Unleashed
Page 58
I would think anyone marked a carrier would be well acquainted with the sour taste of fear by now.
Silence stretches. He’s waiting, his gaze fastened on mine. “Are you used to it yet?”
I shrug. “I’ve learned to control what it is that I feel.”
He chuckles and takes a bite of toast. “You’re so full of it. You’d like to believe that. Or better yet, you’d like me to believe it.”
I square my shoulders. “Believe whatever you like about me. What are you going to do about your spy?”
His gaze sweeps the room, and he looks tired again. Like he did last night. I resist the urge to touch him. Squeeze his shoulder or something. It’s what I would have done for a friend. And he’s that to me. At least. No point denying it. When someone saves your life once—make that twice—he can only be called a friend. “I could tell everyone now. But they’ll assume the spy is you, of course,” he continues, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I could even stop them from pouncing on you.”
So he’s trying to protect me? My chest tightens. “How are you so sure it’s not me?”
He looks at me, his eyes clear and deep and full of faith. Faith in me. It’s humbling and not something that I feel I deserve.
“Because you would have had no way to get a message out to anyone. And you didn’t even know where you were going to be. I realize that.” He nods out at the room. “But they’ll be too emotional to see it that way. And in Marcus’s case, too stupid.”
“So you’re going to keep this to yourself?”
“Telling them will lead to hysteria. And your lynching.”
I pull back my shoulders. “Don’t worry about me.”
His lips lift in a half smile, and his gaze skims me leisurely. My skin shivers, turning to gooseflesh. As though he’s actually touching me. “Funny. Little late for that.”
The tightness in my chest intensifies. “So what are you going to do then? You can’t pretend he isn’t here . . . watching us.” Waiting for the next time he can betray us. Kill us.
“I’m going to set a trap.” He takes a long swig of orange juice from his carton, his throat muscles working. It’s a mesmerizing sight.
“What kind of trap?”
“Not sure. Need to figure that out. Our advantage is that this spy doesn’t know we know he exists.”
Our. That single word fills me with equal amounts elation and trepidation. I don’t want to belong here. I don’t want to be a part of something again.
I shake my head, wondering if it’s not too late for that and feeling a little panicked. “I don’t have any ideas—”
“C’mon, you’re smart. You have to have an opinion. I gotta keep things together until the General gets back. If Marcus had his way, we’d be charging off daily, shooting anyone not sporting one of these.” He motions to his neck.
My hand goes to my throat, fingers closing around it. It’s strange that in this scenario, an imprint is the great unifier.
He leans forward across the table. “And do me a favor—stop pretending you don’t care. I see you under your tough-girl act.”
I don’t say anything, simply suffer his hard, all-seeing stare until he moves, pushing back from the table. “Think about it. I’ll stop by later.” He gathers up his trash and leaves me at the table.
I follow his progress across the room. He joins Terrence and together they disappear into the hall leading to the controls room. Not a glance back for me. No opportunity to insist that it’s not an act. And maybe that would just be pointless anyway, because I suddenly recall my use of the word us when talking about the spy.
I already see myself as one of them. As a part of this cell. A part of Caden’s life.
* * *
Conversation between the United States chief of staff and Dr. Louis Wainwright
SWITZER: It’s been brought to my attention that your camps aren’t living up to your predictions. They’re overrun. The last report showed a remarkably high death rate within the camps, and the number of escapes and escape attempts is alarming. The president is quite concerned. . . .
WAINWRIGHT: What reports are you referring to? I haven’t released any—
SWITZER: Do you think I’m not privy to such information?
WAINWRIGHT: Of course, I’m only concerned at the accuracy of the information you’re receiving.
SWITZER: Oh, rest assured, my information is accurate.
WAINWRIGHT: Results take time. You need to be patient.
SWITZER: Given the current climate, time and patience are two things the president possesses very little of. Nor you, for that matter. . . .
TWENTY
I KNOW THE MOMENT CADEN STANDS UP IN THE middle of dinner that he’s going to make some kind of announcement. It’s a crowded room, almost every chair occupied. Even my table is full. Junie’s friends, Boyce and Roland, two other scouts, sit with us.
My fork stalls mid-stir in my spaghetti. A hush falls over the room.
“I knew this was coming.” Junie leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. The guys at the table nod in agreement.
“Maybe we’ll finally get some answers.” Boyce fingers the long ridge of scar tissue that drags down his cheek. He touches it a lot, drawing even more attention to it, which I think is the opposite of his desire. He’s always looking down at the ground—or in this case, his plate—and letting his hair fall low on his face. He’s not one of those carriers who enjoys looking menacing.
Silence stretches. He’s waiting, his gaze fastened on mine. “Are you used to it yet?”
I shrug. “I’ve learned to control what it is that I feel.”
He chuckles and takes a bite of toast. “You’re so full of it. You’d like to believe that. Or better yet, you’d like me to believe it.”
I square my shoulders. “Believe whatever you like about me. What are you going to do about your spy?”
His gaze sweeps the room, and he looks tired again. Like he did last night. I resist the urge to touch him. Squeeze his shoulder or something. It’s what I would have done for a friend. And he’s that to me. At least. No point denying it. When someone saves your life once—make that twice—he can only be called a friend. “I could tell everyone now. But they’ll assume the spy is you, of course,” he continues, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I could even stop them from pouncing on you.”
So he’s trying to protect me? My chest tightens. “How are you so sure it’s not me?”
He looks at me, his eyes clear and deep and full of faith. Faith in me. It’s humbling and not something that I feel I deserve.
“Because you would have had no way to get a message out to anyone. And you didn’t even know where you were going to be. I realize that.” He nods out at the room. “But they’ll be too emotional to see it that way. And in Marcus’s case, too stupid.”
“So you’re going to keep this to yourself?”
“Telling them will lead to hysteria. And your lynching.”
I pull back my shoulders. “Don’t worry about me.”
His lips lift in a half smile, and his gaze skims me leisurely. My skin shivers, turning to gooseflesh. As though he’s actually touching me. “Funny. Little late for that.”
The tightness in my chest intensifies. “So what are you going to do then? You can’t pretend he isn’t here . . . watching us.” Waiting for the next time he can betray us. Kill us.
“I’m going to set a trap.” He takes a long swig of orange juice from his carton, his throat muscles working. It’s a mesmerizing sight.
“What kind of trap?”
“Not sure. Need to figure that out. Our advantage is that this spy doesn’t know we know he exists.”
Our. That single word fills me with equal amounts elation and trepidation. I don’t want to belong here. I don’t want to be a part of something again.
I shake my head, wondering if it’s not too late for that and feeling a little panicked. “I don’t have any ideas—”
“C’mon, you’re smart. You have to have an opinion. I gotta keep things together until the General gets back. If Marcus had his way, we’d be charging off daily, shooting anyone not sporting one of these.” He motions to his neck.
My hand goes to my throat, fingers closing around it. It’s strange that in this scenario, an imprint is the great unifier.
He leans forward across the table. “And do me a favor—stop pretending you don’t care. I see you under your tough-girl act.”
I don’t say anything, simply suffer his hard, all-seeing stare until he moves, pushing back from the table. “Think about it. I’ll stop by later.” He gathers up his trash and leaves me at the table.
I follow his progress across the room. He joins Terrence and together they disappear into the hall leading to the controls room. Not a glance back for me. No opportunity to insist that it’s not an act. And maybe that would just be pointless anyway, because I suddenly recall my use of the word us when talking about the spy.
I already see myself as one of them. As a part of this cell. A part of Caden’s life.
* * *
Conversation between the United States chief of staff and Dr. Louis Wainwright
SWITZER: It’s been brought to my attention that your camps aren’t living up to your predictions. They’re overrun. The last report showed a remarkably high death rate within the camps, and the number of escapes and escape attempts is alarming. The president is quite concerned. . . .
WAINWRIGHT: What reports are you referring to? I haven’t released any—
SWITZER: Do you think I’m not privy to such information?
WAINWRIGHT: Of course, I’m only concerned at the accuracy of the information you’re receiving.
SWITZER: Oh, rest assured, my information is accurate.
WAINWRIGHT: Results take time. You need to be patient.
SWITZER: Given the current climate, time and patience are two things the president possesses very little of. Nor you, for that matter. . . .
TWENTY
I KNOW THE MOMENT CADEN STANDS UP IN THE middle of dinner that he’s going to make some kind of announcement. It’s a crowded room, almost every chair occupied. Even my table is full. Junie’s friends, Boyce and Roland, two other scouts, sit with us.
My fork stalls mid-stir in my spaghetti. A hush falls over the room.
“I knew this was coming.” Junie leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. The guys at the table nod in agreement.
“Maybe we’ll finally get some answers.” Boyce fingers the long ridge of scar tissue that drags down his cheek. He touches it a lot, drawing even more attention to it, which I think is the opposite of his desire. He’s always looking down at the ground—or in this case, his plate—and letting his hair fall low on his face. He’s not one of those carriers who enjoys looking menacing.
