by Kyla Stone
Bale came at Gabriel in a furious assault, driving him back against the counter, pummeling him with his fists, landing kicks and punches that Gabriel could barely see, let alone dodge.
Gabriel flung up his arm to deflect the blows, pain exploding in a half-dozen places. A fist smashed the right side of his face. Another collided with what felt like his liver.
Bale smashed and hammered with his fists, attacking him like a hurricane. Gabriel landed a few blows. It felt like punching a mountain. His knuckles split, bruised and bleeding.
He stumbled, blood blurring his vision. His pulse throbbed in his temple, roared in his ears.
Bale’s expression remained grim, cold, clinical. He didn’t speak. He didn’t curse. He simply fought. He was better than Gabriel. Stronger. Faster. Gabriel couldn’t beat him in hand-to-hand combat.
His gut twisted as the terrible realization sank in. There was no way he could win this fight. He was already losing, and badly. He needed the gun.
He managed to land a solid blow to Bale’s kidneys. Bale stepped back, grunting.
Gabriel took his opening and raced around the counter, searching for the gun. There it was. Near the wall of mice. It was his only chance. He ran for it.
A vice-like grip wrapped around his neck from behind, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. Bale was strangling him with fingers strong as steel, cutting off his breath, slowly crushing his larynx. He tried to throw his head back, to elbow and kick his way free, but Bale was simply too strong.
Blood rushed in Gabriel’s ears. Darkness wavering at the corners of his vision. A cold numbness descended over him. He fought it with every ounce of strength he had. He didn’t fear death. He feared failing to protect the ones he loved.
Amelia wasn’t safe. He couldn’t let himself die. He didn’t want to die.
28
Micah
Silas flashed Micah the finger before slipping inside the tower.
He’d made it. They were really going to do this. They were going to win this thing, they were going to change everything—
But Micah’s joy was short-lived.
Three soldiers in blood-stained gray uniforms appeared from behind a tank near the plasma wall. They gestured at the tower and the door Silas had just entered with their fully-functional pulse guns.
Micah managed to shoot one. He aimed and fired again. His rifle clicked. His ammo was out. He patted his tactical vest frantically and grabbed his last mag, the one Hogan had given him.
It was too late. Two enemy soldiers had already entered the tower. The metal door slammed shut, trapping Silas inside.
“Micah!” a voice called from behind him. Hogan hobbled toward him, his arm slung across Kadek’s shoulder.
“He said he was on our side,” Kadek said.
“He is. He protected Amelia on the platform.” He narrowed his eyes at Kadek. “There was an explosion! It was supposed to be a smoke bomb. Amelia could’ve been killed! What the heck happened?”
Kadek blanched. “It was our best chance to get the Sanctuary leadership—to get Sloane. I had to do it.”
A hot spark of rage ignited inside Micah. “You lied to us, to Theo! Amelia could have died!”
Kadek’s expression went pinched and wary. “I didn’t think they’d actually put Amelia on the platform.”
‘But you took the risk!”
“I had orders from General Reaver herself,” he said testily. “I had no choice.”
“Was Fiona in on it?”
Kadek shook his head. “She wouldn’t have agreed. I didn’t tell her anything.”
“This is not the time,” Hogan wheezed. “We have to get out of here. They’re coming.”
Micah reigned in his anger. Hogan was right. First, they had to stay alive. Then they had to win. Everything else was secondary. He risked a glance around the edge of the Humvee. At least thirty soldiers were crouched low, darting across the expanse of open ground between them.
“I won’t leave Silas!” Micah slammed in the magazine with fumbling fingers. Several bullets whizzed over his head. A pulse blast gouged a chunk in the wall of the building five yards to his right.
“I’m out of ammo,” Kadek said. “You can’t help him now. Come on, or we’re—”
Kadek crumpled, Hogan falling with him.
Micah stared, stunned.
Kadek lay unmoving, one eye closed, the other half-lidded, his mouth hinged open, as if he were getting ready to speak again. Only he never would.
Two seconds ago, he’d been talking. Now a fist-sized hole in his chest steamed in the cold air.
“Micah!” Hogan shouted. He pulled himself to a seated position, his bum leg straightened in front of him, oozing blood. “Snap out of it!”
Micah tore his gaze from Kadek’s body.
“I’ll cover you as long as I can.” Hogan gave a pained grunt as he crawled to a cover position at Micah’s exposed left side. “Let’s get this done.”
Micah peered through his scope, blinking sweat from his eyes, willing his hands to steady, his aim to be true. Doubt gripped him. He wasn’t a crack shot like Silas, wasn’t a trained fighter like Gabriel. He was a poet, a philosopher, a thinker, not a warrior.
Silas dies if you don’t do this. Everyone you love dies if you fail.
He prayed harder than he ever had in his life. Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting for the door atop the rampart to open.
The door burst open. Micah’s finger twitched on the trigger.
It was Silas—alive, lurching for the cannon even as his upper body twisted and he aimed his gun at the doorway he’d just exited. The first soldier crashed through the door. Silas slammed three bullets into his chest, a fourth into his neck. Red blood sprayed—bright crimson against the falling snow.
Out of bullets, Silas hurled his gun at the soldier barreling over his fallen comrade. The soldier batted it away. Micah glimpsed only a bearded face. Brown hair. Gray uniform.
Micah shot. Missed. Sucked in a breath. If he fired too wide, he’d hit Silas.
Next to him, Hogan swore as he fired a dozen shots, desperate to keep the enemy at bay. Three nighthawks shot over their heads, so low the wind from the lifting blades buffeted their heads and shoulders, blowing hair into Micah’s face.
The nighthawks banked and came gliding back toward them.
“They’re coming in hot!” Hogan hollered.
Fear knifed Micah’s gut. There was nothing he could do now. There was nowhere to run or hide. Silas was depending on him. Everything depended on getting that last cannon down.
It took a supreme act of will, but Micah kept his rifle trained on the cannon, not the deadly threat about to open fire on his exposed body.
His world narrowed to a single thought, a single mission. He had to take out the soldier before the drones killed him.
In the zoomed glass of his scope, he watched Silas turn back for the cannon. Knife in one hand, Silas groped its metallic underbelly, searching for the kill switch.
Behind Silas, the enemy soldier planted his feet. Aimed.
Micah muttered a prayer and fired another short burst. Blood sprayed from the soldier’s right bicep. His body jerked, twisted. He fell against the rampart wall, wounded but not dead. The gun still in his hand.
Before the soldier went down, he got off one final shot.
Silas lurched.
Through his rifle’s scope, Micah watched in horror as Silas crumpled, a gaping hole between his shoulder blades.
“NO!” Micah screamed.
Panic roared through him. He surged to his feet, about to race to the tower to reach Silas, battlefield be damned.
Someone grasped his upper arm. “Micah, stop!”
Micah tried to jerk free. “I’m going after him. I have to save him. I have to—”
Hogan tightened his grip and yanked Micah down behind the safety of the Humvee. A spray of bullets whizzed over their heads.
“He’s gone!” Hogan shouted into his face, shaking hi
s shoulders. “Don’t get yourself killed, too!”
Micah only shook his head, fighting off the dread and despair twisting his guts. Grief strangled his throat. His eyes burned. The ground was opening up beneath his feet and he had nothing to hold onto, nothing to keep himself from free-falling. “You don’t know him. He’s tough. If we can get to him—”
“He’s dead. I saw it. I saw what happened. That pulse blast put a hole all the way through him. No one lives through that. No one.”
Micah stared dully at Hogan, at his rigid features, his green eyes so bright in his dirt-streaked, blood-speckled face. Micah longed to call the man a liar, to scream at him, to hate him.
But he knew, in the deepest, darkest part of himself—Silas was dead.
Micah had no time to grieve, no time for the horror to sink in.
Hogan shook him again. “There’s a battalion of soldiers sneaking up on our northwest side,” he hissed. “I spotted at least a dozen more to our six. We have to go right now. We have to—”
Three nighthawks streaked over their heads. Their huge gun turrets whirred, swiveling to point directly at Micah and Hogan.
“Put your hands up.” Hogan’s voice was raw, defeated. “We’re surrounded. It’s over for us.”
“What? No! I’m not giving up. We’re not surrendering—”
“We are if we want to live.” Hogan winced as he staggered to his feet. The six-inch shard of shrapnel still jutted from his thigh. Blood leaked in slow streams down his pant leg. He raised both of his arms in the air.
Micah’s eyes widened as he took in the sheer number of enemy soldiers bearing down on them from all sides. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Too many to fight. Too many to run from. As much as he hated the thought, he knew Hogan was right.
In all directions, smoke and ash permeated the air. His nostrils filled with the stench of gunpowder, seared flesh, and death.
Slowly, his muscles filled with lead, his heart heavy with grief and horrified disbelief, Micah lifted his hands in surrender.
29
Gabriel
Sound drifted away as Bale’s fingers strangled the life from Gabriel. Gray fog filled his mind. Blackness sucked at the edges of his consciousness. Gabriel struggled uselessly, his strength fading, despair filling him.
A sickening crunch came from behind. Bale reared back with a pained grunt. Bale’s death-grip released for a half a second.
It was all Gabriel needed. He spun and jerked back, staggering, his starved lungs sucking in mouthfuls of precious air. Panting, he leaned heavily against the counter for balance, blinking to clear his blurred vision.
Bale hissed out a harsh breath. He slumped to his knees. Blood gushed from a gash above his left ear and shattered nose.
“Let him go!” Amelia stood behind Bale, desperate and fierce, a large microscope clutched in both hands. She’d sneaked behind them, yanked the microscope from one of the counters, and smashed it into the side of Bale’s head while he choked Gabriel.
Gabriel gasped, straining for oxygen, still dizzy and lightheaded. He tried to stand but instead stumbled into the glass shelves. The shelving unit creaked. One of the cages moved, scraping against the shelf. The mice squealed angrily.
Amelia flung the microscope aside and dove for something beneath the counter. She scrambled to her feet holding Gabriel’s gun. She pointed it at Bale.
Bale didn’t hesitate. He didn’t stop. In an instant, he straightened and flung himself at Amelia with a roar. She pulled the trigger. The gunshot cracked the air. Bale flinched but barely faltered.
Before Gabriel could react, Bale reached her, swatted the gun away, and seized her by the throat. He lifted her high, her hands scrabbling at his arms, her legs kicking furiously, uselessly. He slammed her head against the edge of the stainless-steel counter.
Amelia slipped to the floor, her body loose and flopping. For a terrible second, she didn’t move.
“Amelia!” Gabriel cried.
Amelia groaned. Slowly, she pulled herself to a sitting position. Blood streaked her forehead. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused.
Bale flexed his fingers. A growing blood stain bloomed on his left side, but he barely slowed. He took a menacing step toward her. He was the predator; she the prey. The next time he touched her, he would kill her. Gabriel knew this with a terrible certainty.
“Face me like a man!” Gabriel shouted. “Or is a girl more of a threat to you?”
Bale spun toward Gabriel. The harsh fluorescent lighting sharpened the hard planes of the man’s face. His mouth was a bloodless line, his eyes glittering with brutal, dauntless determination.
Bale smiled at him. Then he charged.
Gabriel shoved the shelving unit with all his strength. The shelf toppled. A dozen heavy glass cages fell on Bale. He collapsed with a crash. Shattered glass sprayed everywhere.
Gabriel staggered back, breathing hard. Dimly, he was aware of Amelia crawling toward the doorway.
But Bale was only down for a few moments. Not enough time to gain the advantage, not with Gabriel’s vision spinning, his throat and ribs burning like molten lava.
Bale shoved aside the broken cages with a curse. Freed mice scurried from the wreckage, fleeing further into the lab. He clambered to his feet, blood staining his suit, leaking from the gunshot wound in his right side, several deep cuts on his face and arms dripping red.
He was a mountain that refused to fall, a beast that would not die.
Bale lifted the frame of a shattered cage, the mouse still squeaking inside, and hurled it at Gabriel.
Gabriel dodged, throwing himself to the right. The cage struck a glancing blow against his left shoulder. He stumbled, knocked off balance. Wet blood slid down his arm. His entire arm tingled, but he felt little pain.
Gabriel spun, his boots crunching glass, and sprinted for the door. He raced out of the lab, frantically scanning the room for Amelia as he ran. He glimpsed a tangle of white-blonde hair, a pale, stricken face. She was still inside, hiding behind one of the counters, crouched behind the med-bot.
Bale crashed through the lab behind him. Gabriel didn’t have time to scream at her to run, didn’t have time for the fury and terror and dread crashing through him. She already knew what she needed to do.
Amelia would head for the stairwell. It was her only chance. Gabriel had to give her that chance, had to give her time. He had to draw Bale away from her. Instead of going for the stairwell himself, he turned sharply right, betting everything on the hope that Bale wanted him now, wanted to end him.
Gabriel raced for the balcony, Bale hot on his heels. He just needed somewhere to go, something he could use. But there was nothing. Walls, floor, railing, six stories of open space.
He whirled to face Bale, arms up to protect his face.
Bale was panting, one hand pressed against his side, the red stain swelling over his suit jacket and bloodying his fingers. Gabriel was still no match for him, though.
Bale backed Gabriel up against the metal railing. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nothing to save him this time.
Bale pummeled him with a series of punishing roundhouse kicks. Gabriel grunted, blocking them with his forearms. The blows vibrated through him. It felt like his bones would crack from the impact.
Bale flashed Gabriel a vicious grin. They both knew it was about to be over. Bale raised his leg, preparing for a final, devastating kick.
Gabriel dropped to the floor, landing hard on his back. He was completely exposed, but it didn’t matter. In his eagerness to end Gabriel, Bale put too much force into the kick. His momentum carried his leg whooshing over Gabriel’s head, slamming into the railing. Bale grunted as his ankle cracked against metal.
He still didn’t go down. He jerked a knife from the sheath at his waist. He glared down at Gabriel, murder in his cold eyes.
Gabriel felt the strength seeping from his battered body. He was going to fail. He hadn’t given Amelia enough time. Bale would kill him, and then he would stalk Amelia,
killing her as coldly and efficiently as a hunter killed a deer.
After everything, Amelia would die because of him after all.
And then, suddenly, Amelia was there. She rushed from the hallway, a scalpel gripped in one hand. She charged Bale, driving her weight into the man’s spine, stabbing him with the tiny blade, once, twice, three times.
He turned with a snarl, leaning heavily against the railing on his right side, knife lifted in his blood-streaked left hand, ready to gut her.
There was no time to think. To react. Only one thought seared Gabriel’s mind. Amelia.
Ignoring the pain searing his shoulder, his ribs, his head, he gathered every last ounce of his strength and kicked at Bale’s other leg, knocking his foot out from under him.
Bale wobbled, knocked off balance, his entire weight against the railing, his huge upper body leaning half-over the edge. Amelia lunged at him again, her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Gabriel sprang to his feet, nearly blinded from the blood in his eyes, from the agony exploding through his shoulder, his ribs. He shoved the man with everything he had.
Bale toppled over the railing.
Gabriel and Amelia leaned heavily against the railing, gasping for breath. Gabriel looked over the edge. Several stories down, Bale lay bent and crumpled, a swelling puddle of blood leaking from beneath his broken body.
Amelia turned to Gabriel, her face bone-white, her eyes wild, her hair a tangled mess. Reddened welts ringed her throat. Blood clotted her hair and scalp. An ugly purple egg-shaped welt was already forming on the right side of her forehead at her hairline.
They stared at each other for a moment, just breathing. Somehow, against the odds, they were still alive. They were the ones still standing.
“When he slammed you against the counter, I thought you were dead…” Gabriel said hoarsely. “How badly did he hurt you?”
She managed the faintest of smiles. “Not as much as he hurt you.”