Seventy

 

The aircar had barely stopped when Flint leapt out of it and ran into Aristotle Academy. He had been shocked at the lack of security. Not that it was down—at least outside the Academy—but it had remained at normal levels.

He would have figured after a dome sectioning, someone would have implemented high security protocols.

He still couldn’t reach anyone through his links. He suspected the problem was the network inside the Academy.

At least the building was still here. At least nothing had exploded.

And that was a good sign.

He ran inside, further shocked that no guards stood near the doors. He used a locator through his links to find Talia.

She wasn’t far from Selah Rutledge’s office.

He ran past students still sprawled on the floor, some injured, others taking care of them. The walls and ceilings of the building held, but plants had fallen over, tiles had fallen off the wall, and a couple of doors hung sideways.

The entire place smelled of fear. He wished he’d never learned to recognize that scent. He certainly didn’t want to smell it in his daughter’s school.

He ran to Rutledge’s office, and slid to a stop when he reached the conference area.

Selah Rutledge sat on the ground, her face buried in her hands. Guards and police officers ringed a conference room.

Talia was pressed up against the window, the outside window—not inside the room, thank heavens, because the air was yellow. It had a Peyti environment, not a human one. Her fists were balled against it.

She looked devastated.

“Talia,” he said.

She turned, but she didn’t run to him like he thought she would. “They just killed ten people, Dad. They’re all dead.”

He took a step toward her. Over her shoulder, he could see one Peyti clone, long fingers tapping a tabletop, a discarded bomb not far from him. He watched Flint approach with something that might’ve been curiosity.

Or it might’ve been contempt.

Flint didn’t know what to say to Talia. That he had helped devise this plan? That he had known people would die? That the ten dead people would have died anyway if that hideous bomber inside that room had succeeded?

“I know,” Flint said, and it sounded lame.

“Kaleb is dead, Dad.” Talia pounded a fist on the window.

Kaleb. It took a moment for the name to compute. The kid who had taunted her. The kid who had caused all that turmoil just the day before.

“He wanted me to go in there with him.” Talia’s voice was watery. “I was thinking about it. I would’ve been in there—”

Flint wrapped her in his arms. He didn’t care what she wanted, he needed it. For a moment she struggled against him, and then she clung to him, her body shaking.

He looked over her shoulder. That Peyti clone inside that room, that assassin, was watching all of this. He looked pleased.

No matter what DeRicci said, Flint would deal with this one on his own. He would do whatever it took to make this assassin give up information, and then suffer for what he had done.

To Flint’s daughter. Flint’s beloved daughter.

Who just happened to be a clone herself.

This whole thing wasn’t over yet.

But it would be.

He would see to it himself.