Burn by Sarah Fine and Walter Jury Page A

from a gash in his freckled forehead, flings himself across the back of my legs before I can plant my foot in Congers’s face. I want to call for help . . . but who would I call? I need all of them to be safe. I don’t want them here in this smoky apartment, going down with me.
    Meaty hands shove my face into the floor, grinding my skull against hardwood while someone grabs my arms and wrenches them behind my back. Before I can jerk myself away, handcuffs enclose my wrists.
    â€œYou bastards!” Leo shouts, crashing into one of the dark shapes hovering above me.
    â€œWe’ll take him, too,” says Congers, who’s gotten to his feet and is covering his nose and mouth with his suit jacket. “The fire alarms will draw the neighbors. We need to get out of here.”
    I am rolled onto my back. They don’t give me a chance to make a move. There’s a hand on my throat and two bodies on mine, smashing my fingers between my ass and the floor. My ears ring.
    Leo hits the ground next to me. “Sorry,” he huffs. I glance to the side. My eyes are the only thing I can move, and through the spots that crowd my vision, I see the blood flowing from his nose. His wire-framed glasses lie between us, lenses cracked.
    He should have escaped when he had the chance. I’d roll my eyes, but I’m still fighting to breathe. Graham is sitting on my chest. I stare at the ceiling, though I can’t really see it through the haze.
Be okay, Christina,
I think.
Be safe.
    â€œWe’ll take them out through the basement,” Congers orders.
    â€œAnd the others?” Mack asks before he starts to cough again, his face as red as his hair.
    â€œShould we go after them?” Graham continues for him.
    â€œNo. We have what we want. Prepare these two for transport.” Congers wipes blood from his lips and prods Leo with his toe while Mack clamps a set of handcuffs on the kid. Leo clenches his teeth as he’s jerked onto his back and manages to stay silent even when his head cracks against the floor. Congers looks down at us. “Nap time, children.”
    And that’s the last thing I hear before there’s a needle-sharp jab of pain in my thigh and a seeping heaviness unfurls within my body, sucking me down into the black.
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    The first thing that returns is the pain. Raw, hot, throbbing. My wrists, my ankle, my head. I stay very still and surf the rolling waves of nausea. Eyes closed, I listen, focusing on one sound at a time. The low hum of conversation. The deep vibration that tells me I’m in a moving vehicle. Somewhere in front of me, someone’s gasping, frightened.
    â€œWhen did he say he’d arrive?” asks a male voice. Graham, I think.
    â€œTwenty-three hundred hours,” replies Congers from right next to me. “The helo’s already left Charlottesville. We’ll go back into the city once we’re sure what we’re dealing with. Maybe this detour will end up working to our benefit.”
    â€œWhy bring the body here instead of DC? What can that scanner tell us that we don’t already know?” Graham asks.
    My gut clenches. Congers must have the scanner. I wonder if it’s in this SUV.
    Congers shifts in his seat, and I can almost feel his gaze on me. “Focus on the road, Graham.”
    My eyes snap open. I’m staring at my legs, my head bowed. A seat belt keeps me upright. I’m sitting between two men in dark suits. Their jackets cover the bulges at their waists, but as I shift, my elbow bumps against the butt of Congers’s weapon. My wrists are shackled behind me. My shoulder muscles are screaming.
    I slowly raise my head. A narrow two-lane road, headlights shining on the dotted white lines. Someone in this car isn’t wearing enough deodorant. The odor is coming from the squirming figure in front of me. Leo. He’s between two agents, too, in the middle row of this SUV.