"You don't understand, Kieran," I say, looking him straight in the eye. "Silas isn't playing a game of territory anymore. He’s playing a game of blood. He’s watching the road. If he sees a single headlight that isn't mine, he pulls the trigger."
"And if he kills you anyway?" Echo asks, stepping forward. "What happens to Maeve? What happens to the Syndicate?"
"The Syndicate is yours if I don't come back," I say. I reach into the gun box on the table and pull out the customized Glock. I check the clip, slide it back home with a heavy click, and tuck it into the small of my back. "Kieran, stay with my daughter. If anyone tries to cross the gate, you put them in the dirt."
"Lorcan, please," Kieran says, his voice cracking. "Let me come. Just as the driver. I’ll stay in the car."
"No," I say.
I walk past them, my boots heavy on the marble
The black Suburban we drove in is idling, the exhaust fumes filling the concrete space. I climb into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind me.
Ten minutes.
I slam my foot on the gas. The tires scream against the concrete as the vehicle surges forward, kicking up a massive cloud of red dust as I barrel out onto the open road.
The engine roars, a mechanical beast eating up the miles, but all I can hear is the sound of her voice on the phone.
I'm coming, Kisa.
Hold on.
33
Atara
My left eye is swollen halfway shut, and every time I draw a breath, a sharp, white-hot needle drives straight into my right ribs.
Great. Cracked ribs, check. Concussion, highly probable. Swollen jaw, definitely. At least my nose isn't broken. If I'm going to get out of here, I'd prefer not to look like a pug while doing it.
I spit a mouthful of blood onto the dirty concrete floor. The shipping terminal is cold, smelling of grease, rusted iron, and reservoir water.
Silas’s trap had been clean. Immaculate, really. I had slipped out of the compound with my boots quiet, keeping the black-handled knife Lorcan gave me tucked flat against my forearm. I’d mapped the blind spots on the cameras. I’d timed the perimeter rotation down to the second. I’d reached the reservoir road, thinking I was a shadow, thinking I was the cleverest girl to ever leave Brooklyn.
And then three men had stepped out of the scrub brush before I even crossed the threshold of the terminal. No warnings. One of them had simply driven the butt of a rifle into my stomach, and when I went down, gasping for the air that had left my lungs, another had kicked me in the face.
They took the knife. They threw me into this rusted metal chair. And they tied my wrists behind my back with heavy plastic zip-ties that bite deeper into my skin with every twitch of my fingers.
"You're remarkably quiet," a voice rasps from the shadows near the back wall.
