Burn (22 page)

“I’m sorry about Aaron,” I finally say. Because I am. I wish he hadn’t chased me. I wish he’d been more aware that other members of his family had brought their deadly defense system back online. He shouldn’t have been so damn determined to get back the scanner.

Rufus’s nostrils flare. His face turns red beneath his Santa beard. He pulls the oxygen mask away from his face with a trembling hand. I brace for his rage.

“Did he suffer?” he finally says, his voice rough.

I blink at him. “N-no. Not for long.” I honestly don’t know. When I sprinted away, he was still alive. But if Rufus is asking me this, it means Aaron was dead by the time he was found. “He went pretty quickly.”

He nods and bows his head. “He was trying to get the device for
me,
” he says in a strangled voice. “He’d heard me say we needed it. Stupid boy was loyal to a fault.” He stares at his knees as he lets out a sad, raspy chuckle, and my chest hurts. I expected him to tear in to me, to blame me, but somehow, his raw sadness is worse.

His head jerks up as someone shouts from the back of the atrium, and Ellie Alexander bursts through in a puff of smoke, leading four factory workers using a tarp as a kind of sling, within which is a body. She screams for Dr. Ackerman as they lay their burden down on the stone tiles. Her light blond hair is plastered in wisps against her forehead and cheeks. “Medic,” she shrieks.

On the tarp, Brayton Alexander lies as still as a corpse. His pale blond hair is gray with soot, and his cheeks are sunken. My mom comes rushing over and kneels next to him, feeling for a pulse but drawing her hand back in surprise. “How close was he to the fire?” she asks Ellie. “His body temperature is very high.”

Ellie joins my mom on the floor. “He never got that close to the flames. He just . . . I don’t know. Fainted?” A tear slips from her eye and carves a pink path through the grime on her face. “Was it the smoke? Or a heart attack?”

My mother pulls a pulse oximeter from the pocket of her lab coat and slips it onto one of Brayton’s limp fingers. He winces and tries to pull away, but she holds his hand firmly, then shakes her head. “His pulse and oxygen saturation are in the normal range.” She lays his hand back on the tarp. “But his temperature is 103.5. The fever may be why he collapsed. We’ll have to consult Dr. Ackerman, but since Brayton appears stable, it may be a few minutes.” Dr. Ackerman is presiding over the transport of a badly burned factory worker at the moment.

Ellie strokes her dad’s arm and glares at Rufus, then at me. “Constantly having his loyalty questioned has taken a huge toll on his health.”

Rufus gives Brayton a pitiless sneer, all his grief submerged beneath his decades-long hatred for the former CEO of Black Box. “If he hadn’t gone off the reservation in an attempt to acquire the scanner, no one would question him,” he says in a low, gravelly voice.

Ellie clenches her teeth. “I’ve heard stories about how you tried the same thing, Mr. Bishop.”

Rufus’s chubby fingers curl over the armrests of his wheelchair. “I was trying to protect the human race from annihilation. He was trying to make a profit.”

“At least he’s not a paranoid maniac.”

“I’d rather be a paranoid maniac than a traitor!” Rufus says in a hoarse shout.

“Leave her alone,” whispers Brayton, opening his eyes. His cheeks look like he’s been smacked over and over again. Crimson. He lifts his head, but it falls back just as quickly. “This is my fault. Not hers.”

His voice is raspy and soft, but Rufus hears him. He grunts. “For once, I know you’re telling the truth.”

Brayton doesn’t respond. He lies there as Ellie strokes his sweaty hair, and I guess this isn’t the right moment to start questioning him about why he’s saying he’s to blame. Rufus apparently disagrees. He leans forward, his shoes squeaking on the footrests of his wheelchair. “Did you hear what he said, Ellie? It’s his fault. Ask him why.” He wheels himself a little closer. “What are you up to, Brayton? Did you and your H2 buddies sabotage the factory? Are you and the Core working together? Are you planning to sell them our technology like you have in the past?”

Brayton swallows painfully. “What are you talking about? You said it yourself—I didn’t upgrade the vent system. The smoke—”

“How dare you accuse my dad of sabotage!” Ellie blurts out, tears shining in her eyes. “Do you have one shred of evidence, or is this your paranoid psychosis leaking out?”

Mom turns to Rufus and snaps, “This is a ridiculous time to carelessly toss around accusations, Rufus—and a dangerous one. If you are truly concerned about the welfare of the inhabitants of this compound, try not to sow needless suspicion and discord.”

He arches a furry eyebrow at her, but backs off. Brayton’s chest shudders. He’s red-cheeked and drawn-looking, his breaths coming fast. Despite my mistrust, I have a hard time understanding why Brayton would do something so utterly destructive as destroying the factory, especially since he said he wanted to earn back people’s trust. What would he gain from that kind of sabotage, apart from petty revenge for being removed as CEO? He seems more motivated by profit than vengeance. And I don’t buy for a minute that the Core would work with him to do something like that, not after I’ve witnessed their desperation to stop the Sicarii.

In fact, what would
anyone
gain from the factory fire . . . except the Sicarii?

The frustration of that thought makes me tense. We’ve scanned everyone repeatedly, and no one flashes that violent orange that indicates the presence of a Sicarii. So why can’t I shake the idea that we’ve got one somewhere on the compound?

Christina’s fingers brush my hand, and I look down to see her blue eyes gazing into mine. Her lips curl upward beneath the oxygen mask, and I lean over her. “How are you?”

She nods but points to her throat and grimaces. I smooth her hair off her forehead and kiss her brow. “You don’t have to talk. I know it hurts. I’m just so, so happy you’re alive.” My voice gets more unsteady with every word.

God, I want to tell her I love her. The words are right there on my tongue.

I nearly lost her again today, and we may not have much time left, and I don’t want to leave things unsaid. My heart pounds within my chest. “Christina,” I say, touching her forehead with mine. “I—”

The lights go out, and two loud popping noises make both of us flinch. Despite the billowing black smoke outside, there’s still plenty of daylight to illuminate the atrium through its glass walls. Heads swivel in the direction of the hallway where the noise came from. Angus, on his knees next to a red-haired young man who is probably a family member, looks over at me, and I can read his thoughts easily.

The scanner.

I let go of Christina’s hand and sprint toward the hallway, joined on the way by Angus, Kellan, and two other armed guards. We enter Angus’s office and are confronted by an echo of the carnage in the atrium—horrific, but on a smaller scale. Two guards lie sprawled in front of us, blood haloed around them and sprayed on the wall next to their bodies. There’s no one else in the office or the long hallway outside.

Angus lets out a strangled roar when he sees the bodies. “Get Ackerman down here now!” he shouts, and one of the guards with us peels off to get the doctor.

One of the guys on the ground is a Core agent. It looks like he was shot in the back of the head. But the other guy—a Black Box guard—is on his back, his lips gray and his eyes staring at the ceiling, his fingers clutching weakly at the hole in his chest. My mind does a lightning-fast reconstruction as I try to puzzle out whether it could be possible that these two shot each other. But nothing clicks into place. While I move past them to the storage room where the scanner is being kept, Angus sinks to the ground next to the guard, speaking in soft, comforting tones.

The door is hanging open, and the room is empty. I clench my teeth around the string of curses threatening to emerge. Race and Congers arrive, a little out of breath. “The scanner’s gone,” I say. “Whoever took it planned the perfect distraction.”

Race’s eyes glitter with fury as he gazes down at the dead Core agent. “McClaren, is your guard saying anything?” he asks Angus.

Angus shakes his head. “He’s in shock,” he says in a shaky voice, scooting back as Dr. Ackerman joins us. The doctor’s brown skin is sheened with sweat, and his eyes are full of horror and sorrow, but his movements are calm as he assesses the guard’s vitals and applies pressure to the wound.

It won’t help, though. I can tell that the guard is doomed. My eyes squeeze shut against the certainty of it. I rub my hand over my face and focus on Race and Congers.

“Someone in this compound has the scanner,” Congers says. “We need to alert all guards at the tunnels to the outside. No one goes in or out until it’s found.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Angus replies, getting up slowly as Kellan—who is trying to look tough but seems on the verge of breaking down—helps Dr. Ackerman move the Black Box guard onto a gurney. Angus disappears into his office, and soon after, we hear the low rumble of his voice as he communicates with the perimeter guards.

I nod at Kellan, whose broad shoulders are slumped. “The guards need to take the black light and do a systematic search. Use it like you did the scanner. Anyone with the B12 solution on their shoes or hands should be brought in for questioning.”

Congers and Race look surprised, but Angus comes out of his office and says, “It looks like your old-fashioned safeguard is the only one we have, because the surveillance cams have once again proved useless.” His mouth is working like there’s a bitter taste on his tongue.

Kellan glances at Angus. “No one’s going to like being under suspicion again, not when everyone fought the fire together, not when so many are hurt.”

Angus nods. “Don’t tell them they’re under suspicion, then. Try to be subtle. Scan everyone, even the injured, and then move on quickly. I’ll get the guards down in the residential building to round up anyone in their suites and make sure they don’t go anywhere, and the guards on the grounds will bring in anyone who’s not here already. But start the search.”

Kellan sighs and runs his hand through his curly brown hair, leaving it sticking up on top. “Yes, sir.”

My chest is tight as I look around the empty storage room one more time, and then head back to the atrium. Congers stays behind with Angus, but Race falls into step with me. “Do you have a list of suspects?” he asks as we emerge into the open space, where dozens of grimy, sweaty, injured individuals are still lying in rows, grateful to be breathing. Through the high glass walls, I see that the fire is well under control now, only faint wisps of gray smoke spiraling from inside the building. The hole I blasted in the wall is gaping now, because one of the fire trucks rammed right through the weakened barrier to get inside.

Leo is now hunched over Christina, and even from here, I can see their smiles. He’s brightened this horrible day for her, and I’m grateful. She’s not alone, and at the moment, she’s not scared.

My eyes settle on Brayton, who’s on his feet, his arm slung over Ellie’s shoulders. Without thinking too much about it, I head over there, noting that Kellan is slowly walking along the rows of patients, the black light on, staring at their hands and shoes, looking for the incriminating fluorescence. Most people seem too thrashed to even notice him, which must come as a huge relief to poor Kellan. Brayton and Ellie eye him with suspicion, though.

I quicken my pace. Rufus is still sitting in his wheelchair, and Christina and Leo look up as I approach. Rufus sneers at Race. “Happy now? We’re defenseless. Easy pickings.”

Race regards him somberly, no doubt recalling all the shouted accusations from Rufus during the board meeting last night. “I have over a hundred agents here, some of whom are gravely wounded. One of whom has just been shot in the back of the head. Angus has ordered the perimeter guards to forbid anyone to go in or out. We are caught here, just as you are, but the difference is that we are on unfamiliar ground and vastly outnumbered. Tell me the logic behind accusing the Core of creating this tragedy.”

Rufus’s face becomes a mottled maroon shade. “Tell me why we never had a fire in our factory until you H2 came onto our compound!”

“Maybe the H2 aren’t the only ones here,” I say.

“Everyone’s been scanned,” Brayton replies wearily, looking like he could collapse again at any moment. “Rufus does have a point. And now we all need to prioritize rebuilding and getting everything back online. All I’ve been hearing since I arrived on this compound is that we’re under threat of imminent attack.”

“We’ve already taken care of the bigger threat,” says Leo, his pride glowing through the sooty smears on his skin. “We got the satellite defense shield working.”

Race squeezes his eyes shut at Leo’s careless disclosure.

“That’s incredible,” says Brayton. He looks at me. “I heard rumors you were having trouble accessing the satellites. It’s a relief to hear they were wrong.”

“But it won’t help us much, considering there are already scout ships
here,
” growls Rufus. “Just like scanning everyone didn’t help us. But go ahead and scan us all again if it makes you feel less helpless, boy. Oh, wait. I see Kellan’s already at it.” He glares at the young Black Box guard, who is trying and failing to look casual as he walks toward us, holding the wand light over every person he passes, whether they’re upright or lying unconscious on the floor. I’m relieved to see that the wand light resembles the scanner from a distance. But then Kellan passes it over a Core agent, and the faint blue light stays blue. Rufus sits back. “That’s not the scanner. What the hell is he doing?”

Leo’s eyes go wide when he realizes it’s the black light, and before I can stop him, he blurts, “Someone tried to steal the scanner again, didn’t they? Did they get it?”

Race’s jaw clenches, and he looks away. We’re playing a game of secrecy, and Leo’s giving out information left and right.

Rufus throws up his hands. “Now the scanner’s been stolen? I didn’t think I could be more ashamed of being part of The Fifty, but apparently it’s still possible.” His hands close over the wheels of his wheelchair. “I’m leaving.”