The Replaced
Page 18
I glanced down at my empty hands, wishing I had something to hurl at him. I desperately wanted to break his other hand.
“You’re a prick,” Willow sneered from behind me.
“Yeah?” Agent Truman sneered back, raising his gun in her direction. “Well, right now I’m the prick who has you cornered.”
Simon shouldered past Willow, pushing her behind him. “You won’t shoot us.” He said it boldly, as if it were a fact. And maybe it was, I thought, realizing Agent Truman really didn’t have a hazmat suit on, but it still seemed like a bad idea to goad the guy with the gun. “It’d be suicide.”
Simon’s prediction fell on deaf ears. Agent Truman’s weapon stayed exactly where it was, aimed at Simon, who’d taken Willow’s place, and just when I was convinced this whole shooting-us thing had to be a bluff, Agent Truman proved me wrong.
He pulled the trigger.
It was one of those moments where everything happens too fast and too slow at the same time. My brain felt scrambled as it tried to make sense of any single thought, even while every detail that unfolded seemed to do so with startling clarity: the look on Simon’s face as he tried—and failed—to get out of the way in time, the ringing in my ears, which was back because the sound of the gun firing was so much louder than I’d ever imagined, and the smell . . . that odd crisp and chemical smell that I could only assume must be gunpowder.
Watching Simon take the impact of the bullet made my blood turn to ice. He looked like a ragdoll as he slammed backward, his unusual copper eyes brimming with all the disbelief I felt. He hit the ground so much harder than the soldier we’d gassed in the ducts, and I cringed when his head cracked sharply against the pavement behind him.
I shrank back against the wall, even as Willow launched forward, dragging Simon out of the way. Agent Truman fired again, only this time he was a split second too late. Willow tossed Simon aside as her attention turned to the agent.
When she charged Agent Truman, she looked like a bull—nostrils flared, jaw set. She was seriously pissed.
And he may as well have been standing there waving a red bullfighter’s cape. He dug in, securing his stance and setting his feet shoulder width apart. And then, just when I thought I’d seen it all, he pulled the trigger one more time.
When the bullet caught Willow square in the chest, I thought my own might collapse as well. Willow gasped, her mouth open for an eternity, like a fish gulping and gulping for air.
And that’s when I realized what was wrong. With everything. With this whole scene.
It was the reason Agent Truman hadn’t been worried about shooting us.
There was no blood.
He was shooting at us . . . he had shot Simon and Willow, but there wasn’t a single trace of blood.
I dropped to my knees and lunged for Willow, who was still grappling to catch her lost breath, and I wondered if her ribs had been shattered by whatever Agent Truman had fired at her. I wished she’d hurry up and mend already, but Simon had told me that I healed faster than anyone else, and clearly that included Willow. Her hands clawed at mine as if somehow, some way, I might be able to give her what she needed. But I couldn’t.
I scoured the ground around her, trying to find a reasonable explanation for the lack of blood, and when my eyes fell on the lone capsule, I snatched it up and closed my fist around it.
When I looked to Agent Truman, he met my gaze with a vicious sneer.
The exit door crashed open, and two more men came bursting into the alleyway, stopping behind Agent Truman’s back. Unlike him, they were in full hazmat gear, but beneath those plastic face masks, I could see what they really were: soldiers. Just like the one we’d left behind in the ducts beneath the lab, their faces smeared in black paint.
They’d come prepared, as if they’d known all along where to find us. My eyes strayed to the security camera as I wondered if Agent Truman had been lying about it, the same way he’d lied about Tyler being here.
Simon was still trying to get to his feet, so I grabbed Willow, meaning to drag her out of the way. But she was dead weight and I couldn’t make her budge. Not even an inch.
A tremor rippled through me as I watched, frozen in horror, while one of the men lifted an enormous rifle of some sort. Its barrel was too wide for bullets of any kind, and when he pulled the trigger, I realized why. Netting burst from the end of it, hurtling toward us—toward Willow and me—unfolding and spreading toward us.
It was a net gun, and we were about to be tangled in its web.
Simon’s hand closed over mine, and he yanked me out of the way just as the edge of the rope glanced off my cheek.
Willow wasn’t so lucky. The heavyweight mesh trapped her, making it impossible for her to move more than a few inches in either direction.
She thrashed beneath it, still not breathing.
Simon’s grip tightened as he continued dragging me away, and from behind us, I heard Agent Truman’s voice shouting, “Don’t let her get away!”
But they were too late because we were already running in the opposite direction, through the darkened alleyway.
Away from them . . .
. . . and away from Willow.
Jett, Thom, and Natty were waiting for us in the SUV not too far from the place we’d left it. They spotted us way before we saw them, and they were flashing the headlights even while they were speeding right toward us. Since they barely slowed, we had to run-jump to make it inside the still-moving vehicle.
Once the doors were closed, Simon panted, “Go!” to Jett, but even from the backseat, his devastation was palpable.
“You’re a prick,” Willow sneered from behind me.
“Yeah?” Agent Truman sneered back, raising his gun in her direction. “Well, right now I’m the prick who has you cornered.”
Simon shouldered past Willow, pushing her behind him. “You won’t shoot us.” He said it boldly, as if it were a fact. And maybe it was, I thought, realizing Agent Truman really didn’t have a hazmat suit on, but it still seemed like a bad idea to goad the guy with the gun. “It’d be suicide.”
Simon’s prediction fell on deaf ears. Agent Truman’s weapon stayed exactly where it was, aimed at Simon, who’d taken Willow’s place, and just when I was convinced this whole shooting-us thing had to be a bluff, Agent Truman proved me wrong.
He pulled the trigger.
It was one of those moments where everything happens too fast and too slow at the same time. My brain felt scrambled as it tried to make sense of any single thought, even while every detail that unfolded seemed to do so with startling clarity: the look on Simon’s face as he tried—and failed—to get out of the way in time, the ringing in my ears, which was back because the sound of the gun firing was so much louder than I’d ever imagined, and the smell . . . that odd crisp and chemical smell that I could only assume must be gunpowder.
Watching Simon take the impact of the bullet made my blood turn to ice. He looked like a ragdoll as he slammed backward, his unusual copper eyes brimming with all the disbelief I felt. He hit the ground so much harder than the soldier we’d gassed in the ducts, and I cringed when his head cracked sharply against the pavement behind him.
I shrank back against the wall, even as Willow launched forward, dragging Simon out of the way. Agent Truman fired again, only this time he was a split second too late. Willow tossed Simon aside as her attention turned to the agent.
When she charged Agent Truman, she looked like a bull—nostrils flared, jaw set. She was seriously pissed.
And he may as well have been standing there waving a red bullfighter’s cape. He dug in, securing his stance and setting his feet shoulder width apart. And then, just when I thought I’d seen it all, he pulled the trigger one more time.
When the bullet caught Willow square in the chest, I thought my own might collapse as well. Willow gasped, her mouth open for an eternity, like a fish gulping and gulping for air.
And that’s when I realized what was wrong. With everything. With this whole scene.
It was the reason Agent Truman hadn’t been worried about shooting us.
There was no blood.
He was shooting at us . . . he had shot Simon and Willow, but there wasn’t a single trace of blood.
I dropped to my knees and lunged for Willow, who was still grappling to catch her lost breath, and I wondered if her ribs had been shattered by whatever Agent Truman had fired at her. I wished she’d hurry up and mend already, but Simon had told me that I healed faster than anyone else, and clearly that included Willow. Her hands clawed at mine as if somehow, some way, I might be able to give her what she needed. But I couldn’t.
I scoured the ground around her, trying to find a reasonable explanation for the lack of blood, and when my eyes fell on the lone capsule, I snatched it up and closed my fist around it.
When I looked to Agent Truman, he met my gaze with a vicious sneer.
The exit door crashed open, and two more men came bursting into the alleyway, stopping behind Agent Truman’s back. Unlike him, they were in full hazmat gear, but beneath those plastic face masks, I could see what they really were: soldiers. Just like the one we’d left behind in the ducts beneath the lab, their faces smeared in black paint.
They’d come prepared, as if they’d known all along where to find us. My eyes strayed to the security camera as I wondered if Agent Truman had been lying about it, the same way he’d lied about Tyler being here.
Simon was still trying to get to his feet, so I grabbed Willow, meaning to drag her out of the way. But she was dead weight and I couldn’t make her budge. Not even an inch.
A tremor rippled through me as I watched, frozen in horror, while one of the men lifted an enormous rifle of some sort. Its barrel was too wide for bullets of any kind, and when he pulled the trigger, I realized why. Netting burst from the end of it, hurtling toward us—toward Willow and me—unfolding and spreading toward us.
It was a net gun, and we were about to be tangled in its web.
Simon’s hand closed over mine, and he yanked me out of the way just as the edge of the rope glanced off my cheek.
Willow wasn’t so lucky. The heavyweight mesh trapped her, making it impossible for her to move more than a few inches in either direction.
She thrashed beneath it, still not breathing.
Simon’s grip tightened as he continued dragging me away, and from behind us, I heard Agent Truman’s voice shouting, “Don’t let her get away!”
But they were too late because we were already running in the opposite direction, through the darkened alleyway.
Away from them . . .
. . . and away from Willow.
Jett, Thom, and Natty were waiting for us in the SUV not too far from the place we’d left it. They spotted us way before we saw them, and they were flashing the headlights even while they were speeding right toward us. Since they barely slowed, we had to run-jump to make it inside the still-moving vehicle.
Once the doors were closed, Simon panted, “Go!” to Jett, but even from the backseat, his devastation was palpable.
