But he doesn’t need to know that.
I watch the director as he decides what to do.
On one hand, Barclay trusts him, likes him even, and on the other, he’s the guy who signs the paperwork to execute people—I can’t believe that this guy, who’s willing to execute innocent people because of their association with someone who isn’t even proven guilty, can be one of the good guys. There are supposed to be some lines you don’t cross.
I try not to think about that, though. Otherwise I’m going to dwell on the fact that we’re here, trying to get his help, and I don’t understand how we can really be putting our faith in this guy.
He puts his phone in his pocket and looks at Barclay. “Come inside, Taylor.”
I hear voices from another room, someone laughing and then calling, “Keith! Annamarie! What’s keeping you?”
I look at Barclay, and I’m not surprised to see the shock in his eyes and the confusion on his face. Because I recognize that voice. It takes me a minute to place it, but then I remember—she invited him to lunch at a restaurant with the best air in the city.
It’s the governor.
“Dinner guests,” the director says to us. He’s been entertaining while my friends have been dying. Looking at his wife, he says, “Could you tell Hanna and Macon that I’ll be a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she says as she gives us a wary glance and moves through the house.
I hope a few minutes is enough time.
00:15:28:19
The director takes us into what’s either his library or home office, and he closes the door behind him.
He folds his arms across his chest. “You have five minutes.”
Barclay tells him everything.
And when I say everything, I mean he doesn’t leave out any part of it. He starts with the case he was on when he met me and Ben—how we helped him figure it out, sort of. He explains how he stumbled on the trafficking ring and how it was a lot more complicated than one girl getting nabbed from her universe. He details his suspicions about Eric’s death and IA involvement.
Barclay doesn’t even leave out the things the two of us have done that are clear violations of the law. Like the fact that we’ve each killed people.
It takes longer than five minutes, but the director doesn’t stop Barclay or look at his watch. Instead, he takes a seat while Barclay is telling him about the three guys who broke into his apartment.
After Barclay explains everything we found at the processing center, he pauses.
“And you have this computer?” the director asks.
“I emailed the files to everyone at IA, including you,” Barclay says.
The director gets up and moves to his computer, turning it on. As I wait for him to open his email and read the files we’ve sent, I can’t help holding my breath. This is it—the moment we find out if he’s going to listen to us or not.
His eyes widen as he reads. “Taylor, this can’t be right . . .”
“It is, sir,” Barclay says, leaning over him and pointing a few things out on the computer. “The records begin in 1995 and continue up until yesterday. This is a fully formed operation.”
The director takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.
Barclay nods. “But there’s more. And sir, it’s worse.”
The director raises his eyebrows. “Worse?” he asks. “How does it get any worse?”
Barclay swallows, and I know what he’s about to say. He’s about to point fingers at the director’s right-hand man. “Today, Ben Michaels went in with the proof. He brought with him a girl who had been abducted as a witness. They spoke to Deputy Director Struzinski. They told him everything, and they showed him the evidence we’d gotten from the traffickers.”
“And he shot them,” I say before I can stop myself. The best friend I had left and the guy I loved are gone. I’m not about to sugarcoat it.
The director looks at me, his eyes slightly widened, lips parted. Now he’s surprised. “This happened today? When—”
“An hour ago,” I say.
“At headquarters?” He looks at Barclay. “No one called.”
“Deputy Director Struzinski is involved,” Barclay says. “He was going to bury the proof. I heard it all on the com chip I was wearing.”
The director looks down. He’s shocked, and his brain is trying to process what he’s just heard. But he isn’t telling us to get out or arresting us, which means some of his memories are waving red flags, telling him that this actually makes some kind of sense, that there have been signs about Struzinski, signs that point to this.
“Sir, please,” Barclay says. “I urge you to handpick people for a task force. We need to move tonight while we still have a chance to get into the Black Hole and find the proof we need before someone destroys it. We can’t afford for them to move the operation.”
The director has his phone out again. He dials quickly and holds it to his ear.
I look at Barclay. I’m not sure what this means. The phone call could be because he believes us, and he’s going to follow Barclay’s suggestion and set up a task force, or it could mean that he’s about to have us arrested.
I’m frozen, holding my breath. I can’t take it if another person we thought we could trust turns on us. If the director is involved, we’re done. There aren’t any more surprise moves or last-ditch options.
Worse, if he’s involved, we’re trapped.
Which means if we’re going to run, we need to do it before other people get here.
00:14:43:54
The director calls Special Agent Robert Barnes and puts him on speakerphone. He asks Barnes to open Barclay’s email and tells him he’s going to run point on the operation. They’ll need a task force set up to go into the Black Hole and shut it down. They’ll need a team of tech people who can go through the computer files Barclay has recovered and sort out the evidence.
Then he tells him Struzinski and other people in IA may be involved.
Over the line, Robert Barnes swears. “Struzinski has been out of touch since the shooting this afternoon.” He goes on to recount what everyone in IA was told happened. Two suspects broke in, attacked the deputy director, and fled.
“They fled?” I interrupt. My heart feels like it’s in my throat, and my voice comes out a little breathless. I’m afraid to hope. “Does that mean they’re still alive?”
“A team went out after them but didn’t recover any bodies,” he says.
Barclay jumps in to explain what he heard through the com link. I can barely listen to the words, though. Ben and Cecily are alive. The relief is staggering. They’re probably back at the hospital waiting for us and wondering where we are.
“Sir, may I also suggest looping in Hayley Walker,” Barclay adds. “I know her well, and I can vouch for the fact that she isn’t involved.”
“I authorize her reassignment,” the director says. “Make the calls, get everything set up, and let’s meet in the briefing room at 0600.”
“Ben’s family,” I say, jumping in before he hangs up. “They’ve been put in prison. They’re supposed to be executed tomorrow morning, but they’re innocent.”
“It’s true, sir,” Barclay adds. “There were orders for people to be detained and executed.”
The director nods and speaks into the phone. “And Robert, you’ll put a stay on the executions slated for tomorrow and check out the transfer orders for anyone Struzinski sent to the Piston.”
A knot in my chest unfurls. I think of the way Derek’s face looked, bruised and swollen when he told me to run, and about how I promised to get him out when I knocked on his door.
I’ve made good on that, as long as it isn’t too late.
“Taylor, you should have come to me in the beginning,” the director says after he’s hung up the phone. “You’re one of the best agents we have. I would have listened to your suspicions.”
“That approach did Eric a lot of good,” I say, because let’s be honest, that’s w
hy he’s dead.
Barclay tenses, and I know I should feel bad. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up Eric—maybe I should be thankful the director believes us, but I can’t help it. I don’t like him. And even though it appears he’s not dirty, I still don’t trust him. Did he not know Ben’s family was wrongfully imprisoned? Or did he not care because the ends justified the means? Either way, it’s wrong. He’s stupid or he’s immoral—both are qualities that make him unfit to be in charge of IA.
Barclay takes a deep breath. “I didn’t know who was involved, and even if I did . . . If I came to you with suspicions but no proof that your deputy director and a number of other people I can’t even name were involved in a smuggling ring, would you have believed me? Jumped in to investigate?”
The director leans back, and I can see that he’s thinking about it and has decided that we’re right, that he wouldn’t have believed that of his own people—that he still can’t, despite what Barclay is telling him and despite the fact that he knows it’s true.
“Well, we’re going to investigate it now,” he says.
For a second, I think this might really be it, that even though I don’t like this guy, we might be able to portal back to the hospital, find Ben and Cecily, and go home.
We might have won.
But it’s not even close to being over.
00:14:41:27
The door opens.
The governor comes in, a glass of wine in her hand, flanked by two of her bodyguards. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glazed, and she almost seems giddy, like she can’t keep from smiling. The bodyguards seem disinterested, like most bodyguards should.
“Keith, what have you been doing back here?” she says. “Can’t you possibly take a night off? We’ve already opened the Bordeaux.”
“Hanna, this will just take a few more minutes, if you could excuse us,” he says.
Then she sees Barclay.
“Oh, Taylor, have you come to dine with us?” she says.
There’s something wrong about it. Even if she’s a lightweight, how much has she really been able to suck down in an hour? Plus, unless she’s losing her mind, she should be able to see that there’s some serious shit going down in this office right now. If she wanted to know what was going on, she could just ask. I don’t understand what her game is.
As I’m trying to sort out the thoughts in my head, I hear a car engine, and we’re briefly washed in blinding light from headlights pulling into the driveway.
I know what’s wrong.
But I’m too late, and I know it.
I’m reaching for the gun at my back, but both bodyguards have their guns out already, and they’re pointed in my direction. “Don’t even think about it, sweetie,” the governor says, her demeanor completely changed. She’s hard now and stone-cold sober. The transformation makes her look like a completely different person, and I realize how wrong I was to underestimate her.
“Hanna? What’s . . .” The director is apparently a step even behind me.
“Listen very carefully and do whatever I say,” she says. “Macon has a gun in poor Annamarie’s mouth, and he’s never liked her much. Put your guns on the floor.” She’s looking right at me, so I do it first. Maybe she’ll overlook someone else. She turns to Barclay and he removes the gun at his back and drops it on the floor. She kicks it away from him and adds, “All of them.”
He pulls the other gun from his ankle holster. Whatever advantage we might have had, it’s gone now.
The governor bends down and picks up Barclay’s gun. As she stands, she smiles at him. “I always knew you were one to watch, Taylor.” Then before I can realize what’s happening, her grip on the gun changes and she fires three shots.
Straight into Director Keith Franklin’s chest.
He’s dead before his body crumples to the ground.
00:14:38:25
It’s like all the air has just been sucked out of the room. I’m frozen, staring at the body of the director on the floor next to me. Of all the possible scenarios I’d worked up when we headed here, this was one I hadn’t seen coming.
The front door slams, and whoever is in the car that just pulled up has joined the party.
My eyes flick to Barclay, but he’s clearly as shocked as I am—he’s just staring at the governor.
I look at her, ready to dare her to make her next move, but she isn’t looking at me. Her bodyguards still have their guns trained on us, but she’s looking at the door, and the man coming through.
I’ve seen him before.
He’s tall and lanky, but with a defined build. His clothes are nothing flashy or dark, nothing to say that he’s anything but an average guy. His face is hard, and something about him gives me the same chills I got when I first saw him. His light hair is shaved close to his head, and it intensifies the effect that he’s been in his fair share of fights, and he’s not the kind of guy to mess with.
When his eyes zero in on me, he pauses, staring me down, but no emotion crosses his face, and a shiver moves up my spine.
I don’t need the introduction. I know who this guy is.
Constantine Meridian.
Last time I saw him, he was having guards pull Derek Michaels out of his cell and there was blood splattered on his shirt.
Several guys come in behind him. They’re more of the same, a little scruffier maybe, but not as scary.
“It’s about time you got here,” the governor says. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day.”
He ignores her and gestures to one of his men. “Get them processed.”
The governor starts talking to him, but I’m not listening to her. He’s going to make us Unwilling. That thought fights through the cloudy shock in my brain and wakes me. I’m not about to let that happen. I’m probably going to end up getting shot if I try to fight these guys, but I can’t let them take us. I move a step toward Meridian—even though I’m not sure what I’m going to do.
I just know I need to do something.
“Don’t,” Barclay says under his breath.
But I don’t listen. Instead, I take another step, and now I’m close enough for Meridian to notice I’ve moved.
“Thought you’d be long gone by now,” he says.
For a second, I’m thrown off. I don’t get what he’s saying, and then I remember. He knows my double. He’s never looked closely at her or paid enough attention to her to recognize that I’m different. And maybe that makes sense—she left rather than stay and try to take him down. But he doesn’t know how different I am.
I can use this. I can do something unexpected, catch him off guard.
“You thought I’d be dead?” I say.
He shrugs. It’s noncommittal. He doesn’t care—he just thought she wouldn’t be here.
I haul off and punch him in the face.
00:14:34:19
My fist connects to the left side of his face, and it feels like I’ve just slammed my hand into a brick wall. Pain shoots up my arm, but I don’t stop. I ram my knee into his crotch and reach for the gun at his back.
Glass breaks behind me, several shouts move through the room, and Meridian grunts. And when my fingers brush past the gun, I think I might have it, but then I feel the sharp pain in my head, and a rough hand coiled around my hair pulls back, then pushes me down to my knees.
I feel cool metal against my temple and smell the gunpowder.
Meridian reaches down and grabs my chin, forcing my face up to him. The guy with the grip on my hair doesn’t ease up, and I can feel some of it ripping out of my head.
Meridian shakes his head, his hand falling away. “Not who I thought you were,” he says quietly.
Something about the calmness in his voice makes me flinch. Having his attention directly on me turns my stomach and makes my skin feel uncomfortable. I don’t want him to touch me again.
He doesn’t. Instead, I see his hand coming down.
And pain explodes in the back of my head.
00:
09:06:30
When I wake up, I have the worst headache of my life—shocking.
And my face itches.
I’m facedown on a beige carpet, and my hands are restrained behind my back. I can’t tell how long I’ve been out, but I don’t think it’s as bad as some of my other injuries from this week. For one thing, my hands haven’t gone numb, which means they haven’t been in this position all that long.
“If we don’t find them, we’ll draw them out,” a female voice says. “Surely you understand the concept.” It’s the governor.
From where I am, I can’t see her—I can’t see much of anything.
For a split second, I debate whether I should move around, test my restraints, take stock of where we are and possibly give away the fact that I’ve come to, or just keep lying here. The second option feels a lot more appealing to my aching head. It also feels safer. I’m less likely to get hit again, less likely to get outright shot, less likely to attract attention.
But what is that going to get me in the end?
No matter what happens, I’m probably going to end up in the same place.
Dead.
I shift a little and turn my face to the side so I have a view of the room. I’m still not ready to go down fighting. Through my blurry vision, I manage to make out bookshelves lining the wall. Behind me is a desk. Across the room is a door. It’s partway open, and a girl—probably my age or a little older, with brown hair—is sitting at a desk, a high-tech computer in front of her. Her nose is crooked and half her face is black and blue with relatively fresh bruises. She looks like she either got hit with a fly ball or punched in the face. I don’t have to be too creative to assume it’s the latter.
Next to my feet is another guy, who’s restrained, conscious, and sitting up with his back against the wall. He’s been beat up pretty badly—his face is covered with blood, some dried and some fresh. He snorts, blowing a spray of blood out of his nose, and I realize it’s Barclay. He’s not quite close enough for me to touch him.