them. As they ran, he muttered to himself, “Mendez, what the fuck are you doing?”
Behind them, shouts sounded as the Cobras pounded in pursuit. They were cursing vilely that she had gotten away and threatening the guy who had helped her escape.
He dragged her over two buildings, to a pile of junk lumped haphazardly behind Fifteen. Then he let go of her so he could shove aside a metal sheet. Behind it, a corrugated pipe led into pitch blackness. “Get in,” he ordered roughly. “They don’t know about all of the tunnels.”
In the light of one of the few unbroken outside floods, she saw that the guy who had risked his own ass to get her away from Hood was a couple of years older than she—maybe eighteen, nineteen? He was tall but whip-thin, his fierce eyes rendered colorless by the sodium lights, his dark hair plastered to his skull as the rain poured down. He wore the ragged, mismatched clothes of a castoff, but he wasn’t anything like the other street kids she had met in the month or so that she’d been on her own. He had a presence the others lacked, an aura of capability and strength. There was a layer of menace, too, one that warned that he wasn’t someone she wanted to fuck with.
She hesitated, shaking. He had gotten her away from Hood, but that didn’t necessarily make him any better than the cobra de rey . He might just have wanted the fresh meat for himself.
When he moved, she flinched back, expecting him to make a grab. But he put his hand over his heart instead. “I’m one of the good guys, okay? And I swear on my sister’s soul that I won’t hurt you.” Then he held out his hand to her, in an invitation that showed where a wide, slashing scar crossed his palm.
The sight should have scared her. Instead, it made her feel a strange kinship. Nodding, she darted past him and ducked into the tunnel as the gang members′ footsteps got closer and she heard Hood shouting: “You’re mine, bitch. You hear me? Mine.”
“Not on my watch,” Mendez grated as he pulled the metal sheet back into place, cutting out the light. Then he guided her fingers to the tail of his ragged denim coat. “Be as quiet as you can, and hang on to me. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Then, with him leading the way, they crept into the darkness together, leaving their enemies behind.
The next time Reese aimed for consciousness, she made it all the way back, waking up to find herself lying on a couch. A thick blanket was tucked around her, its suffocating, too-warm weight threatening to trigger claustrophobia.
She didn’t let the fear take over, though. Instead, she forced herself to lie still and feign sleep as she tried to get a sense of her surroundings. Given the weirdness that had already gone down, she needed all the intel she could get.
All she came up with, though, was that the air was clean and processed, the couch and blanket smelled fresh, and her surroundings were silent except for the background hum of appliances. She didn’t hear anyone nearby, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, waiting for her to come around and . . . and what? The fragments that came back to her didn’t make any sense, didn’t tell her where she was, or what Strike and the others wanted from her. Panic sparked. She hated not knowing things. Knowledge was power. Control. Safety.
Shit. Breathe. In and out.
Logic said they had drugged her—the impossible memory of Strike appearing out of thin air had to be some sort of retrograde hallucination. Then, after they had knocked her out, they had kidnapped her and interrogated her under some sort of hallucinogenic. But why? And how long had she been out? Had anyone realized she was missing yet?
The answer to that last one was “no,” she knew. Not after she had made such a big deal about being independent and not needing to clock in or out.
Breathe , she told herself. Pretend you’re asleep. She was pretty sure she was alone, though.
A minute passed, then two,
Behind them, shouts sounded as the Cobras pounded in pursuit. They were cursing vilely that she had gotten away and threatening the guy who had helped her escape.
He dragged her over two buildings, to a pile of junk lumped haphazardly behind Fifteen. Then he let go of her so he could shove aside a metal sheet. Behind it, a corrugated pipe led into pitch blackness. “Get in,” he ordered roughly. “They don’t know about all of the tunnels.”
In the light of one of the few unbroken outside floods, she saw that the guy who had risked his own ass to get her away from Hood was a couple of years older than she—maybe eighteen, nineteen? He was tall but whip-thin, his fierce eyes rendered colorless by the sodium lights, his dark hair plastered to his skull as the rain poured down. He wore the ragged, mismatched clothes of a castoff, but he wasn’t anything like the other street kids she had met in the month or so that she’d been on her own. He had a presence the others lacked, an aura of capability and strength. There was a layer of menace, too, one that warned that he wasn’t someone she wanted to fuck with.
She hesitated, shaking. He had gotten her away from Hood, but that didn’t necessarily make him any better than the cobra de rey . He might just have wanted the fresh meat for himself.
When he moved, she flinched back, expecting him to make a grab. But he put his hand over his heart instead. “I’m one of the good guys, okay? And I swear on my sister’s soul that I won’t hurt you.” Then he held out his hand to her, in an invitation that showed where a wide, slashing scar crossed his palm.
The sight should have scared her. Instead, it made her feel a strange kinship. Nodding, she darted past him and ducked into the tunnel as the gang members′ footsteps got closer and she heard Hood shouting: “You’re mine, bitch. You hear me? Mine.”
“Not on my watch,” Mendez grated as he pulled the metal sheet back into place, cutting out the light. Then he guided her fingers to the tail of his ragged denim coat. “Be as quiet as you can, and hang on to me. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Then, with him leading the way, they crept into the darkness together, leaving their enemies behind.
The next time Reese aimed for consciousness, she made it all the way back, waking up to find herself lying on a couch. A thick blanket was tucked around her, its suffocating, too-warm weight threatening to trigger claustrophobia.
She didn’t let the fear take over, though. Instead, she forced herself to lie still and feign sleep as she tried to get a sense of her surroundings. Given the weirdness that had already gone down, she needed all the intel she could get.
All she came up with, though, was that the air was clean and processed, the couch and blanket smelled fresh, and her surroundings were silent except for the background hum of appliances. She didn’t hear anyone nearby, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, waiting for her to come around and . . . and what? The fragments that came back to her didn’t make any sense, didn’t tell her where she was, or what Strike and the others wanted from her. Panic sparked. She hated not knowing things. Knowledge was power. Control. Safety.
Shit. Breathe. In and out.
Logic said they had drugged her—the impossible memory of Strike appearing out of thin air had to be some sort of retrograde hallucination. Then, after they had knocked her out, they had kidnapped her and interrogated her under some sort of hallucinogenic. But why? And how long had she been out? Had anyone realized she was missing yet?
The answer to that last one was “no,” she knew. Not after she had made such a big deal about being independent and not needing to clock in or out.
Breathe , she told herself. Pretend you’re asleep. She was pretty sure she was alone, though.
A minute passed, then two,
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