Sammy nudges me into action. I take one last look at Jackson’s crumpled body, and we drop safely into the Outer Ring. There’s a small fire burning ahead in camp. We sprint toward it.
My run is becoming more and more of a limp, but I push myself harder. I can make out Bleak helping Clipper, and Bree approaching with her rifle at the ready. I have no idea how many Order members found our team here, but our car is the only one in sight, so at least they are only on foot.
When I’ve almost caught up to Bree, she comes to an abrupt halt. She spins, a look of horror on her face. Shakes her head. Waves for me to stop. And I see why.
Emma.
She’s not dead. She’s alive. Xavier, too. But she has a gun to his head. Emma is holding Xavier at gunpoint and Bo is facedown behind her, the snow beneath him dark.
“That’s close enough,” Emma says calmly.
I must be seeing this wrong. I must. She gives me her customary half smile. Instead of the typical ache in my chest, the expression makes my stomach clench.
“There was never an Order member out here, was there?” I manage. “You killed Bo, jumped Xavier, used the radio to get in touch with Marco.”
“Very good, Gray,” she says. I realize, as the knot in my stomach twists even tighter, that this is not the first time she’s betrayed us.
“And it was you on the boat, too. You said you were getting bandages but you called the Order.”
“I was worried you’d doubt me from the moment you saw me bent over Isaac’s maps,” she says, smiling even wider. “But love’s a funny thing, isn’t it? It makes us blind.”
“Gray,” Xavier begs. “Please—”
Emma presses the weapon against his head a bit harder, and he falls silent. The rest of the team spills into camp behind me and I hear them freeze in their tracks.
“Emma, why are you doing this? Did Frank promise you something? Did he say he’d let Carter go? Free Claysoot?”
“You think I don’t want to be doing this?” she sneers. “You think I’m experiencing some moment of weakness?”
It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. “There’s no way you actually want to do this, Emma.”
“But I do!” she practically shouts. “I’ve wanted this from the moment you took me out of Taem, and I can’t even tell you how hard it was to be so patient, to wait for exactly the right moment. And that’s why it’s so surprising, isn’t it, Gray? Because unlike Blaine and Jackson, you didn’t even think this was possible.”
My breath catches and I see the truth.
This isn’t Emma.
This was never Emma.
Emma is still in Taem. Or worse, dead. The girl standing before me only looks like her. I was foolish—so, so foolish—to assume that a Forgery would only be made from a Heisted subject.
“I could have ended it all that morning on the Catherine,” she adds, “but no, you had to come barging in, forcing me to drop my call the very moment I was able to make contact. I was so close, and I just had to quit. Get all shy and meek and bat my eyelashes and act flustered by your presence.”
She looks disgusted by the idea. The expression triggers a handful of moments, all of which now seem painfully obvious. How she hasn’t shed a single tear since I rescued her from Taem, despite all she’s been through. Her annoyance when I let Jackson speak to the Order in Bone Harbor instead of her, and her offhand comment about his speed when he opened the Outer Ring, because maybe it really could have been done faster. And her eyes. They’ve seemed so lifeless and dead lately, so emotionless. So unlike Emma. She even pointed out that sign to us, told us how to identify her own kind, and I was too blind to see it.
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.
“But you never gave us up when we were at Crevice Valley,” I say. “And it wouldn’t have been hard for you to sneak into the technology wing, figure out how to contact the Order.”
“I wasn’t going to call them when I was there, and they were foolish to think I would. Why would I willingly give them a read on my location—the Rebels’ location—and let them end my own life with the bombs they were sure to drop? How dumb do they think I am?”
She’s just like Jackson in Stonewalclass="underline" putting her own life before her mission. Self-preservation is the strongest of motivators.
“So now we’re here,” she says, “and I’ve finally gotten through to them. Granted, Crevice Valley is just a damn nickname and I don’t know exactly how to find it, have no direct coordinates to report. I’ve told them to check where my tracker last transmitted. It should be enough for them to find your precious headquarters, but just in case, we’ll wait. As soon as the Order isn’t quite so busy”—she tilts her head toward the Wall as an explosion momentarily lights up the sky—“you can confirm things, Gray.”
I’m starting to feel sick. From blood loss. From her. From everything.
“Emma, I can’t just wait and let you hand us over. You have to know that. But if you put the gun down, we can figure something out.” I move toward her cautiously.
“Not another step.”
I take one anyway.
“You think I won’t do it?” She pushes the barrel harder against Xavier’s skull.
“I know you won’t.” Another step. “Because you’re in there somewhere, Emma. And you’re better than this. You can help us. Like Jackson.”
“If he helped you, it means he’s an older model. I’m stronger than him.”
She’s a mere arm’s length away now. One more step and I can grab the gun. One more step and everything will be fine.
“If you don’t stop right now, he’s dead.”
“You’re not a killer, Emma. I know you.”
She looks right at me, and for the briefest moment, I think she hears me. I reach for the weapon and the recognition on her face vanishes. Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare and she says, “I’m not your Emma. You don’t know anything about me.”
And she pulls the trigger.
And the blast echoes.
And she points the weapon at my chest.
And there’s another gunshot.
I paw at my front.
But I’m not bleeding. I’m . . . fine.
Emma looks down to find her jacket blooming with darkness. She falls to her knees, and then sideways, legs bent beneath her.
I spin around, searching for the shooter. Bree is lowering her rifle. Her eyes are impossibly heavy as they meet mine, her lips pressed together as though they are stitched shut. Sammy is staring at the dead bodies as though he’s seen a ghost.
There’s noise behind us. Distant flashlights.
The Forgeries.
Everyone bolts for the car but I check Xavier. He’s gone. He’s gone and it’s bad and I want to unsee it, but can’t. I throw up in the snow.
“Gray?” Emma coughs.
And even when I know it’s not her, I move to her side. I go to her because she’s saying my name and her voice sounds exactly like Emma’s and I can’t ignore it. She reaches for my hand, grabbing, fingers sticky with blood, and she smiles. She’s dying but she’s beaming like it’s the best day of her life.
“They’re coming.”
The sound of Bree opening fire makes me flinch, but even still I can’t move.
“Where is she?” I ask hurriedly. “The real Emma?”
She takes a few shallow breaths. “I don’t know.”