Unleashed, Page 3

  “Bigger?” I feel my eyebrow wing high. Sean’s no small guy.

  “Yeah. I was pretty average for my age then. I shot up six inches the summer before freshman year. But Branson was like a grown man already. The guy had a beard by three p.m.”

  I smile a little.

  He snorts. “His hazing was brief, of course. No one wanted to take him on. The second day he was there, he decided he wanted my top bunk.” He laughs hoarsely. “He could have picked on one of the others with a top bunk, but no, I was the lucky one.”

  His hand moves to my hand resting on the rocky ground between us. His fingers trace a small pattern on the back of it. For once, I don’t shrink from his touch. I’m too engrossed in his story. His words weave around me like a spell.

  “I could feel everyone’s eyes on me when he ordered me to switch bunks with him.” His voice drops to a low rumble, and I know he’s back in that moment, living it. “I knew if I let him have that bunk it would—” He shakes his head and makes a small grunt. “They would never let up on me. It would be hazing twenty-four/seven. It would be relentless. Hell.”

  “What then?” I prod, desperate to hear more. Desperate also for him to stop, fearful of where he’s going with this.

  “Neither one of us were going to back down. So stupid.” He laughs dryly. I’m not sure if he means himself or Branson or the situation in general. “He was trying to drag me off the top bunk. He had me by the ankles, and I just hauled back and kicked him in the face. Hard. As hard as I could. I still had my shoes on, you know.”

  My hand turns beneath his, bringing our palms flush together. His skin is warm and solid. I give his fingers a squeeze. It’s all I can do. Maybe just a futile attempt to give comfort. Except he doesn’t need comforting. That’s what he’s saying, anyway. What he wants me to believe. Even if the way his hand clenches mine back says otherwise.

  “What happened?” I press.

  “He flew backward several feet. I heard the crack of his skull when he hit the floor.” He leans back, dropping on the ground and staring up at the fading night. The stars are still visible, studding the sky. Still holding on to my hand, he drapes his other arm across his forehead. He studies the canopy of stars like it’s a great canvas of art.

  “Did he . . .”

  “They took him to the hospital. He broke several vertebrae. Concussion. I didn’t see him again after that. I think he was in the hospital for a long time, and he wore a brace afterward . . . at least that’s what I heard.”

  “But he could still walk.”

  “Eventually.” He nods. “Immediately after that I was imprinted and put in a home for boys with imprints. Met one of my foster brothers there. That’s where Martha found us.”

  “It was an accident—” I start to say, and then stop. It’s what he keeps telling me, and each time I never want to hear it. I wet my lips. He probably doesn’t want to hear it, either. “It was just normal boy stuff. Hardly deserving of getting imprinted.”

  “And slapping a boy because he was a jerk to you is?”

  I flinch at this reminder of Zac. Slapping him had been immature of me, a thoughtless reaction to an ugly situation. A boyfriend turning out to be less than the prince I thought him to be was a crushing blow at the time. And yet slapping him shouldn’t have been a crime. It shouldn’t have gotten me marked for life.

  “I don’t kid myself. If Branson had been someone important—not another carrier—I would have ended up in jail. I’d probably still be there.”

  And I would never have met him.

  I try to imagine this. I don’t think I could have gotten through my time at Keller, once I was expelled from Everton, without him. Those weeks stuck in the Cage were awful. It was bad enough that we carriers were quarantined from the rest of the school in an old sports equipment room, complete with a lockable grate, but then to have that pervy sleazebag Brockman guarding the six of us . . . My nape prickles at the thought of what Brockman could have done to me. He’d already made life hell for Coco, the only other female carrier there. He would have tried to do the same to me. And again, at Mount Haven, Sean was always there to defend me, whether I wanted it or not.

  “We’re just doing our best to live in this world, Davy.” Sean’s voice stretches into the fading dark. “We’re not perfect, but we’re not monsters, either. We’re just human.”

  “I know,” I murmur. “I’m trying to get there.” And I am. I really am.

  I ease down beside him and join him in gazing at the stars. Eventually their light starts to diminish as day takes over.

  Gradually I slide my hand away from his, still needing that distance, that space.

  “So time is the answer?” I try not to sound so skeptical. Especially after everything he just revealed to me.

  “You’ll get there, Davy.”

  He sounds so certain. I wish I could be. After a while I prop myself up on my elbows and look out at the river again. That’s all I need. Time and freedom. A life that isn’t crippled with regret. Where brown eyes and bullet holes don’t follow me everywhere. Then I’ll be me again. Or at least some new version of me that isn’t always looking behind her.

  Our last night in the trailer I can’t sleep. I don’t let myself. Maybe it’s because we’ll be up in a few hours anyway, heading across the border. Once we cross, we’ll meet with our contacts on the other side, sympathizers who help relocate carriers like us to refugee camps in Mexico. The driver who brought us here had given us the instructions. It could just be nerves, my anxiousness for the upcoming journey. That might be what keeps me awake. I know I should rest, store my energy for the trip ahead, but it’s pointless. I can’t sleep.

  Sean shifts beside me, his arm draping over my waist, and I tense.

  Lifting his arm from my waist, I slip silently from the bed and ease from the bedroom. I take two steps down the hall before coming face-to-face with Sabine. I swallow back a gasp.

  “Sorry,” she whispers.

  “Hey,” I return. “What are you doing up?”

  She lifts a glass. “Water. What are you doing up?”

  I glance back to the shut door behind me, unsure how to reply, unwilling to lay it all out there. Especially since I’m fighting the truth within myself, determined to change it.

  Instead I go with: “Couldn’t sleep.”

  She nods as though understanding. “Nervous about tomorrow?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. I’m ready.” Ready and anxious.

  She cocks her head, studying me, her gaze dark in the lightless hallway. She motions to her room. “Wanna talk for a while so we don’t wake Gil?”

  “Sure.” I follow her into the smaller bedroom and sit on her mattress with my back propped against the wall.

  She follows suit, sitting cross-legged and holding her glass in her lap, lightly tracing the rim. “What do you think it will be like when we get over there?”

  I shrug. “Better than this, I’m sure. We won’t be paranoid over the Agency showing up.” At least I don’t think they’re following carriers into Mexico. And from what we’ve managed to hear on the radio, the Mexican government is too busy focusing their efforts on protecting the border. They’re not chasing down fugitives inside their country.

  We knew when we ran that there would be no going back to Mount Haven. No second chances. If they catch us, we’re dead. I rest my head against the wall and slide her a long glance. Forward is the only way to go. “At least over there we have a shot.”

  “You ever wonder if it’s like Mount Haven over there, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. A bunch of carriers cooped up together . . . we know how dangerous that can be.”

  “There won’t be anyone forcing us to hurt each other. We won’t be at anyone’s mercy.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. I can’t help it. It’s always there. The fact that I’m just what they said I am—what my DNA proclaims me to be. A killer. “We’ll be free to go or stay. That makes all the
difference in the world. It’s not a prison.”

  She takes a long drink from her glass. “But we’ll still be trapped—”

  “Not trapped,” I quickly insert. “I’ll never be trapped again. We can come and go—”

  “And go where?” At my silence, she snorts, and the sound irks me, seeming to say, I thought so.

  She shakes her head. “I’m just keeping things in perspective . . . and hoping you are, too.”

  “Me?” I blink. “Why wouldn’t I be keeping things in perspective?” Whatever that means.

  “I just don’t think things will necessarily be better over there.”

  They have to be. I simply stare at her.

  She continues, “We’re different . . . all of us. You know that, right? I mean this—” She waves in the direction of my neck and the imprint there. I resist the urge to touch it—like I can feel the brand on my skin. “Some of us are killers. It’s in our blood . . . that ability. It doesn’t mean we walk around killing without conscience, but we’re just . . . better equipped to do it. Some people don’t have it in them, but we do. You’ll feel a lot better once you accept that.”

  I stare at her blankly, slowly processing her words. I refuse to agree. I can never agree. I don’t want to be different in that way. I don’t want to be better equipped. “I can’t accept that.”

  “You killed—”

  “I had to,” I cut in swiftly, hating her a little right then for daring to throw that in my face. She’s supposed to be my friend.

  “Precisely.” She nods. “For Sean. That’s my point. Someone else maybe couldn’t have even done that. But you’re a carrier. . . .” Her voice trails off, her eyes gleaming at me suggestively. Encouragingly. Like a mother urging her baby to take its first step. C’mon. You can do it . . . you can get there. Keep trying.

  I twist my shoulder in a semblance of a shrug.

  She blows out a heavy breath. “You should be glad you’re the way you are. Or Sean would be dead.”

  My lips part, impossible words hanging there, unformed, strangling way back in my throat.

  “Think about it,” she adds. “I’m not judging. I can understand it.”

  “You can?”

  “When I was beating up Addy—”

  “You didn’t end her life,” I remind sharply. Big. Difference.

  “No, but it was easy. I didn’t blink over hurting her.”

  I shake my head. “She brutalized you. She was trying to keep us from escaping.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes glint at me, satisfied that she has made her point.

  “Maybe,” I murmur, ready to quit talking about it and stick my head in a hole in true ostrich fashion. I scoot off the bed. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Good night.” Suddenly returning to bed and the room of my haunting isn’t so unappealing. The conversation with her made my head hurt. Even after I make it back to my room and slide into bed beside Sean, I can still hear her words ringing in my ears. You should be glad you’re the way you are.

  NEWS RELEASE

  For immediate release

  Contact: Department of Justice—

  Office of the Attorney General

  May 19, 2021

  US Customs and Border Protection has announced its partnership with the Wainwright Agency in order to more effectively monitor and impede the passage of escaped HTS carriers from US detention facilities into Mexico. Already 180 agents have been dispatched to help with efforts to contain these violent individuals along the border of the United States and Mexico. . . .

  FOUR

  SEAN CHECKS OUR GEAR FOR THE THIRD TIME.

  “C’mon, man, I think we’re good.” Gil shifts anxiously on his feet.

  Sean straightens, staring down at our packs like he can see inside them. I know he must have the contents memorized by now. Still, he looks unconvinced. “You think we packed enough food?”

  “We can’t fit any more,” I point out.

  Sabine picks up a pack, wincing as she swings it over her shoulder. “I can’t carry any more cans in this. I mean, not without tipping over.”

  Sean’s lips quirk, his gaze sweeping her diminutive frame. “Yeah. Okay.”

  I pause over that smile. It’s been days since Sean smiled. At least at me. Sure, he stares at me a lot. But not the kind of stare that used to make my stomach flutter. His stares are like the worried ones Mom gave me from the moment I was first declared a carrier. Like she didn’t know quite what to say to me. Or how to act around me. That’s Sean now. Unsure of me.

  We depart the trailer into dark night. Or morning, I suppose. Three a.m. qualifies as morning. We trek down the mountain, careful with our steps, Sean leading the way. This isn’t the time to turn an ankle. Sean scouted the trail several times over the last week and appears to know the best way down. Not that I’m surprised. He’s capable that way. Of the four of us, he’s the most fit. Gil can hack into any system and make a decent sandwich, but Sean can bench-press a Volkswagen. He’s the one who needed the least amount of training at Mount Haven. Gil follows him, then I trail Gil. I can’t hear Sabine behind me. Her steps fall without a whisper. Maybe Mount Haven taught her something. Or it could be that at five feet and a hundred pounds she moves with a natural stealth.

  It’s a slow descent. The incline isn’t that steep, but there’s so much brush and scrub that it’s almost an hour before we reach the river. I can hear the rush of water as we approach.

  Sean stops and faces us. His eyes glitter in the dark as he slips off his pack and drops it to the ground.

  “Wait here,” he instructs. “The boat should be nearby. Let me find it.”

  I hold my breath, watching as he disappears, his shadow merging with the night. I hold myself motionless, staring after him. Sabine fidgets nervously, her head swinging left and right. I can almost visualize her darting gaze, like prey scanning for danger. Although I don’t quite consider her prey anymore. Not since I saw her take out Addy.

  Not since talking to her last night.

  Gil takes turns looking at the two of us and back to the spot where Sean disappeared. He’s on edge as well, and it’s reminder enough that we’re toeing a dangerous line. Everything rides on chance tonight. The chance that we’re not spotted. The chance that we make it across. The chance that the Mexican authorities don’t grab us on the other side. The chance that the people we’re supposed to meet are where they said they would be.

  It’s almost impossible to hear someone approaching with the cicadas so loud on the air. I don’t know if that’s a good thing. The din might cover our sounds, but then anything could creep up on us, too. We know the usual times the patrols run, but they could change their schedules. It’s probably protocol for them to do so every now and then. They know we’re out here, escaped carriers watching their patterns, hoping to make it across.

  It seems like forever until Sean returns, his dark shape emerging, his bigger body separating from the night. A breath rushes from my lips, my shoulders sagging with relief.

  Sean waves an arm, saying in hushed tones, “I found it. This way.”

  We follow him several yards to a narrow boat. I know nothing of boats. The only time I ever rode in one was the weekend Zac and his family took me to their lake house. They had one of those enormous pontoon boats that you hardly felt move as it purred down the lake. I remember I wore a bikini with green and pink polka dots. Every time his parents weren’t looking, Zac would touch some part of me and I would swat at his hand playfully. It really was a lifetime ago.

  This is no pontoon. It’s barely long enough for the four of us. No engine, of course. The sound would attract too much attention. Two oars sit inside, and I wonder who besides Sean will row. I might be more adept at rowing than Gil. He could crack any code and broke through the Agency’s firewall to make contact with carrier sympathizers right beneath their noses, but I’ve proven myself more physically capable. I may have started out as the girl who could barely keep up with the other carriers during training
, but that changed. Like everything else.

  The four of us all grab a side of the boat and heft it along the riverbank, hugging the tree line. A fingernail cracks from the pressure and my shoulder starts to burn, but I keep trudging along. I sigh in relief when Sean stops. Together we lower the boat to the ground, angling the nose into the water.

  Sean faces the river, studying the wide expanse like he can see something within the black waters. My gaze skims his broad back before following his gaze. In the near darkness, I can’t even see the other side.

  “We cross here,” he announces.

  I squint at the water. In the daylight it looked brown, churned up with silt. Sean is moving again, situating his pack in the boat, shoving as much of it as he can fit under the seat so there will be room for us. Sabine and Gil follow suit, stowing their packs. I’m the last to move. For some reason my limbs feel sluggish, slow to act and follow the commands of my brain.

  Sean holds out a hand for me. I stare down at the stretch of his fingers.

  “C’mon.” He beckons with an impatient wave.

  Shaking off my hesitation, I place my hand in his warmer one and climb into the boat. I take up an oar, flexing my palms around the scratchy wood, letting the solidness of it fortify me as Gil and Sean push us into the water. Their feet slap on the bank, then splash when they meet with water. I wince at the sound. Even the noise of the cicadas can’t cover that.

  The boat sways as they jump inside at the last moment, joining us. We drift out on the slight swell of their final shove. My gaze strays to the shore we’re leaving behind, my heart suddenly racing. I’m leaving for good. Leaving my country. Escaping to a new one. Will I ever see my parents again? My brother? Oh God. Mitchell. What will happen to him? How will he ever know what happened to me? I’m certain Mount Haven won’t tell him the truth—that I escaped. If he knew that, he would hold out hope. They’ll probably just tell my family I died in some training exercise.