The Masked Truth (7 page)

Arms grab me again. The same ones as before. I struggle madly. My brain fires in every direction, thoughts going
everywhere, paralyzing me.
Get to Maria. No, stop X-Files. Do something. Just do something
.

The arms drag me backward, and I realize we’re heading for the door, and I dig in my heels, but a voice says in my ear, “We need to get out of here,” and I turn to see Max, and the shock of that, of realizing who has me, shuts off my brain, and I let him drag me out the door.

We reach the hall, and the second we do, that bubble around me bursts. I hear everything—the shouts, the cries, the scuffling, the cursing, a sob of pain. It hits me so hard I double over, hands to my ears, Max’s fingers still wrapped around my wrist.

“Come on,” he whispers urgently, and I know if I don’t, he’ll leave me here. He’s grabbed me on a whim, and if I don’t follow him, he’ll say to hell with me and keep going.

Waves of chaos from the room pummel me, and I swear I
feel
the terror and the pain and the panic from every person there. I think of Maria, lying on the floor, and then I see her smiling at me in line, trying to calm me down, joking about her T-shirt.

I see that T-shirt splattered in blood.

Maria shot by Cantina. Lorenzo shot by Gideon. Two of us lie on the floor back there, and I heard more shots as we were running. Who else is on that floor? Gideon? Brienne? Aaron? Aimee?

My knees buckle. Max’s fingers dig in, dragging me, and I want to say,
No, just leave me here
, but there’s still enough of my brain working that rises above the fear and shouts,
Are you an idiot?
and I stumble after him.

Then my gut seizes, and I stop so suddenly he’s jerked back with me.

“I’m running away,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says. “As fast as you can.”

“I-I can’t.” I wheel toward the room. “I won’t run again. I won’t hide—”

“Oh, bloody
hell
. This is not the time, Riley.
Really
, not the time.”

“But I need to—”

“No, actually, you don’t. You want to stand your ground? Next life-threatening situation, all right? For this one, you’re getting out.”

“I need to help—”

“Help
me
. I’ll be your designated rescue victim for today. You can’t go back, because if you do, I won’t make it.”

“Of course you—”

“No, I won’t. Now get me out of here.”

He shoves me, and I stagger a few steps and then start to run. It isn’t easy. I feel the pull of those fading voices and the pull of the panic too, twin forces, one dragging me back, the other dragging me down. But I keep going. I have to. For Max. Which is madness, of course. He doesn’t need me.

So why did he bring me along? He’s never struck me as the sort to slow down and help someone else—especially if it might lower his own escape chances.

Yet Max hadn’t just grabbed me at the last second. I’d recognized that grip and the arm around my waist as the one that pulled me back when Gideon came after me. The one that grabbed me when Maria went down too, the voice that whispered it was all right. Max’s voice.

We’re passing a hall juncture. I can see an exit sign ahead, pointing right. The front door is there, around the next corner, and—

Max slams his open hand into my shoulder, knocking me sideways. I start to turn, but he’s pushing me toward the adjoining hall, and I realize the noise from behind us has changed—not cries and scuffling now but one of our captors shouting, “Where the hell is the girl?”

I look down the main hall, toward the exit.

“No,” Max whispers. “Not unless you can outrun bullets.”

He’s right. The door seems so close, so damned close, but it’s at least another twenty running steps away, and I can already hear footsteps thumping behind us.

I take the side corridor. I see doors. That’s all I see: endless rows of closed doors in a dim hall, like something out of a nightmare.

I glance at the first door. Which is also the first place they’ll look. At the second, I try the handle. Locked. Max is already racing past, and I think that’s it, he’s getting the hell away while the little mouse looks for a hole to hide in. But he only tries the next door and then waves to me when it opens. He holds it while I dart through. Then he closes the door behind us, as carefully as he can, while footfalls thunder down the other hall.

When that door shuts, the room goes completely dark and I stop short. Then there’s a faint bluish light, and I turn to see Max holding down the glow button on his watch. He shines it around.

We’re in a cleaning closet. It’s big enough for me to get away from the door, picking past mops and buckets with extreme care, until I’m tucked down behind them. Max joins me.

Outside we hear footsteps. They’ve slowed now. A second pair joins them.

“What the hell are you doing?” It’s X-Files. “Stay in the room.”

“I can see the door from here,” the second man—Predator—says.

“Yeah, which means we’ll have to chase them if they run.”

“I just thought—”

“Don’t. That’s my job. Now get back in there and—Shit!”

A distant shoe squeak. Then the
pfft
of a suppressed shot, and X-Files snarls, “You left them with Mark’s
gun
?” Running footfalls. Several pairs, the remaining hostages fleeing the room. X-Files and Predator take off after them.

Max slips to the door, lighting his way. He holds up his finger and I see his lips move, counting to five, then he cracks it open and waves at me, still crouched behind the mops. I steady myself and follow.

We make our way to the front door. Footwear off—that was my idea, after hearing X-Files’s and Predator’s shoes squeaking and thumping. We move in stockinged feet to the main hall and then down it, Max walking backward behind me, both of us listening as X-Files and Predator pursue the remaining captives.

Remaining captives
.

Maria is dead. Maybe Lorenzo too. That’s not what I meant by “remaining,” but as soon as I think the word I see Maria, lying on the floor, not moving, and that smell … Maybe there was no smell, maybe it’s my memory of the Porters, but I still remember it with Maria, the stink of blood and urine and more, the smell of violent death. I can tell myself she’s alive, but I know she isn’t.

I stop running. Max bumps into me and turns with a whispered “What do you hear?” as he leans around and then sees my expression.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters as he takes my shoulders and propels me forward. “Keep those legs moving, Riley. You can do this.”

I want to throw him off. To shout at him. Why does he care, anyway? I’m suddenly furious at that care, at the burden of it.
You don’t know me. You shouldn’t give a damn. Get yourself out. Hell, throw me at them for a diversion. I don’t care
.

Except I do care. I haven’t reached rock bottom yet. Haven’t even glimpsed it. As dark as the world gets some days, I still see solid ground under my feet, and I don’t wish for anything else. Even if I did, I couldn’t risk Max’s life with mine. He’s decided to rescue me, and maybe that’s what keeps
him
moving. Something to focus on, to forget what we left behind in that room.

I pay little attention to my surroundings as we run. There’s emergency lighting in the halls, which are builder-beige with equally nondescript flooring. What matters is the path I need to take. Down this hall and then turn left to the end, turn right and the door will be there. Freedom will be there.

We get around the corner. The exit door is just ahead. I’m reaching out, as if I can grab the knob from ten feet away. Then I see the keyhole.

The door is locked. It must be. A locked solid steel door. I slow, and Max passes me, and I think maybe he didn’t notice the lock. But when he yanks on the door and it doesn’t open, his expression isn’t shock—it’s disappointment. He saw the keyhole—he just hoped maybe Predator forgot to relock it after releasing Sandy. Did he really think the SWAT team wouldn’t have checked?

He bends to examine the lock.

“Unless you smuggled picks past the metal detector …” I say.

He runs his fingers over the hinges.

“Or a screwdriver,” I say.

He gives me a look to say I’m not helping. It isn’t an angry look. Not even an annoyed one. Just a quick glance and a shake of his head before he goes back to examining the door.

“You’re wasting time,” I say. “We need to search for another exit.”

“One they forgot to lock?”

“I’m not the one who checked this one.”

“I’d be daft if I didn’t.”

“Then we’d be
daft
if we didn’t search for another way out.”

“That’s plan B,” he says.

“And plan A? Blow up the door?”

“You brought dynamite? Brilliant.” He smiles, and somehow I hate that smile more than if he’d scowled. The smile says he’s got this under control. No, not he.
We
. It says we can handle this, together. There’s no arrogance in that smile, and I wish there was, because it’s a smile of something worse: faith.

He puts his ear to the door.

“What are you—?” I stop. “Right. The SWAT team.”

Now I get a roll of his eyes. Of course. The SWAT team is out there. All we have to do is let them know we’ve escaped. Communicate … through a solid steel door.

When I mention that part, Max only says, “We just need to let them know we’re in here. They can figure out the rest. I don’t hear anything, so the door must be thick. We’ll need to bang on it to get their attention.”

“And get the attention of X-Files and Predator too?”

He frowns, and I say, “I mean our captors. The masks. They’re from—”

“Ah, right.
Predator
. That’s a film. I thought I recognized
it. I was calling the other Gray. Yes, I suspect they’ll hear us, but it’s more important to let the people
outside
hear us.”

“Knock on the door and then run.”

A flashed smile. “You’ve got it. Head that way”—he points—“and find a route for us to flee the scene.”

There’s a long corridor at the other end of the hall, with several shorter ones branching off, giving us options for an escape route. I signal Max while listening for our captors. He whales on the door and I hear only a muffled thump.

He puts his ear to the door again. I start toward him, but he lifts his hand to warn me back, while pantomiming that he can hear faint sounds outside the door.

I try to visualize what’s happening out there. I’ve seen hostage-takings in movies and on TV, often with my dad beside me, pointing out everything that Hollywood did wrong, and I’d ask how it really worked, and Mom and Sloane would shush us, but afterward I’d ask Dad again because I knew he couldn’t talk about his actual work, not really, and this gave him a way to share his job, and I think he appreciated that.

Did you, Dad? You liked explaining it, right? You weren’t just being patient with me, because I know you were always patient, always there for us, and now you’re not and I miss you, Dad, miss you so much. It’s not getting better. A year and a half, and it’s not getting better
.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I think of those shows, and how the teams are arranged. No one hangs around the front door.
Not in real life and mostly not even in Hollywood’s version, because the officers need a wider view and the only reason to be at the door is if they expect someone to come out.

Yet they
did
expect someone to come out. If Gideon hadn’t opened his mouth, I’d be out there. I’d be free and the others would be waiting their turn and damn you, Gideon. Damn—

I imagine Gideon, lying on the floor. Shot.

My stomach clenches, and I remind myself I didn’t see Gideon get shot. He might have escaped. Either way, he doesn’t deserve any of this, no matter how much I might wish he’d just kept quiet and let me leave.

Had the negotiator known I was about to be released? It seemed not, or there’d be someone outside the door, wondering why it hadn’t opened, close enough to notice that vibration when Max pounded. But there’s a good chance X-Files—or Gray, which was an easier name—didn’t tell them I was coming or he wouldn’t have been able to swap Gideon for me, because it would raise concerns if another kid walked out that door.

Max pounds again. Then he knocks, using his knuckles. I hear that, but barely. He tries his boot next. It’s a Doc Marten, vintage-style, and that’s all I know, not really being my kind of fashion statement. I noticed a slight heel, and I’m hoping there’s steel inside, but when he bangs it on the door it’s only slightly louder than the knock.

He pats his pockets, but anything helpful would have been removed. He knocks again with his boot, whamming it as hard as he can, and the sound isn’t even loud enough to catch the attention of anyone
inside
the building.

I wave him to me. He comes with reluctance, looking back at the door with every few loping steps.

“There must be a fire extinguisher or something around,” he says. “Maybe I can bash it with that.”

“I looked for fire alarms as we ran. I didn’t see any of those or extinguishers. The building must not be up to code yet. One thing it would have, though, is a back door. It’ll be locked, but it might be thinner.”

He casts one last look at the door, and then he nods. We take off. We reach the first intersection and I stop short, and his hand lands on my shoulder, the first notes of irritation in his voice as he says, “You can do—”

I spin and clap my hand over his mouth. Or I try to. As soon as I raise my hand, he jerks back, his own hands flying up, as if to ward off a blow.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I just—”

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t
ever
do that.”

The look on his face makes me freeze. It’s anger, raw anger, and he’s rolling his shoulders, trying to throw it off, but it lingers there, underlaid with something else. Fear.

I’ve wondered why Max is in therapy. With other kids, even if they don’t talk much, I can usually figure out what is wrong: depression, anxiety, eating disorders. Max can be a jerk, but you don’t go to therapy for that. I’ve wondered about anger management—there was a kid with that in my church group, and he’d been withdrawn, like Max, and sarcastic, like Max. But the way Max reacted in the other room, when Gideon lashed out, wasn’t the response of someone with a bad temper. Now he flinched when I raised a hand.