Gunshots rang out behind me, bullets spraying chinks out of the wall to my left. I wanted nothing more than to stop and cower, but I kept on moving.
Another voice, this one male, shouted across the din.
“Don't kill her yet, we might still need her.”
Nate, again. The “yet” sounded more than ominous. Right then I was happy not to dwell on it, though, as I ran for my life.
The door to a staircase loomed up before me, and as it was on the side of the corridor not currently getting riddled with bullets, I gabbed onto the handle and pushed hard. The door gave way too easily, making me stumble into the dark, but somehow I managed to stay on my feet. The exit let just enough light in for me to grab onto the rail, and up I went.
The pounding of my pulse in my ears was almost loud enough to drown out my pants and the squeaking noises my shoes made, but I forced myself to still listen for signs of pursuit. After three turns I figured I must be up one floor, and still no shouting or shooting behind me. In a way, that was even worse. I wasn't stupid enough to hope that they didn't know exactly where I was.
The fact that they were giving me a head start, as if to turn this into a “sporting” hunt, made my blood run cold.
Another turn, and I realized that I could actually make out the silhouettes of the steps I was running up. Craning my neck upward over the railing, I realized that I'd hit the staircase at the very end of the building that led up to the flat top roof through a greenhouse floor.
The nasty voice at the back of my mind helpfully supplied that this was a one-way street I was going up, seeing as there was no other way down off that roof once I got to the greenhouse.
With more and more light spilling into the stairwell, I made out the door to the next floor.
It was locked. Same as the doors to the next two floors above me. And by the time I considered running downstairs again, the cacophony of shouts and pounding boots on stone that I'd been dreading all along started up below.
With burning lungs and protesting muscles making every step a torment, it was tempting to just give up and wait for them to catch me, but something deep inside of me simply wouldn't let me do that. Using a last spurt of energy, I ran up the remaining flight of stairs, right past the shadowy outlines of plants behind glass all around me, and burst through the door onto the roof.
Outside, only the sound of the wind blowing in my face met me. What hair had come loose from my ponytail was blasted into my face. Raising a hand to shield my face, I turned around as I took a last few staggering steps toward the end of the roof.
The sun had almost completely set now, painting the sky in deep orange and red, with dark blue and purple advancing around it.
Hours had passed since the explosions. I had no idea how long it would take for police to set up a perimeter around the complex, but when I looked down, expecting to see the flashing red and blue lights of a sea of police cars and ambulances that were gathered on the ground amidst a crawling, black mass of people, I only found the grounds deserted. Not quite undisturbed, though. Squinting, I could see something dark cutting through the grass before the fence, interspersed with uneven, circular patches. It took me a moment to realize that those were craters. Had the terrorists surrounded their headquarters with mines? At this point, nothing was beyond them, I figured.
Whipping around, I saw that the door to the stairwell was still closed, but it was only a matter of time until it would open. Looking up at the sky, I saw a single helicopter circling over the city, but it must have been miles away. Raising my arms, I waved them frantically, but already knew that it was in vain. It was then that I noticed several plumes of smoke rising from different parts of the city, and as I turned around, the wind brought the distant wail of sirens up to me. The sun was setting rapidly and there should have been street lights on aplenty, but even most of the buildings I saw around were dark.
Had they hit several targets at once, to keep the police busy? But even to my panic-stupid brain, that idea seemed ridiculous.
What the fuck was going on?
Panic made me whip around again, and my gaze fell onto the opposite roof. There were two dark-clad figures moving around, and with some squinting I identified them as police snipers, the white letters blazing across the dark blue fabric of their bulletproof vests. One of them had just gotten a radio out and was talking into it, his eyes fixed on me.
Hope burst in my chest, sending tears to my eyes, but that might have been the wind, too. I kept waving and screaming, a smile spreading on my face. Any minute now they'd call in that I was up here. Any minute now...
I guess I noticed that I was missing something, like that the other sniper wasn’t looking at me but instead focused on something on the ground. Or maybe my subconscious picked up noise behind me that my mind simply didn't want to process. Because when a strong hand came down on my shoulder, fingers digging in harshly as I was yanked away from the balustrade, my body didn't startle.
But in my mind, I screamed.
I tried to tear away, but it was a frail, half-hearted gesture only as strength leaked out of my overworked muscles. Defeat, leaden and heavy, crushed the flare of hope, making everything, even drawing the next breath, impossibly hard.
Across the roof, the sniper raised a hand to his temple in a sloppy salute before he turned his rifle downward. At the edge of my vision, I saw Nate mirror that salute before he grabbed my upper arm with that hand.
They had the janitorial staff, security, and now even someone inside the police force?
I'd never stood a chance of getting away.
Chapter 8
On the way down to the atrium, I tried to wrest Nate’s grip off me twice, but it was more a token gesture than real effort. If anything, that seemed to amuse him, but I figured it would. I knew that he was stronger than me; he’d proven that time and time again, if under somewhat different circumstances. Hungry, scared to death, and still in the throes of feeling utterly betrayed and defeated, I must have been like a helpless kitten to him. The only positive thing I could say was that he didn't manhandle me, but then my untimely descent from the air ducts the second time around had left me bruised and hurting all over to count for a good substitute of a pounding. With adrenaline now leeching out of my veins, I felt every pulled muscle and bumped bone three times as much as before.
He’d come up to the roof with three others, and the rest kept flocking to us until I was surrounded by a crowd of black combat gear and rifles. I didn't know whether it was shock or defeat that kept me from freaking out—maybe a little bit of both. Or survival instinct, although I didn't feel like mine was honed enough to count as such after the string of mishaps I'd made that had played right into their hands.
At least he didn't rub my nose in it. Yet.
Full darkness had fallen by the time we hit the ground floor. Even though not that much time had passed since I'd last seen the atrium, the transformation had continued at a steady pace.
Gone was the crowd of people herded together, with only the small group around the boss’s son and the HR hag remaining. They'd now been brought into the glass cube that had previously housed the reception area. Among them I saw a few scientists, too, some still in their lab coats or scrubs, but I was pushed toward the computer station before I could make out anyone's face.
There, the cute girl with the messenger bag that had been with the “visitors” had made her home, her eyes trained on a trio of screens while she typed so fast that her fingers were a blur. It came as no surprise that she was one of them; by now I was ready to see anyone I had met in the past year as a terrorist. Next to her, the Ice Queen was leaning against one of the tables holding all the equipment, a somewhat satisfied smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes.
“Do I need to get out the scanner, or have you verified her identity yet?” she asked, almost bored. I really didn't like the way she kept looking at me, like the cat who'd just caught the mouse, full of gleeful promise of violence.
“I don't think that will be necessary,” Nate replied suavely, then gave me a hard push as he let go, sending me stumbling toward the Ice Queen. “Just frisk her, then bring her to the others.”
I did my best to hold my breath and straighten, my jaw set defiantly as she patted me down, but I likely still looked slumped over and disheveled. My hair was all over the place, my coat dirty and torn, while she still managed to look prim in her black fatigues. She didn't draw out my torment, either, simply moved her hands over my body in quick, sure motions. In short order I was divested of my lighter, notepad, pen, and a few other random items that I kept in my coat pockets. I’d already lost my phone in the cold room and had no idea where the first-aid kit had ended up, but I got the feeling that I'd somehow disappointed her.
Maybe she'd expected someone who'd eluded them to carry a small arsenal, too?
Right then, I couldn’t have cared less.
Once she was satisfied that I was left with only the clothes on my back, she grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the glass cubicle. I tried my hand at some passive resistance, but she simply stabbed two fingers into my lower back where I presumed my left kidney was, and the resulting burst of pain had me doubled over and panting, but walking along just fine. I thought I heard a snicker from one of the guards standing around, but maybe that was just my imagination.
She led me to the back of the cubicle where two fatigue-clad figures stood guard—a man and a woman. When they opened the door for us, she gave me a hard push that made me stumble into the cube. The door closed just as I looked back at her over my shoulder, but she was already strolling industriously off into the darkness beyond what the floodlights illuminated. Clearly, I was dismissed.
Instead of dwelling on that—and, quite frankly, I was also kind of glad that they didn't show any more interest in me after what I'd overheard before—I took quick inventory of the people sitting unevenly distributed around the room.
Besides Greene and Elena, they'd also snatched up his assistant, Brandon Stone, the scrawny, tall guy who was likely the most competent of the trio. They were sitting huddled together all on their own. I'd already seen them on my unlucky recon trip, and of all the people who were with me inside the cube, they made the most sense to me. If there was ransom going to be paid for anybody, it would be for them.
The rest of the people were all scientists and tech staff, all of whom I'd seen and greeted in the halls one time or another, but I didn't even know their names. The only one I was familiar with was the only other woman besides the HR hag, who was sitting by herself in the corner facing the computer stations.
I hadn't seen Thecla Soudekis in some time, and then only in passing. She'd aged in the past fourteen months, and I guessed the stress of the day hadn't contributed positively to the look of worry etched into her features. Back when I'd been her right hand down in the hot labs, she'd always been brimming with energy. Now she looked as weary as I felt.
For a moment, I hesitated before I shuffled over to her. Next to her corner, toward the front of the atrium, was the only non-occupied space I could comfortably take if I wanted to lean against the glass walls like everyone else, so it only made sense that I went there.
She gazed up when I approached, and the look of resentment paired with utter terror made me pause. Then recognition dawned on her face, and she managed a small smile before it fell.
“Bree? Is that really you?”
I tried to offer a smile in return, but it felt fake, so I dropped it quickly.
“In the flesh.”
“What are you doing here?” she started, then her eyes roamed up and down my body and snagged on my less than presentable exterior. “What happened to you? Did they do that to you?”
This time I didn't imagine the snicker, and it was definitely coming from Greene's direction. I glanced at him for a second, but chose to focus on Thecla instead as I sat down beside her. It was either that, or keeling over any minute now when the last of my strength left me.
As much as I would have liked to blame Nate and his troupe for my scrapes and bruises, that wouldn't have been entirely fair. Reaching up, I redid my ponytail into a loose bun, in passing noting that there were a few more scrapes on my palm that I hadn't even noticed. Right then, the irregular aching in my left knee was the most painful bruise, but I probably looked worse than I felt.
“No, at least not directly. I spent some time crawling through the air ducts, and I hid behind the trash in a warm room. Plus, all the spillage and glass, it's like a war zone out there.”
Thecla nodded sympathetically, then snatched my right hand up as she noticed the cuts there. Studying it briefly, she suddenly got up and started pounding on the glass. I was so astonished that I didn't even try to stop her.
“Hey, can we get some antiseptic and bandages in here? You keep yapping on about humane conditions, but this is a joke. If you keep us locked in here for God knows how long, you should at least give us a means of administering basic level first-aid.”
Andrej just looked at her through the glass, unimpressed, but when she kept shouting, he got out his radio and said something into it that I didn't get. The inside of the cube, closed off on all sides as it was, turned out to be surprisingly soundproof.
Half a minute later, Nate came strolling up to Andrej, looking like he was just passing by a shop window for all the attention he turned to us. I honestly wouldn't have cared if he'd never noticed me again, but when Thecla explained to him that she needed to bandage my hand, he gave a curt nod and sent me a brief, intense look that made my stomach sink. Somehow, being the center of his attention so soon after my capture—or ever again—wasn't a comforting thought.
Instead of bringing her the kit, he came inside and crouched down before me, fixing me with his gaze as he raised his brows.
“Your hand?”
Until he said that I hadn't realized that I'd crossed my arms over my chest and stuck my hands into my armpits, instinctively protecting them. All the work I do requires fine motor function—like dentists and surgeons, biochemists tend to be pissy about their fingers. Facing him now, I couldn't help turning it into a gesture of defiance.
“My hands are fine. Just a few scratches.” And because fear must have numbed the part of my brain that housed my survival instinct, I added, “And what is it to you? Your people were shooting at me. A bullet to the head is a bigger deal than a few scrapes.”
He flashed me a quick grin, and the fact that it was genuine made me want to crawl right into the wall of glass at my back.
“Either you hold out your hand to me now, or I'll have some of my men hold you down while I clean you up. You decide what it's going to be.”
There wasn't even a hint of threat or bravado in his tone, just the clear confidence that whatever I chose, he'd get his way, and that was just fine with him. I was partly tempted to let him go for option two, but then the less people touched me, the better. My pulse still picked up as I forced my arms to sink onto my knees, then extended my right hand to him, palm up.
He scrutinized it for a second, getting a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton balls out of his suit pocket. His grip as he took my hand was firm, but he was surprisingly gentle as he started cleaning the cuts. It stung but I gritted my teeth, trying not to make a sound. The familiarity of his touch was way worse than the physical discomfort.
Watching him take care of me with such single-minded focus unnerved me on a deeper level than I was ready to admit. To stop my gorge from rising, I started talking, again proving that I had no sense of self-preservation.
“Why do this yourself? You must be very busy, organizing all this mayhem and stuff.”
He paused and glanced at my face, and that unnerving smile resurfaced.
“Right now? Not particularly. Most of the setup is complete, and my people have been selected to be self-sufficient as well as efficient. The only holdup we've suffered so far was catching you.”
I pursed my lips, ready to spew more vitriol, but at t
he last moment swallowed my comeback. When he realized that I was deliberately remaining silent, he gave a small shrug and went back to cleaning my hand.
“As for why I'm doing such a low task myself, I'm a strong believer in only delegating things I cannot do better.”
“Why not let us have a first-aid kit and be done with it? Most of us here have good basic medical training.”
My argument genuinely amused him.
“And let you have a whole arsenal of harmless-looking weapons? You can easily blind someone by splashing antiseptic into their eyes or make them choke on a roll of gauze. If you're quick, you might even kill someone by puncturing their carotid or aorta with safety scissors or a pen if you employ enough brute force.” Looking up and catching my gaze, he went on. “You're quite resourceful. You've proven that. Everyone else in here took us less than twenty minutes to round up, yet you forced us to play hide and seek for almost three hours. What makes you great at your job turns you into a loose cannon to me right now. I might be many things, but I'm not stupid.”
No—the stupid one? That would be me.
My palm looked a lot better once the crusts and dried blood were gone, but I didn't protest when he got a roll of gauze out next. Who knew where that might come in handy? That I pretty much underscored the truth of his accusation by thinking that gave me a strange kind of satisfaction.
“I pretty much sabotaged myself at every turn. I wouldn't call that resourceful,” I admitted.
Making sure that he'd secured the gauze properly, he gathered up his supplies, even the used cotton balls. His eyes had taken on an almost predatory gleam as he looked at me as he straightened.
“Pia was rather impressed with your ability to evade her and her men not once, but twice with the very same trick. I planned for a lot of things, but not that a physically underdeveloped lab rat would make it into the air ducts and be able to hide in plain sight. She's a hard woman to impress. If she thinks that you're tough enough to go toe to toe with her, I don't take any risks.”
Green Fields: Incubation Page 7