“I said down!” Elijah shouts, features contorted into an even more terrifying version of himself. Immediately, Nole, Charlie and Ryder lower their weapons to the ground. The handful of other Risers follow, with me reluctantly the last to obey.
“And any other weapons,” comes the red-haired jerk’s next command. Gritting my teeth, I drop my only knife while everyone else tosses aside their own personal arsenals; the repeated clink of metal on linoleum ringing in my ears and killing my hopes one fallen weapon at a time.
Elijah nods at several of the guards who move forward to pat us down and take our weapons. I resist the urge to squirm or slap the man who gropes at my arms and legs.
“Ah!” a voice calls, and I lift my head to see Sawyer’s hunched form shuffle into view. “I see we used the back entrance. Guess someone should have warned you that is our fail-safe, a signal that our team has been captured and forced here against their will. Only a select few of my team know about that option, and we’ve never had a chance to use it before. Glad to know the idea worked, so thank you for that.”
I try to gauge Nole and Charlie’s reaction, but even though I’m sure this knowledge is new to them, they don’t let on.
Waddling forward, as if every joint in his body aches and cracks, Sawyer stops directly in front of me. “Welcome back, Miss Keslin. It’s nice to have you in my home once more. We will not be losing you again.”
“Bite me, old man,” I growl, which only earns me a swift punch to the gut from the League guard beside me. Doubling over, I fall to my knees, gasping for breath and blinded by the pain burning in my lungs.
Sawyer turns to Charlie, arms extended and a half smile on his thin, wrinkled lips. “And Charlotte, my dearest daughter, home again as well.”
It takes several seconds for his words to register, but when it does, it expels the air from me once again, as if I were smashed under a giant rock. I feel like I’m going to throw up and black out and have my head explode all at once. Time has slowed down as every eye in the room rests on Sawyer and Charlie. I still can’t breathe, but now I’m not sure if it’s from the punch to my stomach or the one to my emotions. Sawyer must be lying, some sort of trick to turn us against Charlie or destroy our faith in her or-
“Hi, Dad,” she whispers, her gaze never leaving his face. I choke and sputter. It can’t be. It’s not possible.
And then a new realization hits me and I’m not sure how many more mental blows I can take. If Sawyer is Charlie’s father, then that means Elijah, this vile, repulsive man devoid of any empathy whatsoever, and who has murdered in cold-blood, is her son.
Her son.
The words ring through my head like a siren, over and over again. But now I see it. Charlie and Elijah, they have the same eyes. Except where his are filled with madness and hatred, hers are filled with love and hope, making them both look so vastly different, it proved nearly impossible to notice any physical similarities before.
If Nole or Ryder or any of the other Risers already knew, they certainly don’t show it on their faces, appearing as stunned and distraught as I am, mouths hanging open. I can only imagine their astonishment as the woman they have either followed or befriended or both, a woman who has fought so strongly against the League, is the daughter and mother of the men who’ve been bullying them for years. I doubt Charlie ever told anyone the truth, the same way I didn’t want to admit who I am when I first arrived on the surface. Justly or otherwise, children are judged by the sins of their parents.
Charlie has started speaking again, but I’ve been so blinded by incredulity I’ve missed half of what she’s said.
“-is with me. Let the rest of them go. I’ll send them away and they won’t bother you anymore. Take your revenge on me. That’s really where your hatred lies.”
“No!” I cry, rising to my knees.
Elijah drives his foot into the back of my ribs and I howl from the new stabbing pain, toppling over and clutching at my side that never fully healed from his last assault.
“Still haven’t learned to keep your mouth shut yet, have you Sub?”
A pitiful whimper comes as my only response as I writhe back and forth on the cold, cracked tiles.
“Leave her alone,” Charlie commands. Though her voice never rises above a steady whisper, I still hear the tone of authority.
“You still have a weakness for her kind, don’t you?” Sawyer asks with a shake of his head. "You never learned, did you? Why, dear daughter, would you continue to fight for Subs like her? Knowing what they have done?"
“She didn’t do anything. And I’ll fight for her because she is human. Because she escaped the tyranny of her world, just like I did. Because despite your best efforts, I still managed to retain my compassion. I would hardly call any of that weakness.”
The old man snorts. “Compassion. And look at where that has gotten you.”
“I’d rather die for what is right, than live for what is wrong.”
“Oh Charlotte, sweetheart, you won’t die. Not today at least. What kind of father would I be if I murdered my only child as she stands defenseless before me? Her son a witness? No. Even I am not that cruel. In fact, I’ll let you make a choice."
"A choice?" she asks.
"Yes. Either you kill Kelsey yourself, or I kill all of your friends." He strides toward her, his liver spotted head coming up to her chin. "No matter what, Kelsey dies tonight. You have the choice on whether or not the others walk out of here. How's that for compassion?"
For maybe only the third time since I’ve met her, Charlie’s face betrays her emotions as her expression tumbles into one of evident horror and dread. “Choose? I could never. I won’t choose to kill anyone!"
Sawyer shrugs and flips a gnarled hand. “So be it. Then you’ve chosen to kill them all.” With a nod at his guards, several step forward and level guns at Nole and Ryder’s heads, and the heads of the men and women with us. Taking a small pistol from one of Sawyer’s guards and then kneeling, Elijah jams the barrel of his own weapon against my temple, the cool metal making my blood run cold as my cheek is pressed into the floor.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he jeers, leaning down with his face so close to my own I can feel the warmth of his breath.
I won’t close my eyes. If I am going to die today, right now, after all of the other near deaths I have survived, I will not close my eyes and hide from it. I want Elijah to be forced to look into them, to remember them and see them in his dreams. I want to haunt him for the rest of his life. He may well already be one of the monsters Jax fears becoming, but in my final moments, I will pray to whatever gods may be watching that I can find a way to twist into Elijah’s mind and infect whatever tiny bit of sanity might still reside in there.
Then the thought of Jax causes tears to sting the back of my eyes because I will never see him again. Or Rey. I said my good-byes though, in the only ways I knew how. I just wish I hadn’t left either of them in my self-created limbo, never knowing whom I would choose in the end.
Now the end has arrived, and I still have no idea, longing for one last kiss from either and from both and then hating myself again because they deserve better. Maybe my death will be a good thing, releasing them from the pain and unfairness I have caused. I once promised Daniel I would take care of Jax and instead I’ve nearly destroyed him.
Someone told me once that right before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I suppose that might be the case for others, but not for me. The images I see are ones of the people whom my death will save. Jax and Rey will be free to move forward. The Risers, both old and new, will leave, running away from the League to someplace safe, Nadia with them. And without me, Sawyer will never penetrate ROC’s defenses so all those innocent people will be safe from whatever massacre the League has planned. In the end, I’ll get everything I wanted.
Maybe my death is a good thing. Like the belief behind the Gamble; the death of one to save the lives of many. This is the gamble we take, right? The fates have f
inally selected my number.
Elijah cocks his weapon and my entire body tenses, waiting for the gunshot that will end it all, the final sound I’ll ever hear. Charlie yells, but over the noise of my heart pounding and my breath coming faster and Elijah chuckling to himself, she sounds miles away.
The quick pop of gunfire comes and in spite of my resolve, I snap my eyes shut. I might want to stare down Elijah, but I don’t have the strength to watch my friends die.
And Elijah pulls the trigger.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Assuming this is death, I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I expected a pretty white light and a long tunnel and the sensation of floating or flying. Instead, it doesn’t feel any different than living did. My cheek remains pressed to a cold, hard surface, my ears ring from the sounds of massive turmoil around me and my ribs still ache every time I…
…Breathe.
I don’t like to admit it, but I have no doubt it’s true; at some point in this world, my luck will run out. Just apparently not today.
Opening my eyes, Elijah still points the gun at my head, but each time he pulls the trigger, it only clicks, the same way mine did that night in the woods when Ashlynn gave me an unloaded weapon. But why in the world would the League give him an unloaded gun?
Assessing the room around me, bodies litter the floor and someone fires actual loaded guns, the familiar pop of bullets exploding in the giant room as they ricochet off tile floor, marble walls and rusted metal clothing racks.
Nole and Charlie crouch behind a sideways display case, Nole covers her head as his eyes, wide with shock, dart back and forth. Whatever is happening, he didn’t anticipate it. Neither did Charlie.
With both Risers and Sawyer’s guards in the same uniforms, I have no idea who is shooting at whom, or who I can even call the good guys anymore. All I see are black clad figures in helmets, hoisting automatic weapons over the tops of whatever furniture or around walls people use as cover. Some dash between pillars in search of a better firing position, causing a fresh onslaught of bullets to whiz through the space. Sawyer’s bald head is nowhere to be seen.
The squeak of rubber soled shoes on linoleum draws my attention away from the chaos. I turn my head in time to see Elijah running for the back door.
“Oh, hell no,” I hiss through clenched teeth as my blood boils. I have no idea what is going on in the room behind me, and while it would probably be safer to hide like Nole and Charlie, I will not allow Elijah to make it through that door.
Surging to my feet, I leap over one of Sawyer’s disturbing mannequins, this one painted in bright red berry juice that looks like dried blood. Maybe it is blood, who knows. I soar into the air, arms outstretched as I tackle the orange-haired monster to the ground. We both hit with dull thuds, pain blazing through my right arm as I land on top of Elijah with a grunt.
A fist connects with my jaw, knocking me over onto my back. Spots explode in my vision and I shake them away, but before I can regain full consciousness and stand straight, Elijah smacks me again, sending me flat against the floor as a sharp pain spreads across my face
He runs for the door a second time. I stagger to my feet, head swimming as I reach out for the wall to steady myself, tripping over that stupid mannequin in the process.
Its left arm has been kicked loose. Snatching it up, I beam it at Elijah, the hollow plastic limb colliding with the back of his head, causing him to stumble to one knee with a yelp. At least the mannequin was useful for something. That's artwork I can enjoy.
Pouncing again, I drive my elbow into the center of his back, right between his shoulder blades. He arches back and howls in a mixture of agony and anger before flipping around and striking out with one leg. I fling my body sideways and find myself face to face with a knife lying on the floor, lost from someone else's belt in the chaos.
Elijah slides across the floor as I jerk the weapon into my hands. I slash out, aiming for his neck but slicing his shoulder with a six-inch gash instead. A red ribbon of blood flows from the wound, soaking the sleeve of his shirt and dripping down his arm. Rearing backward, clutching at the wound, eyes glittering with his psychotic wrath, Elijah laughs at me. “You’ll never win.”
Shoving to my feet, I prepare to attack a third time, but he picks up what remains of the mannequin’s body and hurls it my direction. I try to duck, but move too slow and the torso smacks into my chest, flinging me back to the floor yet again. My head smacks the base of the wall behind me, denting the drywall. I groan as my vision fades in and out.
As I struggle to regain control of my senses, Elijah’s form disappears through the back door. By the time I recover and slam through it into the stairwell, he’s gone.
In fury I chuck the knife down the staircase, its metal blade ringing off the handrails and rattling against concrete walls before it comes to rest on the landing two flights down.
“Hey now, ya just got the thing,” a voice says. I spin to face Ryder, his face drenched with perspiration and speckles of blood. A gash runs the length of his forehead, streaming blood into one eye and down his cheek before dripping off his chin. It must look worse than it is though, since he's standing. A gun hangs in his right hand and he favors his left leg slightly.
“Elijah got away!” I shout, unable to control my rage and frustration. Balling a fist, I slam it against the metal railing with a dull thud. Pain flows through my wrist and up my arm, but I barely notice. Instead, I turn and pound it into the stairwell wall, driving a hole through it and bruising my knuckles.
I was so close to this being over. To never having to worry about Elijah prowling around the next corner or living in fear that no matter where I hide, he will still find me.
Sobs break loose, choking and painful and I bury my face into my palms. “He got away.”
“Come on now,” Ryder says, tucking me under one of his thick, muscular arms. Reminded of the night he shot the League man without so much as a second thought or a bit of remorse, I jerk away in repulsion.
Ryder scowls, wrinkles creasing deeper on his bloodied forehead. “What’s up, kid? You’ve been avoidin’ me.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’m not stupid. Least not as stupid as I look. You’ve been keepin’ your distance since the night we had security duty, which I know you lied to me ‘bout to get away from Jax or whatever was goin’ on with your boyfriends.”
“They aren’t my boyfriends.”
“Like I said, whatever. I don’t care about the love lives of a bunch of eighteen-year-olds. I do care about why you suddenly seem sickened by me.”
I say nothing, jaw tense and grinding as I stand in the stairwell with my arms crossed tight over my chest.
“Fine. Let’s see if I can guess. This got anything to do with that guy I shot?”
“You didn’t have to shoot him!” I burst, all my anger at Elijah and Sawyer and the failed mission boiling over.
“Have to shoot him? Debatable. Couldn’t run real fast or far with a bullet hole in his shoulder. Wanted to shoot him? Heck yes. He’d have done the same to either of us and I got some good satisfaction outta it.”
I’m still crying, though I have no idea over what this time. I could be crying over one of so very many things I've lost count. My teeth grind together as I glare at Ryder.
“Listen kid, I am not a hero. Never have been, never will be and sure don’t wanna be. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not the villain either. But don’t try to paint me black or white. This world is filled with ten thousand colors and not a single person on it will fit as black or white or even grey. I don’t give a crap about most of the other people on this planet. I know what I am. You’ve had a hard road and I’m sure it’s gonna get harder, but your journey has yet to compare to mine. When you’ve been tested the way I have, seen the things I’ve seen and been forced to do some of the things I’ve done, you come back and let me know what colors you are. I’ll bet you don’t even have a palette big enough to figure it out.”
/>
I avert my eyes, staring at the cement floor, thinking about how it looks so much like ROC. Then my thoughts turn to what I did just to escape ROC, how I was willing to give up my whole life, even willing to kill another person. And I think of all the things I’ve been faced with since coming to the surface. The things I’ve done.
“We choose who we become,” I whisper.
“Yes, we do. I’ve chosen to be a survivor, plain and simple. Now, we may have lost that piece of scum, Elijah, but we did get that disgustin’ old man.”
I lift my gaze, daring to hope. “Sawyer?”
“Come see.”
“Did… did you know who he was? Do you know about Charlie?”
Ryder licks his chapped lips and wipes at the blood on his face, only managing to smear it more. “No. I don’t think anyone knew. I’ve always known Charlie carried her own secrets, but this… I didn’t expect this. But I also don’t expect it to change anythin’. Charlie is still the same person we’ve chosen to follow and the same person we care about. Now, come on and let’s figure out what just happened, cause I got a few questions.”
We re-enter the mall, the smells of blood and gunpowder and sweat overwhelming. League guards and Risers stand in a small clump. Everyone appears slightly uneasy, but all aim their weapons to the floor. Nole and Charlie stand in the center talking with one man with greying dark hair and a long, narrow face and ears that jut out almost sideways. A week's worth of stubble lines his chin and a thin hooked nose seems to almost reach to his top lip.
Ryder and I approach with caution, nudging through the throngs of both friends and enemies. I glance between the others.
“So, why…” I begin, but stop when I realize I don’t even know what questions to ask.
“Kelsey,” Charlie says, directing my attention to the man, “this is Sawyer’s second in command, Neil Thomas.”
I blink a few times and give him a good up and down before looking back at Charlie. “And we’re all standing around talking like old friends because…?”
The Choice (The Gamble Series Book 2) Page 12