Page 71 of If You Go
The air folds in on itself. White, then gray. My ears scream with ringing.
Someone grabs my shoulder–Josh, maybe–but the world doubles again, and he’s gone.
I drop to my hands and knees, choking on the thick chemical burn of air and blood.
Through the blur, one last clear image: Surry, standing in the center of it all. Mask on. Eyes hard. Unflinching.
She’s the calm in the storm.
Then the world collapses into noise, and then black.
Surry
I tightened my fingers around the little cylinder in my pocket until the metal pin bit into my skin. Corver kneels in front of me like he’s reading from a manual, but his voice is clinical and steady, which is the only thing I need right now.
“Okay, here is the gas mask, and then the actual gas bomb. Look right here,” he says, pointing to the handle with a tiny metal pin and ring. “This is the pin. You will want to squeezethe handle closed, and then pull this out. But for the love of all creatures—”
I raise a brow. Love of all creatures? Natasha gives him the same look and he sighs, starts again.
“For the love of EVERYTHING,” he corrects, stabbing a finger at the pin. “Do not pull the pin until you are ready to throw it. Got it?”
I nod, fully planning on ignoring him, and slide the cylinder into my back pocket. Cargo pants: a literal lifesaver right now. I shove the gas mask beside it and pretend not to feel the tremor at the base of my throat.
“Thanks, Corver. What will you do?” I try to make my voice light. It comes out thin.
“I’m going to take Natasha out the way I came in. See if our friends are here.” He gives a grin that’s half hope, half something darker. I don’t know who our friends are, but I’m praying that they’re here.
He squeezes my shoulder–quick, businesslike–then lets go. Natasha steps forward, takes my hands, looks at me with those steady blue eyes, and says something in her rough, beautiful Russian.
“Pust' muzhestvo vedët tebya, a strakh ostanetsya pozadi.”
“Sounds nice, but I have no idea what it means. Good luck?,” I ask, laughing a cracked little laugh.
“May courage lead you, and fear stay behind. But, close enough.” She lets go, a half smile on her face, and the two of them melt back toward the cell block.
I stand alone for a beat, listening to my own breath, the way it wheels and thuds in my ears. I pat my pocket, pistol is there; weight is a comfort, an anchor. I tug my pants down a notch, letting the fabric and a sliver of skin do the work I can’t: distract, disarm, entice. If I’m going to be bait, I’ll play the part.
When I’m ready I pinch the handle, yank the pin. The little ring squeals as metal slides free. I keep my fingers clamped around it, the cylinder hidden between my chest and arms so no one can see.
Then I leave the shadows and walk toward them.
The warehouse smells of old oil and something rotten. Every footstep is loud in the silence around Gavin. He stands too calm, the wrong kind of calm, a man who’s already accepted violence as a daily ritual.
“Gavin, that’s enough,” I tell him. My voice sounds braver than I feel. Seeing Brenden, Papa, Josh, Sam, and Gunnar on the floor, forced to kneel before the man who used to own me makes bile rise in my throat. I fight it down.
“You got what you wanted. Me and Natasha. What more do you get by killing them?” I keep my eyes on my people, cataloging every face for any sign I can do something to help.
He is smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, Surry. Sweet, stupid Surry. You don’t get it. They will always come for you. I can’t be king of both my armies until Stefan is dead. So–therefore–they must die.”
He says this last part with a casual flick of his wrist, like he's discussing the weather instead of murder. His eyes have a glassy sheen to them, pupils blown wide and dark as bullet holes. A thin line of spittle clings to the corner of his mouth when he speaks, trembling with each syllable. There is no logic in the twitching muscles of his face, only the wild, erratic pulse of a man who not only believes in monsters, but has become one himself.
“Can I–just–say goodbye?” I press for time. I need time. Panic claws at my ribs. My fingers sweat on the cylinder. His gaze slips over my body; the room narrows to his pupils, the white of his teeth, and the slow inhale he takes like a predator smelling blood.
I nod toward my father. This is the second before the breath leaves you; this is the long, three-second silence before a gunshot. I yell the code word sharp as a whip.
“Iontas!”
I fling the bomb high–aiming just above Gavin–and the little cylinder hits the concrete just behind him. Gas wheezes out of it, almost invisible at first, then curls like smoke. He turns to see what I’ve done; that’s my opening. I yank the mask out, jam it over my face, and take a deep breath in through the filter. The world snaps into narrow clarity: sound muffled, edges bright, the chemical tang a second layer beneath everything.
