Joe stared directly into her eyes. His expression betrayed no emotion at all.
“You proud of yourself, picking on kids?” Carina asked. She knew she ought to keep her mouth shut, that nothing she said could help in this situation. “How much did he have to pay you, anyway? And why are you so sure he’s going to take care of you afterward? That he’s going to give you the antidote?”
The man just stared at her, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Over the side of the building, she heard Tanner and Baxter approaching the top of the ladder, their labored breathing punctuated by grunts of effort. They’d made the climb quickly—much more quickly than she and Tanner had a few nights ago, when it felt like they had all the time in the world—and they would be winded when they reached the top.
Good.
“You know what happens, don’t you, if you don’t get the antidote?” she demanded. Joe lifted one thick eyebrow and regarded her curiously.
“Qepe gojën.”
Carina gasped. The man was foreign. Albanian, she’d bet. He hadn’t been following Baxter’s commands at all, but rather directions he’d been given before coming on this mission. Don’t let the girl escape, no doubt—and probably Kill anyone who interferes. Simple, really, when it came down to it.
What had happened since she and Tanner had left one Albanian in a pool of his own blood and the other choking in a drainage pipe? Clearly, allegiances had shifted. A deal had been brokered. Baxter was full of surprises: somehow, in the space of hours, he’d convinced the Albanians not to kill Carina and gotten an extension on the exchange timetable—and they’d thrown in a strongman to sweeten the deal.
Tanner came over the edge, panting. He looked exhausted, deep purple pockets under his eyes, his skin pale and sheened with perspiration. No wonder: he hadn’t slept, and he’d been putting his body through exertions that—chemically enhanced or otherwise—would take time to recover from.
But he smiled. The minute he saw that she was unhurt, he smiled as though nothing was wrong. He reached for her hand and squeezed, and when Joe shoved him hard enough that he stumbled against the parapet, the smile still never left his face.
Baxter was another story, scowling with annoyance when he finally came up on the roof. Getting shown up by a girl, perhaps, or having to keep Tanner alive long enough to get what he wanted from Carina, was wearing on his nerves. Whatever the case, he didn’t look happy.
“Okay,” he said, breathing hard. “So where is it?”
This was it—the moment of truth. If Carina pulled this off, Tanner was safe. If not … well, there simply couldn’t be an if not.
“This way,” Carina said. “Around here.”
She led them toward the cluster of HVAC equipment near the center of the roof, all enclosed in a boxy, painted metal structure. It was only a few yards away from the door leading into the stairwell at the top of the building, the one that promised escape for Tanner. Thankfully, lodged in the space between door and frame was the same crusty paint can that had been there the other day.
Carina moved slowly, making sure the rest of the little group was keeping pace. Joe was shadowing her so tightly that she wouldn’t be able to get away with anything. Once she started fumbling around among the curved pipes that made up the HVAC exhaust system, she’d have little time; it would soon become obvious that she’d been lying. I can’t imagine what happened to it, she’d say. It was here two days ago, I swear. Sure. That might get her a few extra minutes. But the end was inevitable: the minute Tanner made it inside the building and locked the door, she was finished. She wouldn’t even risk a last look in his direction; she’d race straight to the edge.
Over. Down. Dead.
And the virus would finally be finished. If Tanner made it out, he would call the major, the investigation would be launched, the lab shut down; and if the Albanian connection somehow escaped notice, it hardly mattered. Baxter was right about one thing: evil would continue to exist in the world no matter what happened today.
They arrived at the HVAC unit. Carina laid a hand on the side, feeling the warmth of the sun on the metal. She looked at Tanner, who was lagging back just as he needed to. Good—so he understood. She stared pointedly into his eyes and then at the propped-open door, then down at the metal assemblage, making her meaning clear: when she started searching for the item that wasn’t there, Baxter’s attention would be diverted, and Tanner could run for the door. He only had to cross a distance of about five yards, and the second he was behind the door—reinforced metal, with a heavy dead bolt—he was safe. Baxter wouldn’t be able to shoot through it, at least not in time to catch him, even if he was a normal teenager now. Baxter wouldn’t send Joe after him until she was disposed of, so all Tanner had to do was race down four flights of stairs and out any exit. That would set off the building alarms, so with any luck at all, the police would arrive in time to find Baxter and Joe before they could make it off the roof.
And Carina’s body, broken and bleeding on the ground below. But there was no point to thinking about that.
She knelt. “Well, let’s see, I put it behind one of these vertical pipes,” Carina said, making a show of sliding her hands behind the filthy metal pieces. Now, she willed Tanner. Go. He edged carefully back from Baxter—good.
But he wasn’t moving toward the door.
Carina’s heart seized with horror as she saw that he was moving toward a stack of construction debris near the edge of the HVAC enclosure. What was he doing? There wasn’t any way to get down on that side, no ladder, no door.
“Maybe it was over here,” Carina mumbled, running her hands into each recessed space between the bars, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. She had only seconds before they realized there was nothing here, that she had led them on a wild-goose chase.
Tanner took off, sprinting the last few feet to the pile of lumber and rusting metal. Joe pivoted instantly at the sound of footsteps, responding with virus-heightened instinct. As Tanner crouched down in front of it he yelled, “Run, Car!” at the top of his lungs. Baxter yowled with frustration as he tried to find a shot, but Tanner had taken cover just in time.
Carina stood, tearing her eyes away from Tanner. For one second her gaze locked on Joe’s. His eyes were clear, intent, and bright; his neutral expression had given way to the slightest smirk.
Try me, it said.
Carina ran.
She focused all the skittering energy that pulsed through her veins and synapses and nerves. She imagined them as strands dancing and jerking with life, and in her mind she drew them all together to make one strong cord, knitting the virus’s powerful side effects into a single rope of pure strength and determination. By pushing herself as hard as she could, she managed to stop the spasming and twitching in her muscles. She knew she couldn’t sustain her pace for long, but she only needed a few seconds more.
Her takeoff was flawless, and each step landed exactly where it needed to. Her arms pumped at her side. Her hair streamed in the wind, the unfamiliar sensation of her shorn strands fluttering against her neck. She had a lead of a few yards on Joe, and she suspected he could close that gap, given his greater musculature and the fact that he was earlier in the infection’s course. But she had a fighting chance.
Because when she reached the edge of the roof, she was going to jump. The space between the main building and the auditorium was about five yards, a little less than the women’s long-jump record. It didn’t really matter, of course, whether Carina landed the jump or not; she was still as good as dead, but getting to the other roof might buy her a few more minutes that she could use to find out what happened to Tanner. Because now it was him against Baxter, and even though Baxter had a gun, she figured it was an even fight. Tanner might not be armed, and he was exhausted, but he had a few things Baxter didn’t: heart, and courage—and love.
The edge. The parapet rose up three feet, its surface slick with tar and bird droppings. The top was curved and would not provide good purchase, but she n
eeded to anchor on it nonetheless for her leap. She could hear her coach’s voice in her mind: The greater the speed at takeoff, the longer the trajectory of the center of mass.…
She hurtled forward, her feet striking the ground in perfectly spaced strides. She pushed off and hit the top of the wall with her right foot, imagining every winning approach and every record-breaking jump she’d ever landed.
And then she was airborne.
As she passed over the space below, time stretched and somehow made room for a stream of memories: arriving at the doors of the high school on the first day of freshman year, her new backpack still stiff and stuffed with supplies and books, her hair soft and shiny from an hour with the blow dryer, wishing she could both disappear and be noticed. Eating lunch with Nikki and Emma under the sycamore tree during their sophomore year. Surrounded by kids the day she came back to school after Madelyn’s funeral in her junior year, the center of a hug that seemed to encompass a hundred students. Hanging out on the benches near the entrance after school the Monday after she met Tanner last fall, telling Nikki and Emma about the amazing boy from the climbing gym.
The shock of the impact traveled through her, from the bones in her feet up through her entire body to her fingers. It wasn’t a perfect landing, but she knew within a microsecond that she was unhurt, and she dove into a roll and came up facing backward, already frantically searching for Tanner.
A thud next to her alerted her that Joe had made the jump as well. But his pained grunt indicated that it had cost him. Without training in the mechanics of the long jump, he had undoubtedly made any of a dozen mistakes that could lead to injury. Carina prayed he’d broken his ankle, but before she could find out she had to see Tanner.
There he was, arm stretched back, a stance he’d perfected training for the javelin throw. Baxter had his gun in hand and was turning back toward Tanner, preparing to shoot. Carina’s gaze sharpened and intensified, the splintering effects of the aging virus bringing the scene into surreal focus. She saw Baxter’s finger tighten on the trigger just as she saw Tanner release the iron rebar that he’d been holding.
She couldn’t trace the path of the bullet, though the sound Tanner made when it struck, forcing him backward, was proof it had hit home. She could, however, follow the arc of the rebar. It soared straight through the air toward Baxter and impaled him through the right shoulder. She heard his gun clatter to the roof a millisecond before he started screaming.
Tanner was on his feet. His left arm bloomed red near the elbow and hung at an odd angle, but the bullet didn’t stop him from lurching forward and kneeling in front of Baxter.
Next to Carina, Joe made sounds like an angry bull as he crawled toward her, dragging one leg. He would reach her in seconds, and Carina knew she had to run, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tanner. He crouched over the writhing, screaming form of Baxter, and then he stood, his good arm winding up for a throw.
“Catch!” he screamed.
She didn’t.
The little vial glanced off her fingers and fell to the roof, but it didn’t break. Tanner’s aim had been perfect, but Carina’s fingers were shaking badly now, unsteadied by the virus or maybe just the combination of fear and adrenaline. Carina seized the vial and tore off the plastic safety cap. The exposed needle glinted in the sun, and she jammed it into her thigh, the auto-delivery mechanism snapping on impact, delivering the dose of antidote straight into her muscle as Joe pulled himself to his feet and staggered toward her.
The needle stung, but Carina ignored the pain as she forced herself to stand, and then began to run.
Tanner would live. His arm looked bad, but there was no way Baxter would chase him now. He was writhing and screaming, trying to pull the rebar from his shoulder. The sound of a gunshot confirmed that Tanner had retrieved Baxter’s gun and was trying to stop Joe, but thudding footsteps behind Carina indicated he had missed.
She took a chance and looked around. The giant man had managed to get to his feet and was pursuing her, a slight limp the only evidence of damage to his leg. She wondered if the antidote had already slowed her, if the virus was abandoning her system and leaving her worn, tired, spent. Slow. As Joe closed the gap between them, his limp seemed to diminish before her eyes. The virus at work, or merely the man’s will? Either way, he would catch up to her in seconds.
Carina had never guessed that she could make the jump between buildings. If she had, she might have conceived the ending of her plan much earlier. She’d only envisioned one possible ending for herself then, and it involved the intersection of her body and the concrete sidewalk.
But now she had another option.
Up ahead, past the rooftops, was the field in which Carina had spent countless afternoons training. There was the outer curve of the track, the visitor stands, the snack shack that was shuttered and locked now but during football season bustled with activity.
One last time Carina looked out over the visitor stands, the hills behind dotted with beautiful old oak trees. She fixed the image in her mind, calculated the distance to the edge of the roof, and took the last few steps with all the power she could muster.
One final time, the waning virus slowed the passage of seconds, and she pictured her last track practice before Walter had died. She’d been working on her high-jump landing. It was her weakest event, and she’d struggled over the course of the season. Again and again, she threw her body over the bar, landing on the thick blue mat. She’d made that jump so many times, and while she waited her turn behind her teammates, Carina had time to notice how the mat nearly touched the water cart on the left, how its seams were splitting in one spot near the tag along the bottom.
How it lined up perfectly with the right edge of the visitor stands.
And as Carina’s foot touched off the edge of the roof, she was staring at that same spot in the stands, praying hard that no one had moved the mat.
It felt as though she’d been falling forever. The breath was knocked out of her on impact, and sharp agony racked her rib cage. The worst pain was in her right leg. Lifting her head to check on it, she saw stars, and lay back down.
She’d also seen blue—the bright blue of the high-jump mat. She was sprawled across it and, broken bones or not, she was alive.
But the mat wasn’t all she’d seen.
Lying next to it, on the track, were the remains of one very dead Albanian.
Carina adjusted the hem of her scarlet graduation gown. It kept catching on her cast, the slippery fabric snagging on the sharp edges. It was taking forever for the three hundred seniors to walk, one by one, up onto the stage to receive their diplomas. By the time they finally reached the Ms, Carina was perspiring under the hot June sun. The boy who’d been sitting two seats down from her, Edward Mankowicz, made fake gang signs at the assembled crowd as he took his time crossing the stage. There were a few disapproving murmurs, and the vice principal’s smile slipped.
But nothing could dampen Carina’s mood today. She was officially graduating from Martindale High, Class of 2013, despite having missed nearly two weeks of her final semester: the week after Walter died and a week recovering from a broken fibula, two broken ribs, a fractured ankle, and a mild concussion after her fall from the roof of the high school auditorium.
“Nastyshakes,” Carina whispered, pretending to adjust the strap of her shoe so no one would hear, not that it was likely anyway over the din of the excited seniors. “Cover FX. And Tanner.”
Nastyshakes was Mrs. Sloan’s secret recipe, a combination of wheatgrass, Greek yogurt, kale, and a variety of other ingredients that looked disgusting on the kitchen counter. Somehow, though, when she poured them out of the blender, the combination tasted delicious and did everything she promised, calming Carina’s nerves and giving her energy. Carina had been too nervous this morning to eat anything else, and Mrs. Sloan—thrilled to finally have a girl living in the house—had served her in a crystal glass to celebrate the occasion.
The Cover FX make
up was also a gift from Mrs. Sloan. Just a few strokes of the thick cream covered the evidence of the injuries Carina suffered in the fall. The jagged scar on her cheek was still healing, but the doctors assured her it would eventually be far less noticeable. Meanwhile, the Cover FX guaranteed that her graduation and prom pictures wouldn’t be marred by any reminders of the infection and its fallout.
And then there was Tanner, who was out there somewhere in the audience with his family. Last night at Tanner’s own graduation from Borden School, it had been Carina who sat in the stands. Tanner’s brothers had grumbled about having to sit through two incredibly boring ceremonies, but Mr. Sloan had silenced them by saying that if they didn’t behave they wouldn’t be allowed to participate in the family paintball battle, which he had announced was a new graduation weekend tradition for all graduating Sloans and honorary Sloans, including Carina.
Not to be outdone, Mrs. Sloan was hosting the first traditional Sloan family graduation tea this afternoon for the moms from Tanner’s school. Carina had helped her polish the silver and set the table. As Mrs. Sloan put the finishing touches on the floral centerpiece, she abruptly dragged Carina into a hug. “I wish your mom could be here,” she whispered fiercely, “but I want you to know you’re like a daughter to me. I hope you’ll consider this your home forever.” She’d brushed at her eyes impatiently, then added, “No matter what happens with you and Tanner.”
Carina had mumbled her thanks. When Mrs. Sloan excused herself to go find a tissue, Carina tucked a loose snapdragon into the arrangement and wondered how she’d lucked into this family.
It was time for her to put her grief on the back shelf for now. Carina knew it would never go away completely. Especially in the case of her mother: there had been nothing in the paper, no announcement of a body found in an abandoned house in South San Francisco. Maybe the Albanians had disposed of it. Or maybe … It was so tempting to wonder if Madelyn had somehow survived. The bullet might have missed her heart, might have somehow missed all of her vital organs. Maybe even now she was on the run again, still trying to escape the deadly shadow of Project Venice, even after it had been officially shut down, with the lab under very public review by the Army Criminal Investigation Command.
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