I don’t know why LaRoux Industries is here on Avon. I don’t know why my commander was being paid to watch me. But whoever she really was behind the bribes and the guilt, that person is gone now. Because the thing that just politely showed me the door—that wasn’t Commander Towers.
I intended to go look for Merendsen and tell him what I heard so we can try to put the pieces together. Instead I find myself heading for Molly’s. With personnel on duty around the clock, it’s always open. I try telling myself it’s because I want the comfort of a crowd, but I know that’s not why I’m going there. I try telling myself it’s because I want Flynn’s input on what’s going on, hoping he has some rational explanation for what I saw.
But I know the real reason my feet are taking me his way, and I’m not proud. I’m terrified, and for the first time since I was eight years old, I just want someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.
I’m halfway there, my thoughts whirling, my eyes blurring with exhaustion and fear, when my nose starts burning; I recognize the choking, acrid smell of smoke. Something, somewhere, is on fire.
My head snaps up. I can see thick black smoke billowing up in the distance, and automatically I break into a sprint. It could be any number of buildings over on that side of the base; there are a couple barracks there, a few supply sheds, even the munitions depot. But disastrous as that would be, somehow I know it’s not.
God, no. Please no.
I’m barely aware of the distance elapsing between me and Molly’s—it’s not even a shock when I burst out from between two barracks to see the bar in flames. I keep running, stopped only when someone grabs my jacket and hauls me back, my momentum knocking me to the ground.
Scrambling in the mud to find my feet again, I’m lurching toward the burning bar when those same arms grab hold of me again.
“Chase!” shouts a dim voice in my ear. “You can’t go in there!”
“There could be people in there!” I scream, my voice breaking as I struggle to get free.
“If they are, they’re dead, and you can’t help them!” It’s Captain Biltmore, and he’s not letting me go. “Get ahold of yourself, Captain!” he snaps.
When he lets go of me I fall again, and this time it’s enough to jar me free of my desperate need to get inside. I stare at the flames, my thoughts grinding to a halt. There’s no sign of Flynn anywhere. I can’t think, can’t feel. There’s no room for grief—I don’t understand it yet, can’t accept it. Not like this.
My heart empties.
I can hear the shouts of the emergency crews, the coordinated efforts of the firefighters, getting the blaze under control before it can spread to any other buildings. A beam crashes down, sending a torrent of flames and sparks shooting skyward. The windows have all shattered from the inferno, and through an empty frame I can see the outline of the bar, red-hot against my eyes. Every breath scorches the inside of my nose with the smell of burning chemicals. Absurdly I think of Molly’s antique jukebox, its red and gold plastic melting in the heat, its memory banks full of old Earth music reduced to nothing more than melted circuitry and noxious fumes.
Someone knocks into me, making me stumble and driving the image out of my mind. Catching my balance, I see a couple of medics hauling a stretcher out of the smoke, laden with a body wrapped in a sheet.
It’s a large person—too large to be Flynn. In an instant I understand who it is and shove past Biltmore.
“What happened?” I snap to the medics, reaching for the sheet. “If it’s just smoke inhalation, maybe he’s not—”
“No, Captain, he’s dead. Please, don’t—” One of the medics tries to intercept me, but I’m stronger than he is, and I shove him aside so I can get at the sheet and haul it down.
There’s Molly’s face, calm and lax. It looks like he’s sleeping, or like he’s faking somehow. But then I see the blood, the scorch marks against his shaven scalp. I lean down and realize part of his skull’s been blown away in the back.
Everything around me slows. Dimly, I hear the medics saying things. He was dead before the fire started. Shot, and with one of our own weapons. The bolt came from a high angle, suggesting he was made to kneel before he was killed. Executed.
When I lift my eyes from Molly’s face, they fall on a pair of soldiers dragging someone away, a middle-aged man struggling and shouting curses.
“Who’s that?” My voice comes out quiet, cold. Very calm. Good.
The closest medic glances at me, then at the man being dragged away. “One of the bastards responsible,” he answers. “They think it was a whole crew that snuck in somehow, but he’s the only one they caught. Gonna interrogate him.”
My heart fills again, rage taking over as the whole world narrows down to the man being dragged away. The man responsible. They won’t need to interrogate him officially—I intend to find out everything myself, no matter the cost. I pull my gun from its holster and slip quietly after him and his escort, steps quickening.
I’ll find whoever did this, and I’ll tear them apart.
The girl is drowsing, up past her bedtime, listening to the click of imitation ivory as her mother stirs the mah jong tiles. She’s curled up with her blanket under the felted table, surrounded by her mother’s friends on all sides.
A tile etched with the picture of a chrysanthemum falls to the floor, and a rumbling voice says, “I’ll get it.” An arm descends over the edge of the table, and the girl stares—it’s covered in tattoos, more than she’s ever seen in one place.
The adults chat as the girl’s mother deals, and the low hum of voices nearly lulls the girl to sleep.
“Who will watch the store while I’m gone?” her mother is asking.
“I can do that,” says the man with the tattoos.
“And when you’re gone? Who will watch her then?”
I’M WATCHING FROM AN ALLEYWAY between a barracks and the munitions shed, leaning against the hard wall and forcing myself to breathe. I can’t make out who it is they’re hauling away, and I can’t see Molly’s huge silhouette anywhere, and I can’t do anything but stand here, hands curled into fists, and wait. If my people did this, and they see me, all hell will break loose. More people will die.
When Jubilee stalks past, I’m so fixed on the flames I nearly miss her. I reach out to grab her arm and swing her in toward me, reflecting in the same split second that she’ll probably break my nose for this. I’m sure if she were any less shocked, she would. Instead, I catch a glimpse of something wild in her eyes, of a soot-stained hand lifting to reach for me, and I duck. “Jubilee, it’s me.”
With a wordless sound, her face stricken, she jerks back from me and stumbles to crash into the barracks wall. The jolt makes her look up, her gaze focusing with an effort—and then she sees me, her heart in her eyes. The gun she’s gripping goes clattering into the mud. Her hands grab for my arms, grasping at my sleeves and pulling me closer, as though she has to convince herself I’m real. “Flynn?” she whispers.
The mix of anguish and relief on her face has me moving before I can think to stop myself, and I pull her in against me so I can wrap my arms around her. She holds me just as tightly, and for a moment we stand there together, unmoving, as the chaos beyond the mouth of the alley unspools.
“I thought you—” she rasps, easing a half an inch away, shaken by the intensity of her own reaction.
I’m a little shaky myself, and I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I was on my way to the supply shed when I heard the shouts. Where’s Molly? He was in there when I left, I should—”