Page 133 of Aviatrix

“Do we trust Ivanov?”

“I trust her a hell of a lot more than I trust Jan Ming,” I shoot back.

Lark tugs me beneath the cover of the trees. We move fast, low, blending into the terrain. It’s mid-May so there’s not enough leaves to fully hide us, but just enough to flee with purpose.

A barrage of red erupts behind us.

The amphitheater explodes, columns shattering, people screaming. It’s just like Langdon.

Except worse.

This isn’t aliens. This is us.

My throat burns.

“Come on, Kin,” Lark urges, pulling me forward. “We need to get out of here.”

A rustle of footsteps behind us.

I reach for the gun strapped to my thigh, spin, and raise it.

Frances.

Lark exhales in relief. “It’s just you.”

But Frances isn’t relieved. She isn’t even surprised. Her face is stone. No warmth. No reunion.

“Lower your weapon, Kin,” Lark says.

There’s something about the way Frances is standing that gives me pause.

I shake my head. “No.”

“We should head this way.” Frances motions south.

Wrong direction.

“We’re good,” I say, keeping my finger steady on the trigger.

Then, Lark stiffens.

Out of the trees behind her, several agents appear dressed in black, rifles aimed at us.

This is bad.

“I trusted you,” Lark tells her.

“You shouldn’t have,” she replies, and Lark flinches—not from the threat, but from the truth in her voice. “Rourke said you’ve always been weak, Jones.”

I don’t know whether to shoot and die, or surrender and probably still die.

Lark steps behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe, Kin. We’ll get through this.”

I aim the gun at Frances.

No reaction.

Okay. She’s unprotected and clearly not indispensable.