| |
THE MENTAL VORTEX SPUN him around, and now Amos was facing his fellow Runners again. The door behind them burst open to reveal Megan, rushing into the room to disarm Aubrey.
He heard Mateo’s amplified words, echoing in his memory. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to drown them out.
“This alliance must survive.”
And now he was back in his own body, observing the look of shock on the Hoarders’ faces as they recognized Megan. Darcy retreated a few steps, but the young kid moved toward her, reaching out one hand as if to touch her.
The tornado ceased without warning, leaving him feeling as if he’d fallen from a great height. Now he was re-living the chaotic finale to their catastrophic meeting.
Megan gazed dispassionately at the young Hoarder, her face expressionless when he called her by name. She cocked her head to one side in an odd imitation of Mateo, studying the Hoarder with clinical detachment.
The first explosion caught everyone off-guard—Runner and Hoarder alike. Amos heard his companions’ startled gasps, and the Hoarders froze, their eyes riveted on the door behind him.
Amos pivoted, the movement taking much too long in his tortured memory. The door hung askew on its hinges, and the masonry around the doorframe crumbled as he watched. The brickwork gave way, and the twisted door toppled into the mechanical shop, scorched and blackened.
Just beyond the shattered entrance, a Tracker advanced toward them with unmistakable menace. The smell of charred flesh assaulted their nostrils, arising from what was left of the first Tracker who’d self-detonated in the doorway.
Part of Amos’s mind wondered about that, as he flung himself to one side, away from the smoking entrance. Trackers aren’t suicide bombers. They only explode when the Givers punish them for failure.
The obvious answer followed as he rolled across the hard floor. Unless the Givers have a new strategy.
Glass shattered behind him, in the opposite corner of the mechanical shop. Still on the floor, Amos twisted around to see another Tracker pulling itself through one of the small windows at the back of the shop.
The Tracker managed to squeeze itself halfway through the meager opening when it froze, a look of shock and terror distorting its face.
Then it exploded, showering the interior of the shop with a gruesome spread of concrete, entrails, and blood. As the dust settled, Amos jumped to his feet, reaching down to grab Jane by the elbow and help her stand.
More Trackers converged on the ruined doorway, and he was dimly aware of Mateo leaping into the fray, driving the fanatical killers back into the street.
The Hoarders retreated to the far corner of the shop, Darcy shielding himself behind the blond kid. Amos felt a burst of contempt for them, even in the midst of the chaos. Poor little Hoarders. Cowering in the corner isn’t going to save you.
“Over here!” Don’s shout drew their attention to the opposite corner of the shop, where the side window was now a gaping hole.
Amos watched through the smoky haze as Don intercepted a Tracker climbing over the debris. Don found a long metal rod on the floor and, using it as a battering ram, drove it into the Tracker’s midsection.
The impact was oddly quiet, although the force of Don’s blow catapulted the Tracker into the alley behind the shop. Don followed it through the ragged gap in the wall, aiming more blows at the creature, now out of sight.
Amos understood Don’s urgency for pressing the attack. The Givers’ link to communicate with the Tracker—and detonate it—must be short-circuited without delay.
Mateo forced his way into the street, leaving the wreckage of additional Trackers scattered around the doorway. Megan caught Aubrey by the hand—the same hand that held a gun on Darcy minutes before—and bolted through the opening, trailing Mateo.
His ears rang from the deafening roar of the explosions in the confined space. He felt the presence of someone beside him, and then Jane shoved him toward the makeshift opening left by the second Tracker. They stumbled through the debris in a hasty exit.
Amos glanced over his shoulder as he cleared the opening. He saw Garr herding the Hoarders to safety in Mateo’s wake, a dazed-looking Sheila stumbling over to aid him.
Garr’s a better man than me. I’d have left the Hoarders behind for the Trackers.
As the thought crossed his mind, he felt a pang of guilt. Garr’s doing the right thing. This alliance must survive. That’s why he’s the Colonel, with or without the title.
He heard the clamor of combat behind him, and saw Don swinging his improvised weapon with ferocious abandon at another Tracker. Don’s arm was bloody, his shirtsleeve soaked from the wound.
Even though she was unarmed and vulnerable, Jane closed in, attempting to distract the Tracker by providing it with a second target.
Amos grabbed the only weapon he could find—a chunk of concrete dislodged by one of the explosions—and rushed forward, heaving it at the Tracker’s head. The creature’s reflexes were better than he’d assumed. It ducked to one side and the rough projectile shot harmlessly past.
The momentary distraction was all Don needed. He gripped the rod with both hands and swung at the Tracker’s head, catching his opponent off-guard as it tried to recover its balance. The creature hit the ground with a thud, and Don wasted no time in deactivating it.
“They’re still coming.” Jane’s voice sounded muffled. Amos followed her pointing finger. A familiar circle of red light betrayed the figure stalking toward them out of the dust and shadows.
Don stood over the remains of the Tracker. He was a wild sight in the moonlight—bloodied and chest heaving from exertion. He twisted around, looking over his shoulder at Amos and Jane. And beyond, to the approaching Tracker.
“Split up, and get out of here,” Don barked, sounding every bit as commanding as Garr. “You know the routine.”
Another explosion sounded around the corner. Are they trying to bring down the building? Amos spun away from the approaching Tracker, running to what was left of the original door, looking in all directions for any trace of Garr and the other Runners.
The corner of the building had collapsed, burying what was left of the Trackers felled by Mateo. There was no sign of the Runners. Or the Hoarders, for that matter.
Amos pivoted in a quick circle, very aware more Trackers were closing in. They made it, he told himself, not daring to consider the alternative. They got away.
He glanced at the corner behind him. Neither Don nor Jane were in sight, and he knew they were making their own escape. They know the drill. They’ll be okay.
He ran, avoiding the streets in favor of the back alleys crisscrossing the area around the Mission. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve taken more care to camouflage his back-trail, but time dictated otherwise. He settled for putting as much distance between himself and the bombed-out shop as possible.
When he could run no further, Amos ducked behind a small, abandoned building. Head down, hands on his knees, he caught his breath as he took stock of the situation. Alone and unarmed. It’s too soon to return to the Mission, even if I muddle my trail. The Trackers are too close.
He straightened as his breathing returned to normal. An unwelcome suspicion surfaced, insisting that he pay attention. They knew where to find us. The Givers were tipped off.
He stood motionless for a long interval, hands on his hips, turning the question over in his mind. I’ve got to lay low for a day or two. I need time to think.
He leaned out of the alley, peering in all directions. He felt exposed under the full moon, but saw no signs of pursuit. His choice was made more by instinct than logic, but Amos wasted no time second-guessing himself.
Satisfied he hadn’t been followed, he began the long trek out of the Old City.