“Kay doesn’t have all the information. She doesn’t have the clearance.”
“Kay knows more than you think.” But I don’t tell him how I know this. I can’t put Rice in danger. I change tactics. “Maybe you could request that Baby be sent here. Then you can have full access to her. It will only benefit your research.”
“I have her blood. That’s all I need.”
“Kay said you’d want her for yourself.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” he asks, his voice getting louder with frustration. “Kay knows only a fraction of what she thinks she knows. I have Hannah’s blood. I don’t physically need her here with me.”
Despite myself, my eyes well with tears.
“But . . . you have to help me.” My heart has dropped into my stomach. He’s been no use at all, after trying so hard to find him. I wanted so badly for Kay to be right, for Ken to be the answer. He was my only option. And now I have nothing. All this wasted time and energy for a dead end.
“Look, I know you care about Hannah deeply, but she’s just one child. What is one child for the future of humanity?”
“I’m not willing to sacrifice Baby for the good of humanity. I don’t care how selfish that is. She doesn’t deserve to be tortured so others can live.” I look at him, into his eyes. “What if it were Kay?”
He stares back at me for a moment, then looks down with a sigh. “I’ll try to find out more for you, but that’s all I can promise.”
“Thank you.” I can’t help it. Despite the fact that I’d just been fantasizing about breaking him in two, I step forward to hug him. He tenses, so instead I hold out my hand for him to shake. Kay isn’t comfortable with hugs either.
Ken picks up his earpiece off the dresser, turns it back on, and places it in his ear. He pauses, staring at the notebook resting next to the picture of him and his sister. Without looking at me, he puts one finger on the notebook and pushes it toward me, giving it one last tap. I nod my thanks and grab the notebook, quickly shoving it into the pocket of my sweatpants. But I wonder why Ken wants me to have it.
He opens the door and walks me down the corridor, talking now for his earpiece’s benefit. “. . . so you see, Amy, I have absolutely no information to give you. I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave now.” He opens the door that leads back into the prison, mouthing, Be careful.
I nod and step out of the wall and into the prison, back into the sunlight.
The door closes behind me, and I take about five steps before I’m suddenly grabbed from behind. A massive arm clamps my waist and arms, and another encircles my neck. I was careless. Stupidly careless. The riot must have picked back up again. Someone—some huge, reeking man—is taking advantage of finding a girl alone and unarmed. But I’m not unarmed. If I can just get free for a second, I can reach my gun.
I stomp down hard on my attacker’s foot, but he doesn’t even flinch. I feel hot breath on my ear and even before he speaks, I realize with an icy spike of terror that I know only one creature on Earth who produces this unmistakable stink.
“Not this time, cupcake,” Tank says. “Got steel-toed boots on.”
Panic floods my body as I struggle against his bulk, but he’s so much stronger than me. I’m powerless.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he tells me, hefting me up. With my feet dangling, he carries me toward the wall. I don’t make it easy for him and I kick against his shins. He bends down so my feet touch the ground and tightens his hold on my chest, making me gasp for breath. I fight desperately, but Tank’s grip is ironclad. I try to think of a way out but have nothing. A cold, terrifying realization comes to me: I might not win this fight. But I know I can’t give up.
Because if I do, Tank is dragging me to my death.
Chapter Twenty-two
Tank is impossibly strong.
And the more I thrash around to break free, the clearer it becomes that my struggle against him is useless; his hold becomes that much tighter. I twist my head to bite his arm, but I can’t get the angle right. I barely pinch him with my teeth. All I’m left with is the rank taste of his salty sweat in my mouth.
“Go ahead and open the damn door, Pete,” Tank says, grunting. Out of the corner of my eye I see his crony scuffling past us, helping Tank snatch me away. They’re dragging me from the back wall toward an entrance in the side wall. It’s too much to hope that anyone will stop them. Not with the riot still raging and Florae-panic still clouding everyone’s minds. And anyway, who would care about a guard having a little fun with the new girl?
So it’s up to me.
I go slack as if I’ve given up. It takes a few seconds that feel like an eternity, but when I feel him relax just the tiniest bit, I land a forceful kick to Tank’s knee. He doesn’t drop me, but he has to adjust his hold, hoisting me up in his arms to get a better grip, his hot, labored breaths blowing down the back of my neck. I duck my head down as far as I can, then whip it back, hard. My skull makes contact with Tank’s face, and I hear his nose rebreak with an ugly, satisfying crack. Then he lets out a wounded howl.
For a split second my heart freezes in my chest—he’s not letting go. Then I feel hot liquid spill down my back; he drops me to stanch the flow of blood from his nose.
I fall to a sitting position, the force sending shock waves up my spine, but I recover and quickly roll away. Tank, one hand on his crimson, swollen face, lunges after me screaming, “You little bitch!”
I skitter away just in time, but then someone else is on me—someone small and light. Pete. I feel a sharp pressure in my chest, like a punch but more precise. He has a knife. He brings it down again and again. The blade rips through my shirt but glances off my synth-suit underneath.
In another second Tank will be on me again. I grab the blade of Pete’s knife and shove it off to the side, my synth-suit protecting my hand, then drive my other fist into his neck. As he clutches at his throat, gasping, I snatch the knife from him and kick the side of one of his knees, toppling him to the ground.
Then Tank is in front of me again, his face and hands covered in blood. He looks like an oversized Florae splattered in gore. I hold on to the image, as it occurs to me that if Tank were a Florae, I would have already killed him. It’ll be easier to get the job done if I think of him as something less than human.
My gun is out, and I hold Pete’s knife in my other hand, but still Tank takes a step forward. He’s going to make me kill him.
“No!” Pete screams hoarsely. He’s dragged himself to his feet and is holding up his hand. “No,” he croaks between desperate gulps for oxygen. “Lay off.”
Tank turns to glare at Pete, but I don’t wait to see if he’s going to take his advice. I sprint back to the Yard, cutting in and out of the thinning crowd and ducking into the first door I find, to Cellblock C. Then I lean against the wall, my heart pounding out of my chest.
“You okay, honey?” a man asks, his Texan accent thick. I can barely see him in the dark, moving toward me out of his cell. “Y’all get caught in that mess out there?” I don’t even have to answer him. He sees the gun and knife and backs away, retreating to his cell.
Once I can breathe normally again, I check my chest for damage. Pete stabbed me maybe a half dozen times, and my shirt is shredded, but the synth-suit held. I’ll be bruised, but there’s no real injury. Amazingly, Ken’s notebook is still in the pocket of my sweatpants.
I discard my ruined shirt and am wondering what to do with Pete’s knife—I already have my Guardian knives in their sheaths on my thighs—when the man’s voice comes out of the dark again. “You sure you don’t need nothin’, honey?”