The mist was thick. They made the turn on to the main road and saw a set of four black vans idling next to the sidewalk.
“That’s them isn’t it?” Dawson said.
Porter gnawed on his lip. “Yeah that has to be them.”
“Julian, grab the bag under my seat,” Dawson said over his shoulder.
Julian reached down and unzipped it. There was an array of different guns and knives.
“Where’d you get all these?” Julian said as he lifted up one of the sleek black pistols.
“Camp Fourteen,” Dawson said. “Rayce has a bag in his car too.”
“And you want us to do what with them?” Julian asked.
Dawson wasn’t shy about speed and slammed his foot down on the gas as they drove down the road toward the highway. Brooklyn wasn’t wearing a seat belt and almost toppled over into Julian. She looked behind her out the window. Rayce was keeping pace behind them. The four vans sped up and drove parallel to the truck, two on each side.
“If they get close enough, shoot them,” Dawson said.
Porter immediately shook his head, “We can’t risk that—there’s innocent people everywhere. What if a bullet strays off and hits a kid or something?”
“That’s why I said if they get close enough,” Dawson repeated.
Brooklyn reached down by Julian’s feet and grabbed one of the guns. She handed it to Porter, who was reluctant to take it, and then grabbed one for herself
“You think they wouldn’t leave a bunch of guns with military-trained super humans,” Julian mumbled as he strapped a large knife to his belt.
Brooklyn stared out the window. Her heart pounded. Adrenaline rushed into her fingertips, and her thoughts exploded from whispers into screams. Every natural part of her wanted to clam up, to give in to being out of control. That would have been the appropriate reaction, distress, tears, and belligerence. But she was balanced. Her focus was sharp, and she felt every muscle in her body poised on a trip wire, ready to fight.
It was a chilling realization to accept that she was built for this.
“They’re gonna close you off,” Porter hissed.
The vans pulled ahead and swooped in front of the truck as they came up on the exit toward the highway.
“I’m gonna hit them,” Dawson warned.
“Maybe try not to hit them,” Julian protested weakly.
“No, I’m gonna hit them,” Dawson reiterated.
Dawson sped up until they were just inches from the closest van’s bumper and then rammed into it.
Brooklyn clutched the top of Porter’s seat to brace herself.
“Close enough?” Dawson shouted at Porter.
Porter clicked the safety off on his gun, but Brooklyn could tell that he was extremely hesitant about using it. She understood why. Not only were there other people around, but no matter how evil of a man Juneau was, he was still Porter’s father, and he was in one of those vans.
Brooklyn rolled down her window and slid out to sit on the edge. Her legs were still inside the truck, but the rest of her body was propped on the frame of the door. Julian scrambled to hold her legs while she aimed the gun at the van in front of them.
The first shot ricocheted off the window.
She cursed and tried to shoot at the tires instead, but the van swerved away.
Julian pulled her back inside.
“They have bulletproof glass,” Brooklyn said.
“Wonderful,” Dawson groaned.
They passed the exit for the highway, and Dawson weaved around another set of cars. They were getting closer to populated parts of the city, which was something they wanted to avoid altogether.
“I’m taking the back roads,” Dawson said. “There are some alleys around here where we might be able to lose them.”
“That’s also a good way to get caught in a dead end,” Porter said.
“Don’t have a choice,” Dawson said. He made another sharp turn, and Brooklyn fell to the side against the window.
They turned down a road behind a gas station and then cut through a parking garage. Rayce drove around the parking garage and met them on the other side. All four vans kept accelerating steadily, staying right on their tails.
“We’re not gonna get out of this,” Julian said.
Brooklyn swatted him.
“I’m serious!” He gulped down some air. “We might just wanna let them take us so no one gets hurt.”
“We’re not doing that,” Dawson said sternly.
“No, we aren’t doing that,” Brooklyn said as she glared at Julian. “Try and get toward the outskirts of the city. Maybe we can lose them if we take some of the trails; our cars can make it in the dirt.”
“Good idea,” Dawson turned the wheel and directed the truck down an alley toward the back lot of a church.
Seattle was a big place, and Brooklyn hadn’t been used to the over-crowded nonsense of city life in a very long time. San Diego seemed so far away; even the memory of it was fuzzy. The constant strolls down Gaslamp district, taking a trolley to the beach, crashing pool parties at the resorts, it might as well have been an alternate universe.
The honking car horns, the screech of tires, and the sound of pelting rain made her flinch. The symphony of sounds on top of her heightened senses made her head spin and her heart pound faster. Even though she was impossibly focused, it constantly felt like she was tipping over the first drop on a rollercoaster. She felt like a muscle car, needle in the red, tires spinning, waiting to launch.
Brooklyn leaned over Julian’s lap so she could see out the window where Rayce was driving next to them on the wrong side of the road. He swerved out of the way of oncoming traffic and got back behind Dawson.
“Problem is I don’t know how to get out of this city,” Dawson said as he turned down another road.
They’d driven past a school, a hardware store, several coffee joints, and a Ferris wheel.
“If you can get to the freeway, then we can get there,” Brooklyn said.
“Yeah, been tryin’ to do that!”
The vans pulled in front of them again. Dawson gasped, turned the wheel, and made another short but direct turn into an alley.
Rayce wasn’t as quick. The Escalade sped past the alley, passing them. Brooklyn craned her neck, catching sight of something metallic and shiny. It slid out of the door of one of the vans, hitting the asphalt.
“They didn’t make it!” Brooklyn shouted.
Dawson shoved the truck into reverse and pulled back out on to the road just in time to watch Rayce drive over a shark-mouthed spike strip.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was over. Brooklyn was sure of it.
The tires on the Escalade shredded instantly, and the large vehicle came to a stop in the middle of the road.
“What do we do?” Brooklyn squealed.
“Hit the van,” Porter said. He unbuckled his seatbelt and hopped out of the idling truck with his gun drawn.
“Wait! What?” Dawson yelled.
Sirens wailed in the distance, and car horns blared all around them.
Brooklyn wanted to chase after Porter and pull him back into the truck, but Julian had a firm grip on her leg.
“I think he actually wants you to run into one of those vans,” Julian said to no one in particular.
“That’s insane,” Dawson said and flipped on the windshield wipers as the rain intensified.
The plan involved two cars to prevent this situation from playing out. The entire point of it was to allow an escape for the group that wasn’t compromised. But as they watched the Escalade sit dormant in the middle of the street, none of them could move. Dawson could have driven away; they could have made it out of Seattle, kept running. But being separated again was a worse fate than going down fighting together.
“What the hell is he thinking?” Brooklyn whispered as she watched Porter walk slowly toward the two vans in front of the Escalade.
The other two black vans pulled up behind the tr
uck in the middle of the road.
“He’s distracting them,” Dawson said thoughtfully.
The truck jolted forward when Dawson stepped on the gas, and Brooklyn yelped, falling back in the seat.
“Hold on!”
It happened so fast. First Brooklyn heard the raindrops hit the windshield, one right after the other, and then muffled cries erupted from the van they were about to hit. Lastly, it was the sound of crunching metal as the vehicles collided. Then a gunshot as the van was pushed forward. Porter’s voice, prominent through the orchestra of sounds, boomed as he yelled, “Charlie! Get out! Get out of here!”
Brooklyn gasped as the back door next to her swung open. She was pushed to the side, falling into Julian, and felt Charlie topple in beside her.
Gunshots sounded like fireworks. Brooklyn sat up and looked over the center console.
Amber and Rayce jumped into the bed of the truck. Porter limped backward toward the passenger door, holding on to the top of his leg.
Soldiers emerged from the vans. Their faces were covered in shielded black helmets and black armored chest pieces. Dark grey pants were shoved into knee high leather boots and long-barreled guns were clasped in their hands. The weapons were odd; Brooklyn had never seen a gun like the ones they were carrying.
Porter finally got back in the truck, and as soon as he pulled the door shut, Dawson stepped on the gas. This time, he pointed the truck directly at the black-clad soldiers.
“What are those things that they’re carrying?” Brooklyn asked.
Porter pressed both his hands over the top of his thigh.
“Rubber bullets and gas bombs,” Porter said. His eyes squeezed shut—his breathing came in short, painful bursts.
“You got shot!” She scrambled over the center console to get a better look, but Porter wouldn’t move his hand.
“Those rubber bullets are a bitch,” he fumed. There was no blood, but she could imagine what pelted with one of those at such a close proximity would feel like. Porter had a nasty bruise to look forward to, but the mark wouldn’t be there for long. Not with the virus changing his genetic makeup.
The soldiers didn’t move until the very last second, finally diving out of the way after Dawson’s side mirror clipped one of their helmets. They sped off with the last two vans following closely behind them.
“Why were you so stupid?” Brooklyn barked at Porter and slapped his arm.
He flinched away from her. “Don’t hit me for trying to save our friends!”
“Thank you,” Charlie said. She tried to catch her breath and leaned against the seat with her eyes closed. “I expected you guys to take off while you had the chance.”
“Yeah, well.” Dawson turned the wheel and took a sudden right turn. “We decided to stick together for once.”
Rayce and Amber tried to stay steady as they sat in the bed of the truck. Dawson made turn after turn, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to shake Juneau’s soldiers. Brooklyn imagined this was what it might be like during hunting season, when packs of wolves ran through their own homes, desperate to stay alive.
She imagined that last moment, when Juneau’s men took her, and she imagined a frightened animal looking at the dark void of the barrel of a gun, teeth bared.
Amber’s voice was muffled by the wind, but Brooklyn heard her yelling, “I think ya lost ’em! Keep going!”
The vans were gone, blocked out by rows and rows of cars that either slowed down or moved out of the way for Dawson when they caught sight of him dipping in and out of traffic.
“Did we lose them?” Dawson asked hopefully.
“I think so,” Brooklyn said.
As soon as the tightness in her chest began to loosen and the anxiety knotted at the base of her spine started to unwind, everything once again came crashing down around them.
An ear-splitting howl echoed from one of the side streets they were about to pass. The tension in the car spiked. Everyone knew what it was.
“They brought Surrogates? Seriously?” Julian groaned.
The Surros sprinted out of the rain and hurtled themselves at the truck. The impact of their lithe bodies was enough to almost knock it over. Dawson slammed on the brakes when a Surro’s fist plunged through the windshield, shattering it.
Charlie kicked the door open and was torn out of the car when a large Surro grabbed her arm and tossed her effortlessly from the truck. Brooklyn lifted her gun and fired. Charlie squirmed, avoiding the Surro’s body when it fell toward the asphalt.
“Are you okay?” Brooklyn shouted as she jumped out of the truck.
Charlie got back on her feet. “I am now.”
The Surros were everywhere, running out of the shadows, jumping on the roof of the truck, and crawling out from beneath it.
Brooklyn fired bullet after bullet, aiming for the temple, the neck, the chest, until one Surro climbed up on to the hood of the truck and leapt on to her back. She tried to brace herself, was knocked flat on the ground. The concrete tore at her cheek. The weight on her back pressed down, causing her lungs to heave, burning for air. Her ribs screamed, a pain in her chest splintering through the rest of her body. The force of two bony knees held her down against the ground.
Thick black blood leaked from its lips, dripped down onto her neck like tar. She tried to wiggle free, knuckles bleach white from excruciation. She hadn’t given up, but the pain in her chest was getting exceedingly worse. She yelped, eyes stinging with tears when the Surro ground its knees into her lower back, a hand fisted in her hair, pressing her face into the concrete.
The sound of its heavy breathing and vicious growls were cut short. Brooklyn gasped, breath coming a little easier. She felt the Surro struggle as some of its weight lifted off of her. She rolled out from underneath it, gazing up at Charlie, who held the creature up by a thin silver wire, a garrote imbedded in the meat of its throat.
“Get up!” Charlie said. The body of the Surro slumped. Brooklyn pushed herself back to her feet. “Amber ran in that building!”
There was a sharp pain that burrowed in Brooklyn’s left side, but she ignored it.
“Rayce ran in after her, come on! Let’s get out of here!” Charlie yelled.
Brooklyn tried to run, but the pain in her ribs protested. She limped along next to Charlie until they made it to the side door.
Charlie opened the door and ran inside. Brooklyn held it open with one hand while the other moved down to clutch her side. She didn’t know what the wound consisted of, whether something was broken or ruptured, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Porter’s voice startled her. She turned around with her gun pointed right at his forehead.
“Hey, Brooklyn, get inside!” He pushed her until she stumbled backward.
“Where’s Dawson?”
“He’s in here! Julian went in after Rayce, and Dawson followed,” Porter said.
Brooklyn’s body convulsed and quivered. Porter could feel it. She hadn’t moved her hand from where it was plastered over her side and gripped it tight, hoping if she kept her palm there it would magically disappear. The pain was nearly unbearable, far worse than being shot. Her stomach dropped when her thoughts clicked into place and she realized her hand was slick with something warm and wet.
Porter held her out at arm’s length in the dark room. “What’s happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Her head started to spin from the pain.
The building was packed with people. Music thrummed from a DJ booth high up on the second floor. There was a dance floor packed with bodies moving and grinding to the high-energy beats. A bar was on the other side of it, lit up with neon lights and decorative bottles.
“What the hell is this place? It’s the middle of the day,” Brooklyn said.
Porter settled her against the nearest wall. She let her weight rest against it, thankful for a chance to relax.
“I think it’s a one of those weird two to two clubs,” he said. He reached out and found her
hand. “Let me see it.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“Then let me see it,” he repeated.
She moved her shaky hand away and saw it was caked with blood. Porter went from looking uneasy to completely aghast.
“Okay,” he breathed, nodding to himself. “This is gonna hurt.”
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked and looked down at herself.
A piece of jagged white bone jutted through her shirt. Blood soaked all the way down her shirt, through her jacket and into her jeans. It was much worse than she’d first thought, and looking at it made it even more painful.
“Holy shit,” Brooklyn gagged and turned her head away. “Is that…? What is that?”
“It’s one of your ribs. I have to push it back into place or at least get it back under your skin.”
“We don’t have time for this. Just do it,” she snarled.
Porter didn’t give her any time to ready herself, which she was almost thankful for, and went straight for the bone. He used his thumb to slide the broken rib back into place, or get it as close as he could under the circumstances. It felt like electricity was lighting a fire to the entire left side of her body. The pain was excruciating.
She screamed, but Porter smothered the sound with his hand, shoving his palm over her mouth beneath her nostrils.
“Okay,” he soothed. “It’s okay. I’m done. You’re okay.”
Her whole body shook, but she forced life back into her legs and pushed off the wall. The pain gave her a little momentum, propelling her forward as she walked toward the crowd on the dancefloor. The club was huge, and even though she could see well in the dark, the neon lights made it hard for her to lock on to anyone she knew. She squinted, even lifted her nose to catch a scent other than the burn of alcohol or the chemical residue of recreational drugs.
Porter stayed behind her, his worry a damp floral scent. He was close enough that when she lost her footing he caught her.
“You might have punctured your lung.” His lips were pressed right against her ear. She tried to stay steady, to take another step, but her chest throbbed. “Don’t move. Just stay right here.”
Omen Operation Page 21