Page 27 of Pulling Strings

“They’ll mount my head on a plaque. I know.”

But, if they caught Donovan, he would be labeled a criminal. Caught at the scene of a break-in or attempted murder, however they decided to frame it, with the Bloody Hex mark plain as day on his hand, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Side effects,” I continued to my brother. “Nash’ll want to know.”

I couldn’t stand him staring at me, teary and scared stiff. More than that, I couldn’t risk him stalling this with awkward goodbyes. I grabbed his hand again and squeezed his fingers closed.

The marble popped, oozing liquid I barely felt before it was gone. Donovan disappeared in a blink, leaving me with my boss wearing Jacoby Thatcher’s face and a look of rage.

“Damn it!” Grimm shouted. “You better pray you live long enough to regret that.”

Something metallic bounced then rolled down the hall toward us, spewing smoke. I reached for the collar of my shirt to keep from breathing the fumes, but not before the canister exploded with a burst of light and ear-shredding sound.

My vision washed white, so bright that even closing my eyes couldn’t block it out. I thought every curse word I knew but couldn’t be sure if I said any of them. I heard nothing but pain—if pain had a sound, and I was suddenly certain it did.

I staggered back, blinking furiously.

Magic fizzled out in my fingertips, sucked away with the adrenaline rush that scrambled my thoughts until they made as much sense as alphabet soup.

Sight returned in blurs of color. I turned a slowcircle, trying to orient myself as the room reappeared. Grimm—or rather, Jacoby—hunkered on the floor while black-suited bodies rushed down both hallways, funneling toward the den where I remained profoundly trapped.

Red lasers swirled with the stars still cluttering my vision. I looked down at the glowing red dots grouped on my chest. I had no doubt there was at least one fixed on my head, as well.

“Mister Thatcher!” someone shouted. “Are you all right, sir?”

Another called to his squad mates. “Where’s the other one? There were two of them!”

“Search the house!” came the reply and, for the first time in several long moments, I could breathe. If it was Donovan they wanted, they’d never find him. A small victory, but an important one.

“Fitch Farrow,” the megaphoned voice from outside squawked. “You are under arrest by order of the Capitol. Surrender or we will use deadly force.”

How many were there? Fifteen? Twenty men? With enough firepower to capture the whole gang, or to execute us on the spot if given an excuse to do so. We were wanted dead or alive, and dead was always easier.

I had to make a choice: fight back and die now—gunmen with itchy trigger fingers would be praised for splatter painting this room with my gray matter—or surrender to die later on the Capitol stage, kneeling before a guillotine while a crowd jeered.

I didn’t want to die now. I wasn’t ready for that. Maybe it wasn’t so difficult to decide.

Hands up first. Lacing my fingers on the back of my skull helped hold them steady. I started to kneel, but my knees gave out halfway down. I hit the ground with a thud.

Thick-soled boots stomped in while the men shouted, “Now, now! Go, go!”

My pulse beat inside my aching ears as the commandos circled. I counted ten of them before one came up behind me and used the nose of his rifle to shove my face down to the floor.

Gloved hands grabbed my wrists and secured them behind my back with zip cuffs. They hauled me up, my knees still weak, and snapped a cold, metal collar around my neck.

When electricity zipped down my spine, I bucked back. Fists plunged immediately into my gut, driving the air out in a grunt. I stumbled forward, but whoever held the ring around my throat clung on, pulling against it till pressure swelled in my head.

The shuffling, staggered journey out of the house became a battle for air. Thoughts wicked away while my brain stretched tight as a balloon. It filled up until I fell down, collapsing unconscious on the dew-damp grass.

10

Capitol Importance

The ride from the suburbs to the city came in flashes. Electric shocks from the collar strained every muscle in my body until I was wound so tight I couldn’t breathe. The carload of commandos got a good laugh out of it, taking turns passing around a remote control while I laid curled and quaking on the floor.

They must have carried me into the Capitol building because my legs were still locked up when they dumped me on the floor of a tiny room. Judging by the involuntary twitches shortening my breaths, I had enough residual electricity in me to power a lightbulb.

I sat up slowly and blinked bleary eyes at the fanciest prison cell I’d ever seen. It came complete with an en suite boasting a shower tub and sink. Besides the bed, there was a table with a lamp—bolted down, of course—and a boxy television mounted in the opposite corner. It was only a slight downgrade from the motel the Bloody Hex called home.

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