planted, he let go of her wrist.
The section of the Preserves they were field-tripping through must have been inhabited years ago, before the nuclear accidents of the Great Wars had rendered large strips of the Russian countryside uninhabitable by humans. The ground was level here, a rusted-out car abandoned on the edge of their makeshift path. Maybe, there'd been a road connecting A to Z here long ago, before the Fallen had bought up the land and turned it into a paranormal prison. Now, the car's exterior was little more than rust-colored strips of peeling metal. The glass of the windshield had spider-webbed, thousands of cracks rippling outward from the hole in the middle. Somehow, that glass held despite the damage.
"I was shooting out of a moving chopper." She shrugged. "I doubt those shots are too clear. Your boys intercepted them, so you know exactly what I have." Which was more than she did. She'd shot on instinct, her finger on auto-pilot, because she'd needed the barrier between herself and the horror of what was unfolding on the ground.
"It doesn't matter now," he said. "If you don't go over the wall before the rogues catch up, it doesn't matter what you did or didn't see."
"Let's talk about that, shall we?" The kernel of anger was unexpected. She might not be as big or as strong, but she was part of this strange partnership. For some reason, he wanted something she had. He wanted—needed—to get her out of the Preserves. She didn't want to think about what would have happened if she hadn't had the photos as a bargaining chip. Nausea curled through her stomach. The winged angels had battered at the chopper like the bird was a toy. She could be dead.
All in all, MVD's recon mission had been a failure. Sure, she'd shot pictures, but what had she really captured? She thought back over the scene on the ground, talking it through out loud. "Tell me when I get close," she suggested. "We fly in—"
"Illegally," he interrupted. "No humans in Fallen airspace. That was the deal, Ria. Whether you knew it or not, your superiors knew it real well. They knew they were sending you on a suicide mission."
Those words of his hurt, probably, she decided, because they were true. She was disposable. Just like always. It didn't matter that she'd been sent. Someone had to go—and she'd been handy, like running through a drive-through when the hunger pangs hit and there wasn't enough time to do a sit-down.
"Fine," she said, because there was no point in harping on her role here. "MVD decides they need a closer look at what's going on on the ground in the Preserves because, you see, Vkhin, we've been hearing things. Rumors. Wild stories about flying angels, even though we all know your kind can't fly." What the hell, she decided. Maybe, she'd give him the truth after all. "I spot an anomaly while operating one of the drones—what looks like wingless rogues flying — and MVD chain of command decides it merits a second glance. So I go up, in a chopper, and we head for the problem spot. Only, the problem turns out to be that that spot isn't some blank spot on the radar with weird weather. No, what I'm seeing are flying objects. Angels , Vkhin, who've got their wings back."
He stopped then and just stared right at her. That hard, black gaze was the most lifeless, soul-less thing she'd ever seen. His eyes were cold as a bitch and she'd clearly connected one too many dots. He didn't like her conclusions. At all. So her breath shouldn't be catching, her eyes shouldn't be moving over the hard planes of his face, wondering how he'd got the small, silver scar on his left cheekbone. He didn't want her, she reminded herself fiercely. She was just the means to an end.
She hated the lack of light, the way the sky overhead was all impenetrable blackness. She stumbled because her night vision wasn't great and cracking open a torch would have been a nice move, but something about the darkness stopped her. That lack of light was menacing.
The section of the Preserves they were field-tripping through must have been inhabited years ago, before the nuclear accidents of the Great Wars had rendered large strips of the Russian countryside uninhabitable by humans. The ground was level here, a rusted-out car abandoned on the edge of their makeshift path. Maybe, there'd been a road connecting A to Z here long ago, before the Fallen had bought up the land and turned it into a paranormal prison. Now, the car's exterior was little more than rust-colored strips of peeling metal. The glass of the windshield had spider-webbed, thousands of cracks rippling outward from the hole in the middle. Somehow, that glass held despite the damage.
"I was shooting out of a moving chopper." She shrugged. "I doubt those shots are too clear. Your boys intercepted them, so you know exactly what I have." Which was more than she did. She'd shot on instinct, her finger on auto-pilot, because she'd needed the barrier between herself and the horror of what was unfolding on the ground.
"It doesn't matter now," he said. "If you don't go over the wall before the rogues catch up, it doesn't matter what you did or didn't see."
"Let's talk about that, shall we?" The kernel of anger was unexpected. She might not be as big or as strong, but she was part of this strange partnership. For some reason, he wanted something she had. He wanted—needed—to get her out of the Preserves. She didn't want to think about what would have happened if she hadn't had the photos as a bargaining chip. Nausea curled through her stomach. The winged angels had battered at the chopper like the bird was a toy. She could be dead.
All in all, MVD's recon mission had been a failure. Sure, she'd shot pictures, but what had she really captured? She thought back over the scene on the ground, talking it through out loud. "Tell me when I get close," she suggested. "We fly in—"
"Illegally," he interrupted. "No humans in Fallen airspace. That was the deal, Ria. Whether you knew it or not, your superiors knew it real well. They knew they were sending you on a suicide mission."
Those words of his hurt, probably, she decided, because they were true. She was disposable. Just like always. It didn't matter that she'd been sent. Someone had to go—and she'd been handy, like running through a drive-through when the hunger pangs hit and there wasn't enough time to do a sit-down.
"Fine," she said, because there was no point in harping on her role here. "MVD decides they need a closer look at what's going on on the ground in the Preserves because, you see, Vkhin, we've been hearing things. Rumors. Wild stories about flying angels, even though we all know your kind can't fly." What the hell, she decided. Maybe, she'd give him the truth after all. "I spot an anomaly while operating one of the drones—what looks like wingless rogues flying — and MVD chain of command decides it merits a second glance. So I go up, in a chopper, and we head for the problem spot. Only, the problem turns out to be that that spot isn't some blank spot on the radar with weird weather. No, what I'm seeing are flying objects. Angels , Vkhin, who've got their wings back."
He stopped then and just stared right at her. That hard, black gaze was the most lifeless, soul-less thing she'd ever seen. His eyes were cold as a bitch and she'd clearly connected one too many dots. He didn't like her conclusions. At all. So her breath shouldn't be catching, her eyes shouldn't be moving over the hard planes of his face, wondering how he'd got the small, silver scar on his left cheekbone. He didn't want her, she reminded herself fiercely. She was just the means to an end.
She hated the lack of light, the way the sky overhead was all impenetrable blackness. She stumbled because her night vision wasn't great and cracking open a torch would have been a nice move, but something about the darkness stopped her. That lack of light was menacing.
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