Unbreakable (Unraveling) (33 page)

I think of the map Barclay drew for me last night, and I head in the direction we planned, essentially to the opposite end of the city.

We slid down the building in full view of the cameras, so IA will know where we’re headed, but at least that will help Ben and Cecily slip out unnoticed.

I push past people on the platform, ignoring the gasps or the way they stumble after I knock into their shoulders. I don’t have time to do too much dodging or weaving. I’m moving fast, and they need to get out of my way.

When I knock into the shoulder of a girl around my age, she swears and yells after me. I glance back out of habit and realize she’s with a bunch of friends, all dressed in matching white polo shirts and plaid skirts—a school uniform for sure. One of them gives me the finger and the rest of them start to laugh.

I don’t spare them another second—I need to keep running—but something pinches in my chest. I should be with friends, laughing and being stupid, not running from the cops.

Barclay catches up with me, pressing his palm into my back. We’re about to hit a crossroads at the platforms. Right would lead us back around the way we came, and in front of us is some kind of upscale mall.

I go left because that leads away. The alarm from IA headquarters is still blaring in the background.

“Shit!” Barclay swears.

“What is it? Is it Ben and Cecily?” I ask. Just the question tempts me to turn around and head back.

“Keep running,” Barclay says.

We turn left and run through the people on the platform. Barclay is in front of me now, and I keep my eyes focused on his back and push myself to keep up.

I know IA has teams of people following us—they have to—but they won’t shoot at us since we’re surrounded by civilians, and everything else, all of the details we pass, are a blur. My feet pounding against the pavement, my lungs pulling in air, the way my whole body throbs with the burn of too much exertion, and Barclay’s back in front of me—are obvious. The rest of my attention is focused on looking for a threat and being ready to avoid it.

I
’m not sure how much time has actually passed when we hit the major monorail station that will get us on the train out of the city and to safety. It feels like we’ve been running for hours, and my legs are aching with exhaustion.

But I don’t slow down or stop.

I know that once I do, I’m going to collapse.

The station, completely made of glass, looms in front of us, reflecting the bright sun. Running up the stairs makes pain shoot up my hamstrings, and I feel like my legs might not continue to hold me.

Barclay glances over his shoulder and calls for me to hurry.

The plan is to get on the train. If we were fast enough, we’ve timed it right so that the train doors will be open, and we’ll be able to get on before they close. But anyone trailing us won’t.

Only Barclay stops short in front of me.

I barrel into his back.

The train isn’t there.

I’m too short of breath to ask what we’re going to do, but I don’t need to. Barclay grabs my arms and pulls me toward the edge of the platform.

Behind us, I hear the shouts of pedestrians, and I know IA is close on our trail.

“Ben and Cecily?” I ask, because I can’t help it.

He shakes his head, and for a second I can’t breathe. My hands are shaky and I feel unsteady from the panic rising in my chest.

“What happened?”

“We don’t have time for this now,” he says.

“Barclay!” There’s no way I can do anything without knowing what’s going on.

“They got caught in the hallway. They ran into the deputy director, and he recognized Ben. They’re in his office telling him everything right now.”

I feel something inside me relax. They’ve been caught, but they’re alive. They have the proof on them, and Barclay got the email out. I remember the faces of the two little blond children on Struz 2.0’s desk. He might be better dressed than my Struz, but he’ll hear Ben and Cecily out.

He has to.

The bell signifying the coming train starts to ring, and an announcement comes over the loudspeaker saying that everyone should step back from the edge of the platform.

But there’s another announcement too.

People behind us are screaming, “Get down on the ground!”

I look over my shoulder and see that the order isn’t necessarily directed at us—it’s directed at everyone else, and behind the throng of commuters are guys with guns. They’re IA agents and security forces, dressed like the guards at the front of headquarters, and there are some guys in regular clothes, too—agents who’ve joined the chase.

The oncoming train is approaching, but by the time it gets here, IA will be on top of us. Even if we get on the train, we’ll just be giving ourselves less room to run.

We’re essentially backed into a corner.

Closest to us is a guy in his late twenties with a military-style crew cut, khaki pants, and combat boots. His gun is trained on Barclay. “You got nowhere to go, Wonder Boy,” he says, and I recognize his voice as the guy who couldn’t stop chuckling when he broke into Barclay’s apartment.

It’s over. We’re trapped.

We can only hope the proof we emailed is enough.

Right as I’m about to raise my hands and surrender, Barclay’s fingers dig into my shoulder, and I hear him say, “Trust me!” but I don’t have a chance to say that I do or ask what that means.

Because he pushes me.

I stumble off the platform and fall onto the thin rail track.

My legs throb from the impact. The track vibrates with the approach of the train, and below me, all I can see is air.

Over the roar of the train, I hear a few shouts across the platform, and suddenly Barclay is next to me, pulling me up to my feet so we’re both standing on the track. He winces and clutches his side, and I hope the vest has kept him from actually getting hit.

He says something to me, but I can’t hear him. The train is too loud, but he throws himself forward, his hands catching the edge of the opposite platform, and I know that’s what he wants me to do.

I hesitate. If I jump for the wall and slip, I’ll fall over a hundred feet down to the underground. And I won’t have anything to break my fall.

But a rush of warm air envelops me—the heat of the train bearing down on me—and my palms are slick with sweat. I do what he says.

I jump.

My hands hit the concrete platform edge, and my whole body—even my face—slams against the wall with a thud so painful it’s almost blinding, and then the heat from the train is singeing my back as it pulls into the station and screeches to a stop.

Next to me, Barclay presses himself straight up. I try to imitate him, but I just don’t have the strength, and the train is too close to me, restricting my movement. My fingers feel slippery, and the fact that there’s nothing below me except sky makes the arches of my feet start to cramp.

I don’t want to die this way.

But Barclay is there, grabbing my arms and pulling me up.

Once my knees hit the cement, I scramble to my feet.

Another train is pulling into the station. It’s headed in the opposite direction, and it’s at least a hundred yards away. And I know the new plan before he even says anything.

Barclay grabs my arm. “We have to get on that train!”

We run.

All around us, I can hear people yelling. The IA agents are shouting orders. They know what we’re going to do and they’re trying to get to the platform and its train before us. The ordinary people trying to go to work scream when they’re caught off guard by the sheer amount of guns and excitement.

My whole body hurts. My ankles sting in pain every time one of my feet hits the ground, my shoulder and back throb from where the bullets are lodged in my vest, and my lungs feel like they’re ready to burst because I’m not getting enough air.

Heart pounding with the same furious rhythm as my legs, I narrow my focus on the open train doors. Like I’m in a tunnel, leading only to those doors, I block everyone else out. Getting there in time is the only option.

I push harder, move my legs faster, and when we’re about ten feet away and the bell sounds to signify the doors are about to shut, I hold my breath.

Barclay reaches the train just before I do, as the doors are sliding shut. His hand pushes against one of the doors, leaving a six-inch gap and giving me an extra second.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chuckles coming down the stairs to this platform, several agents behind him.

The bell sounds again, and the doors push against Barclay.

I throw myself into the train and collide with Barclay, throwing both of us into the back wall. A metal pole runs into my shoulder, and I groan at the pain because that’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

The doors are closed. I release the breath I was holding, and suddenly I feel dizzy with relief. Barclay smiles at me, pulling me to my feet, and we stare at each other, breathing heavily.

Then I see Chuckles.

He’s barely ten feet away, running toward us at full speed and screaming at someone—probably the conductor of the train. If the doors open again, he’ll be able to get on. I turn and grab Barclay’s arm, trying to pull him toward the next door. If Chuckles gets on the train, we can get off. But Barclay stands his ground, smiles, and gives Chuckles the finger.

And the train starts to move.

B
arclay’s face is flushed from running, and I can’t help it, I throw my arms around him. Because we made it. We’re still alive.

Barclay hugs me back, his arms tight, pressing me into his chest. I know he feels it too.

“Ben and Cecily?” I ask, pulling away.

“He believes them,” he says. “He’s asking a couple questions now, but . . .”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. The weight of this conspiracy has just been lifted off our shoulders, because it’s over now. We’ll portal back to the hospital, gather up the Unwilling, wait for IA, and then we’ll be able to go home.

We’ve won.

It’s enough to make me come undone. My eyes sting, my shoulders droop, and my body starts to quiver. I’m so relieved that all I can do is cry.

“Good plan, Tenner,” he says, but then I see his smile falter.

For a second I wonder if someone’s behind me, if one of the agents managed to make it on the train. If we’re not really safe.

But Barclay raises a hand to his earpiece, and I realize it’s something else.

It’s something happening with Ben.

“What is it?” I say as I lean into him, trying to hear.

At first, I can’t make out anything. Barclay’s body is tense next to me, and I realize he’s holding his breath. I don’t know what he heard, but he’s coiled like he’s waiting for an attack, which means it’s bad.

I wonder if the deputy director will still punish Ben for his involvement and if he’s not going to grant him immunity for his previous crimes, like working with the traffickers to snatch people from their worlds until he could save the other Janelle.

And then I don’t have to speculate anymore.

Because I hear something from Barclay’s earpiece.

A gunshot.

But already my desire and my will

were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed
,

by the Love which moves the sun and the other stars
.

—Dante

B
efore I even have a chance to register what’s going on—or what I’m doing—I grab the earpiece and pull it from Barclay’s ear. He lets out some kind of yelp from surprise and pain, but I’m not paying attention.

“Ben, are you okay?” I say, pressing the button. There are several more shots, and I can hear Cecily screaming, “No!” and “Don’t!” and “Ben!” Then there’s some kind of thud. Then nothing.

“Ben?” I say again. I’m shaking my head, because this can’t be happening. Not after everything. He has to be okay.

Barclay grabs my hand, pulling it off the button. “If they’re in trouble the last thing he needs is you talking to him in the middle of it.”

I open my mouth to argue, to tell him that he doesn’t understand, but I don’t say anything. I know he’s right. Instead I take a deep breath and listen. If ears could
strain
, that’s what I’d be doing right now. I’m listening for anything that’s going to fill me in.

It’s like time—or the world—slows down, and all that matters is what I’m hearing from the earpiece. My eyes are closed, and I wait to hear Ben’s voice again, for him to say something, anything. And every time my mind starts to conjure an image of him lying in a pool of blood with a bullet wound in his chest, I squeeze my eyes tighter and push it away.

I want to shout that it’s not fair, that this should be over, that I shouldn’t have to lose him, too.

I don’t register anything else until I realize my face is flushed, and the taste of blood is on my tongue. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and steady myself against the wall of the train as stars cloud my vision. Barclay reaches over and wipes the blood from where I’ve bitten deep into my lip.

And still I try to listen.

But I don’t hear anything except the echo of my pulse in my ears.

Not a thing.

Not the commotion that would result from fleeing the scene, not labored breathing from someone who’s injured, not screaming or shuffling around. There’s nothing.

“Ben, are you there?” I ask, my voice cracking. There’s no response, which shouldn’t surprise me because deep down, I know he’s not. “Ben?”

“Tenner, we’re approaching the next stop.” Barclay tugs on my arm, his voice an urgent whisper.

The image of Ben is back. It’s all I can see. There’s blood everywhere, soaking through the front of his clothes, pooling underneath him, coating his dark brown curls. My chest constricts, and I can’t breathe. This was my plan. It’s my fault—I’m the one who sent him into IA.

It’s like Alex all over again.

Suddenly I’m so angry, I want to scream as loud as I can at the sheer unfairness of all this.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.