Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

My teeth ached, and I finally noticed that at some point during my flight, I’d bitten down on the handle of my serrated knife—probably right before I climbed the fire escape—and it was still clenched in my teeth. I slipped it back into its sheath, and then checked my other ankle. My shoe was soaked, but the graze had stopped bleeding, leaving behind an angry red gash. A quick sidewalk check revealed no trail.

The sirens grew louder, bouncing over from the opposite block. Distant reminders that I’d left Wyatt behind. Alone.

A figure emerged from the apartment’s lobby door, but he looked the other way first. I ducked into the grocery store, assaulted by frigid air and the yeasty odor of bread. Two ancient checkout counters marked the front of the shop. I smiled at the clerk—a bland girl no older than sixteen. She smiled and returned to her magazine.

I slipped down the first aisle, making tracks to the back room. Two rows over, I spotted a swinging “Employees Only” door. A bell jingled at the front of the store. My stomach churned. I pushed through, urged onward by fear and a feral need to avoid capture. I couldn’t help Wyatt if I were in matching handcuffs, or dead for the second time.

The stockroom reeked of rotting vegetables and stale water, thick and nauseating. But I ignored the stench and navigated a path past a small office—hearing the sounds of heavy breathing, which told me where the rest of the staff was—to another door. This one was next to a loading dock. The wires on the emergency handle were cut. The employees probably used it regularly. A tentative nudge proved me correct. I pushed it open far enough to get a peek into the back lot.

The loading dock was blocked off by three metal Dumpsters. A ten-foot chain fence, topped by razor wire, separated the narrow alley from the lot behind it. The Burger Palace was on my right, catty-corner from my position, line of sight obscured. I ducked outside, staying as close to the trash cans as I could manage without vomiting from the odor of rotting meat and produce. Then I ducked past them to the fence.

Between the scratchy branches of two unruly bushes, I could see part of the parking lot. Wyatt’s car was still in its spot, flanked by the two black sedans, all four doors thrown open. Two men about my (former) age were searching it—Hunters I vaguely recognized, mostly from instinct. The way they moved, analyzed, and searched for clues was instinctual, calculated, and deadly.

Rufus sat on the curb, holding an ice pack against his jaw. A man in a smart suit—a Handler named Willemy, if I recalled correctly—crouched in front of him, his hands moving in circles as he talked. Rufus kept shaking his head, saying little.

The one person I needed to see was missing. He could be in one of those tinted sedans, bound and ready for transport elsewhere. Would he have resisted and forced them to take desperate action? No, he wouldn’t risk getting himself killed. Not now. I just needed to see it with my own eyes.

A telephone rang. Willemy fished in his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell. His drooping frown morphed into sheer delight. He snapped the phone shut and said something to Rufus, who nodded, silent. I squinted at him. From that distance, I couldn’t tell if he was out of sorts from my punch, or if he was just a good actor. Willemy seemed finished with him for the time being. He stood up and faced the restaurant.

The side door swung open. Nadia Stanislavski and Philip Tully emerged, one on either side of Wyatt. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he walked straight. No limping or dragging, no marks that I could see. Sharp pain lanced through my palm; I loosened my fist, releasing nails from indented flesh.

They led him toward the closest sedan. He looked straight ahead, giving nothing. If he expected me to be there somewhere, waiting for him, watching in the wings, he gave no indication. He would have yelled and cursed had he known I was crouching in the bushes instead of putting miles between us. I wanted to let him know I was there, to give some suggestion of my presence, but I remained a silent spectator, watching as they ushered him into the car and slammed the door.

Nadia slid into the front seat of Wyatt’s car. Rufus climbed in next to her. She followed the black sedan out of the parking lot, taking Wyatt away. One car remained behind, as did Tully. He was perched on the hood, waiting for … who? The person who’d chased after me, most likely. If the entire Triad had come after its Handler, that meant Wormer was tracking me. Or had already lost me; I couldn’t be sure. There were damn few things I could be certain of at that particular moment in time.

My neck prickled. I held my breath. Soft leather soles whispered across the parking lot’s cracked blacktop, kicked the occasional pebble, and came to rest close by my position. I didn’t turn to look. Looking might rustle the bushes that protected me. A cramp lanced through my thigh. I bit my tongue, trying to distract myself from the agony I couldn’t acknowledge. I needed to breathe.

The footsteps moved past me. I let out a shaky breath, then inhaled slowly. My burning lungs wanted to cough. The cramp intensified; tears sparked in my eyes.

Something beeped. Fabric rustled. A man’s voice said, “Yeah?”

Over the phone, someone replied, “You find her yet?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tully standing by the sedan with a phone pressed to his ear.

“No. Whoever she is, she’s fast,” James Wormer said.

“Bring it in, then. We need to get back. I want to be there when they question that asshole.”

Wormer snickered, and the sound sent shivers up my spine. “I’m on my way. After what he did to Rufus, I want to hear that crazy fucker scream.”

I closed my eyes, concentrating on the exquisite agony in my leg—using it to stay grounded and ignore my urge to leap out of the bushes and pound Wormer’s face into the pavement. Seconds ticked away. Car engines rumbled. Horns honked. Two doors slammed. I looked again. The sedan was driving toward the parking lot exit.

Briefly, I considered chasing it, but once the car made it to the road, I’d have no chance of following. Handlers and Triads didn’t have one specific meeting place—no clubhouse or police barracks or underground vault. Except for Boot Camp, which enjoyed a quiet corner of the forest south of the city, secured facilities for questioning and detaining Dregs changed on a monthly basis. They could question Wyatt anywhere in the city.

I had no Handler, no car, and no clue as to my next move. I climbed out of the bushes and stretched my aching leg. Long hours before dusk stretched out in front of me, but I couldn’t wait. I had to do something. Just not alone.

Evangeline Stone had no remaining allies. Chalice Frost had one person in her life who just might drop everything and help—if I could convince him I wasn’t nuts.

53:25

Hitching a ride across town is not recommended, unless you know you can fight off a potential attacker. Confident in my knowledge of fighting skills—although not so confident in my ability to get Chalice’s body to do what I needed—I accepted the first ride I received and made it back to Parkside East in less than thirty minutes.

No little girls followed me into the elevator. The entire building seemed deserted in the middle of the day. As I fished Chalice’s keys out of my borrowed pants, my hands began to shake. I had no particular reason for nerves, but I also had no reason to think Alex Forrester was even home. This could very well turn into a gigantic waste of time.

I turned the key, but the dead bolt was not secured. I wrapped tentative fingers around the doorknob, but it was yanked out of my hand. I took a startled step backward. Alex stood in the open doorway, his wide blue eyes drilling holes into me. I squirmed under the intensity of his stare as relief, anger, and confusion—all meant for someone else—flashed across his face.