any fluffy-tailed woodland creatures.
He watched out the window as units mobilized, pouring from the other buildings in the compound.
“We’ve gotta get out there,” Zane said, opening the cabinets in search of a uniform. He didn’t find anything but a blue bathrobe and slippers. The kind of flimsy crap that was meant to keep him warm in the bathroom, not outside on a wet spring day. Better than going outside with his ass hanging out, though.
“Think about it,” Spencer said. “You’re dragging an IV pole. What are you going to do, beat someone with it?”
Tempting thought. But he had a point.
So Zane waited, watching through the window and thinking murderous thoughts.
He managed to wait for a good half an hour.
Then he noticed one man walking separately from the others. He wasn’t in formation, and he also wasn’t rushing, even though he was dressed like a Union commander in a uniform that didn’t quite fit.
The last time Zane had seen that face, he had been trying to pump it full of bullets.
James Faulkner.
Zane ripped the IV needle out of his hand. Saline and blood spattered to the floor.
“They would want us to stay,” Spencer said.
“So stay,” Zane said.
He pushed the window open and climbed outside.
The hall outside the Vault was still empty when James left. He took the elevator to the surface and exited the facility through the front door. Nobody stopped him.
James had made plans to get arrested and rescue Malcolm, but it got somewhat hazy at this point. He had a glamor tattooed on one shoulder blade that would disguise him for an hour. If he could get on one of the SUVs heading out—or, better yet, one of the helicopters—he could overpower the driver and steal it. Then he could catch up with Malcolm before he got shipped to Italy.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but he didn’t have any other ideas.
James headed for the front gate, hands in his pockets, head down. He passed the R&D building, a garage, the medical ward.
There must have been a thousand cameras on the Union base, and if Allyson brought them back online, James was confident that someone would notice that the escaped prisoner was walking around in stolen clothing. But the cameras must have stayed offline, because nobody looked twice at him.
He slipped his hand into the neck of his shirt, searching for the glamor spell on his scapula.
The squelch of footsteps on damp grass behind him caught his attention. “It is you,” said a man. He was a young skinhead with bulging eyes. Zane St. Vil—the kopis that had shot James at the Fallon motel.
So much for the quiet escape.
He shoved St. Vil into the shadows behind the medical ward. “Be quiet!” James hissed.
St. Vil began to shout wordlessly, trying to attract attention. His eyes bulged dangerously from his skull.
James punched him across the face. St. Vil dropped. More importantly, he shut up.
But it was too late to avoid notice.
“You don’t disappoint, that’s for sure,” a woman said.
James turned. The space behind the medical building was empty. It looked like some kind of training field, which had become a mud pit after the recent rain. The guards that were swarming the front gates were nowhere in sight.
Allyson Whatley watched from the shadows behind the ward. Her arms were folded, and a spark of smug pleasure lit her face.
James extended his hands to show that they were empty. “You disabled the cameras so I could escape, didn’t you?”
“I can’t admit to that,” Allyson said.
She drew a pistol with a magical rune stamped on the side. It buzzed with power.
“Shoot him,” St. Vil said from the ground.
“Shut up,” she said. She returned her attention to James. “Empty your pockets.”
He tossed Yasir’s badge to the ground, along with the bloodied razor. He didn’t need either of those anymore. But he left Elise’s plastic-wrapped skin in his pocket—Allyson would have to kill him to get that.
“The Union has two lists: first
He watched out the window as units mobilized, pouring from the other buildings in the compound.
“We’ve gotta get out there,” Zane said, opening the cabinets in search of a uniform. He didn’t find anything but a blue bathrobe and slippers. The kind of flimsy crap that was meant to keep him warm in the bathroom, not outside on a wet spring day. Better than going outside with his ass hanging out, though.
“Think about it,” Spencer said. “You’re dragging an IV pole. What are you going to do, beat someone with it?”
Tempting thought. But he had a point.
So Zane waited, watching through the window and thinking murderous thoughts.
He managed to wait for a good half an hour.
Then he noticed one man walking separately from the others. He wasn’t in formation, and he also wasn’t rushing, even though he was dressed like a Union commander in a uniform that didn’t quite fit.
The last time Zane had seen that face, he had been trying to pump it full of bullets.
James Faulkner.
Zane ripped the IV needle out of his hand. Saline and blood spattered to the floor.
“They would want us to stay,” Spencer said.
“So stay,” Zane said.
He pushed the window open and climbed outside.
The hall outside the Vault was still empty when James left. He took the elevator to the surface and exited the facility through the front door. Nobody stopped him.
James had made plans to get arrested and rescue Malcolm, but it got somewhat hazy at this point. He had a glamor tattooed on one shoulder blade that would disguise him for an hour. If he could get on one of the SUVs heading out—or, better yet, one of the helicopters—he could overpower the driver and steal it. Then he could catch up with Malcolm before he got shipped to Italy.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but he didn’t have any other ideas.
James headed for the front gate, hands in his pockets, head down. He passed the R&D building, a garage, the medical ward.
There must have been a thousand cameras on the Union base, and if Allyson brought them back online, James was confident that someone would notice that the escaped prisoner was walking around in stolen clothing. But the cameras must have stayed offline, because nobody looked twice at him.
He slipped his hand into the neck of his shirt, searching for the glamor spell on his scapula.
The squelch of footsteps on damp grass behind him caught his attention. “It is you,” said a man. He was a young skinhead with bulging eyes. Zane St. Vil—the kopis that had shot James at the Fallon motel.
So much for the quiet escape.
He shoved St. Vil into the shadows behind the medical ward. “Be quiet!” James hissed.
St. Vil began to shout wordlessly, trying to attract attention. His eyes bulged dangerously from his skull.
James punched him across the face. St. Vil dropped. More importantly, he shut up.
But it was too late to avoid notice.
“You don’t disappoint, that’s for sure,” a woman said.
James turned. The space behind the medical building was empty. It looked like some kind of training field, which had become a mud pit after the recent rain. The guards that were swarming the front gates were nowhere in sight.
Allyson Whatley watched from the shadows behind the ward. Her arms were folded, and a spark of smug pleasure lit her face.
James extended his hands to show that they were empty. “You disabled the cameras so I could escape, didn’t you?”
“I can’t admit to that,” Allyson said.
She drew a pistol with a magical rune stamped on the side. It buzzed with power.
“Shoot him,” St. Vil said from the ground.
“Shut up,” she said. She returned her attention to James. “Empty your pockets.”
He tossed Yasir’s badge to the ground, along with the bloodied razor. He didn’t need either of those anymore. But he left Elise’s plastic-wrapped skin in his pocket—Allyson would have to kill him to get that.
“The Union has two lists: first
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