His right side felt wet and cold. That was probably blood. Not a good sign, but he still didn’t feel any pain, and he definitely didn’t feel like it could slow him down. Quinn was back there, Quinn — a third chimera, one of his targets—
His head was vibrating, like he’d taken a punch to the temple. His brains felt like they were quivering Jell-O inside his skull.
Black cars were moving all around him, slotting themselves into place. Men in black suits were jogging across the asphalt, guns and walkie-talkies in their hands. He glanced back and saw the limo almost right behind him, pulled across both lanes of the highway, standing across the road.
“The judge,” he shouted. He couldn’t hear his own voice. That wasn’t a good sign. It could mean a lot of things, though, anything from a concussion to a gunshot wound to the head. “Get the judge out of here! Get the limo out of here!”
Up ahead car three stood in the median. Beyond it he could see something black and white moving, thrashing around.
It was Quinn. They’d dressed him in one of their suits, made him look like a member of the security detail. They had cut his hair neat and professional, made him look like an ex-soldier or maybe an ex-football player. The kind of man who would work for Reinhard. If his eyes weren’t covered by those nictitating membranes, Chapel would never recognize him. Quinn was staggering back and forth on the median like he was drunk. Like he was trying to walk on the deck of a heaving ship.
Someone was shouting at Chapel. One of the troopers, one of the motorcycle troopers, was shouting at him, but Chapel couldn’t hear the words, he could only see the man’s lips moving. Chapel waved him away and ran toward Quinn.
Around the median there was a ring of black suits. Men in black suits. Their eyes were normal, at least, but why were they standing there? Why were they just standing there?
Quinn saw Chapel and pulled himself upright. He pounded at his ears with his palms as if they were full of water and he was trying to clear them. Was he deaf too? Maybe — maybe the noise of the tire blowout had deafened them both.
Chapel had no time to think. He couldn’t think. He drew his sidearm. Stood sideways to make a smaller target of himself, pointed his weapon at Quinn. “Lie down! Lie down on the ground and put your hands behind your head!” Chapel shouted. He could just hear the words, though they sounded distorted and weird.
Quinn scrubbed at his face with his hands. His jacket was torn all up one side, and the white cuff had frayed down to torn ribbons. The skin of his palm on that side was pink and bloody. He must have gone flying when car three veered into the median. He must have been thrown clear and slid twenty feet on his hand and side. No wonder he looked so disoriented.
He was still a chimera, though. Even as Chapel watched Quinn seemed to regain his composure. He pulled himself up to his full height. Tilted his head back and roared like a lion.
Tell me who the Voice is. Tell me why the Voice wants you to kill Hayes. Tell me why you were created.
There were a million questions in Chapel’s head, questions he wanted to ask Quinn. He dearly wanted Quinn to surrender, wanted him to stand down so Chapel could take him into custody and interrogate him.
Quinn was a chimera. He was hurt, and angry, and scared. He wouldn’t be taken without a fight.
He rushed straight at Chapel, his head down, his arms out like he would grab Chapel around the waist and knock him to the ground. Like he was going to crush Chapel’s life right out of him.
Chapel breathed out, aimed at the top of Quinn’s head, and fired until Quinn dropped to the ground, dead as meat.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+59:10
Chapel holstered his gun and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. His ears rang with the noise of his own gunshots. He could hear the sirens of Young’s cruiser better now.
Slowly he opened his eyes. He was looking down at his feet. He was standing in a patch of dry, dusty weeds in the median strip. Quinn was nearby. Covered in blood.
“Nobody touch him,” Chapel called out. “Stay away from the blood, especially.”
He could hear his own voice a little better, now. That was good.
Without even thinking about it he moved his good hand to his side. He could feel the wetness there. He lifted up his jacket and saw his whole side slick with blood.
Not so good.
Quinn had shot him. Chapel couldn’t tell if it was a flesh wound or if the bullet had pierced his abdominal cavity. There was an awful lot of blood. His blood. Quinn’s blood. His head started to spin again.
You hurtin’? Top asked him. In his head, that voice was just in his head, he forced himself to remember that. You feelin’ the burn? You know what that means.
“Means I’m still alive,” Chapel said, because they’d been through this so many times it was like a litany. Every time Chapel flagged or slowed down during their workout sessions, every time he wanted to take a break, Top would say the same thing.
And if you’re still livin’—
“Then there’s still work to do,” Chapel said, out loud.
He opened his eyes again. He didn’t remember closing them. He kept them open, looked around himself.
The security guards were standing in a circle around him, around him and Quinn’s body. Some of them looked shocked. Maybe they’d never seen a man’s head blown off before. Maybe they just couldn’t believe Chapel was still standing.
One of them was holding a walkie-talkie. It squawked and Chapel heard something, heard Reinhard’s voice come through, though he couldn’t make out the words.
Reinhard — who was in the limo with Judge Hayes. Reinhard — who maybe wasn’t quite as trustworthy as the judge thought.
“Out of my way,” Chapel said, as he ran through the circle of black suits. They didn’t try to stop him. He got back up on the asphalt, started running as his feet hit solid highway pavement. The limo was still sitting there, across the lanes. It hadn’t moved at all. Chapel ran up to the back door, tried the handle. It was locked at least.
“Your Honor,” Chapel shouted. “We need to move you out of here now. The assassin might have had backup.” That wasn’t how the chimeras normally worked, but this kill was different. The judge had been singled out by the Voice. It was possible the Voice had a contingency plan. “Your Honor?”
The door lock clicked open. Chapel grabbed the handle and pulled at the door. Inside the limo it was dark and cool, and Chapel saw two men, Reinhard and Hayes. He leaned inside the door, blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness inside.
“Well done, Captain,” Hayes said. “Get in.”
“Your Honor, it isn’t safe here,” Chapel said, stepping inside the limo. He plopped down on a leather seat and wondered why he hadn’t thought about sitting down before. It felt so good, so good to get off his feet. “I, uh — I need to—”
“Relax,” Hayes said. Reinhard rapped on the partition between them and the driver. Chapel felt the limo’s engine rumble to life and felt them moving. “Relax. It’s all over, and you did exceedingly well.”
Hayes reached inside his jacket and pulled something out.
It was a pistol.
He shot Chapel twice in the chest.
DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, COLORADO: APRIL 14, T+59:17
“Julia,” Angel said.
“I’m here,” Julia said. “I’m just… still trying to understand what you told me. It’s a lot to take in.”
“I know,” the operator told her. “But something’s happened. There’s no time to talk about Marcia Kennedy right now. Chapel—”
Julia’s body froze. In an instant she felt like a solid block of ice. “Is he—?”