Erin Bowman: Stolen

The boy was weak, exhausted, but just a bit farther north he’d find the water. With water, he’d make it. And if he kept on hiking to the mountains and found headquarters . . . Bree didn’t want to think about what Ryder or Fallyn would say. And yet here she was, a clear shot in her sights, and she couldn’t take it.

You’re waiting because he reminds you of someone .

She told herself to shut up, because now wasn’t the time to think about him.

But that dark hair, the way his shoulders hunch forward, the brother who he can’t stop fussing over. From a distance, it could be him .

Shut up.

Lock. He reminds you of Lock.

Shut up!

But it was too late, because her past—everything she sealed away in order to stay strong after reading those journals—surfaced like a mirage in the heat.

He did look a bit like Lock from far away, but his care for his brother—that’s what really did it. The way he refused to leave him behind even though it would have made more sense to scout out food and shelter alone and then double back. But no, this boy kept fretting like a mother over a newborn. Feel for a fever, check the bandages, drag, drag, drag his near-unconscious brother under the relentless sun. What a waste of energy. What a loyal, devoted, stubborn waste.

Ahead of her, the boy sank to his knees before a green pond. He lamented the undrinkable filth for a moment, then paused, cocking an ear to the side. He stood, walked to the rock face beside him, and found the trickle of water filling the pond, the gap through which he could slip. Undoubtedly hearing the roar of freshwater hidden on the other side as well.

“Blaine. Get up,” he said, shaking his brother. “You have to walk. There’s water.”

He pulled his brother—Blaine—to his feet. Even hidden several trees back, Bree could tell Blaine was in no state to walk. One of his legs was bound and bloody, an injury from her team’s attack on their camp. He was sweating, too, fighting a fever that wouldn’t break. It was like looking at Heath all over again, only aged a good few years.

“Through here,” the boy said, pointing at the gap in the rock. “Can you do it?”

Blaine coughed and moved his chin in a small nod. Then, like an idiot, the boy let go of his brother and turned his back. Blaine collapsed almost instantly, falling like a rock and hitting one in the process. The crack of his skull was audible even from where Bree stood.

And now the boy—the idiot boy—was panicking. He shouted Blaine’s name, paled at the sight of his bloody scalp. Bree watched him lay an ear to Blaine’s heart—still beating, it seemed—and bandage the head wound. Finally, as he should have done from the beginning, the boy scurried through the gap in the rock alone.

Now , she told herself. So you don’t have to watch his face blow over with shock when you shoot his brother.

Bree ran, rifle gripped tightly. She stepped over Blaine’s unconscious body and let her aim settle on the Franconian emblem of his uniform. Act first, question later . But with her finger resting on the trigger, Bree hesitated.

The boys were indeed identical—she’d been right to suspect brothers, if not twins—but up close, the resemblance to Lock was lost. Instead, Bree was reminded of Owen Weathersby, a Rebel captain. Owen had sons in Claysoot. Right around this age, if Bree remembered correctly. She wished she’d asked for their names. These boys could be them, Heisted and working for Frank because they didn’t know the truth.

Her finger lifted off the trigger.

Muttering a curse, Bree climbed through the gap in the rock. The air was full of mist on the other side, cool and clean, and the sound of the waterfall hitting the pool echoed off the steep, surrounding walls. The boy was kneeling before the water’s edge, filling a canteen.

“Stop right there,” she ordered. Her words bounced off the rock, making her sound more demanding then she felt.

The boy raised his hands overhead and slowly turned to face her.

“You,” Bree said. “What’s your name?”

He stared, head tilted, and Bree got the impression that he was about to call her bluff, that he could tell she didn’t want to shoot him unless absolutely necessary. She marched forward and pressed the muzzle of her weapon to his chest. It was only now, with her eyes barely level with his collarbone, that she realized how truly unlike Lock he was. The physical similarities stopped at the dark hair, as this boy was taller—maybe over six feet—with a jaw set like a cliff, harsh and demanding. His hair was wet from the water he’d splashed on his face, and dirt still caked the creases of his skin, creating rough lines. Everything about him seemed harsh, really. Everything but his eyes, which were gray. As gray as the skies that hung over Saltwater before a rainstorm, deep-set and cast in shadow.

Bree faltered, then cursed herself for it.

She was stupid. Sloppy and unfocused.

She pressed the weapon against the boy’s breastbone a bit harder. “I asked you what your name is.”

He stared. Blinked.

“The boy outside. Is he your brother?”

And finally, words.

“You’re just going to kill us anyway.” His voice was steadier than she expected, no sign of nerves. “You’re going to murder us, the way you murdered that Order team.”

“Murder?” Of course he had to make this difficult. He was stupid enough to let his brother crack his head, and now he was stubborn enough to throw up walls when someone tried to help him. “It’s not murder when we’re fighting for our lives,” she snarled. “Now, your name.”

“You were really good. All quiet like that. How long have you been following us?”

Like she’d tell him.

“You’d make a good hunter,” he added. “Especially where I came from. I don’t think we had a single girl as stealthy as you.”

“Where you came from?” Hope spiked in Bree’s chest. Maybe he was Owen’s after all. She nudged him again with her rifle. “Are you with the Order or are you from somewhere else?”

“What’s it matter? You are going to shoot me, right?”

And then he had the gall to smile. It lit up his entire face, made every last feature soften.

Bree watched triumph spread over the boy’s lips, like he believed he’d won. Like he thought he knew her.

She brought her knee up, catching him between the legs. He gasped, and his shocked expression was so priceless that Bree couldn’t help but smirk as she knocked him out with her rifle. She dragged him out of the water so that he wouldn’t drown his pretty face, and pulled a radio from her pack.

“Fallyn, I’m at the waterfall. I’ve got two unconscious Order members—potential recruits. Send Luke or someone from the Interrogation Center to help me haul these idiots in.”

The boy looked so harmless now, one of his arms pinned beneath his chest. Bree hoped she wouldn’t come to regret sparing him. He was stupid and cocky and potentially undeserving of the Rebels’ aid, but she’d looked him in the eye and heard his voice. She’d caught a glimpse of his personality. She’d seen his smile.

If she ended up having to shoot him later, it would no longer be easy.

And right then, Bree knew it, a truth as unforgiving as the sun beating down overhead: This boy was going to be a major thorn in her side.