Watch Me, page 10
“I unlocked stealth mode.”
James’s eyes widen, a flash of respect quickly displaced by suspicion. He sits back in his seat. “What about the flight deck?” he says, nodding at the dead screens. “How are we airborne right now?”
I turn away, studying a crescent of shorn metal around the windshield. “There are two battery packs. A big one for the motor and a smaller one for everything else—monitors, sensors, air-conditioning, locking mechanisms—that sort of thing. The secondary battery isn’t as powerful, of course, but it wasn’t damaged and appears to be near full capacity. It might be enough to get us to shore. As long as our speed remains constant, I’m hopeful we’ll reach the coastline of The New Republic in about thirty minutes. We might not have to swim at all.”
James says nothing for so long I finally look up.
He’s staring at me. Stonily silent.
I avert my eyes again. “You can’t see our flight path on-screen anymore, but I’ve directed the chopper to pilot itself to our destination,” I add, feeling uncomfortable now. I nod at his injuries. “I thought you’d appreciate a break from operating the vehicle. Considering the state you’re in.”
When he continues to say nothing, I reach underneath my seat and unlatch the emergency kit, hefting it onto my lap. I tap the metal case. “There are life vests in here, in case everything fails and we need to jump. But I thought we could use the remaining flight time to deal with your wounds. Your legs seem to be healing; those injuries must’ve been a result of DEWs. But you still have a bullet lodged in your left tricep. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says, shifting. “What the hell is a DEW?”
“Directed-energy weapon.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Try again.”
“Laser guns.”
James laughs, but the sound is hollow. Nerves snake through me, and I distract myself by releasing the snaps on the kit.
“Wow,” he says. “First she kills me, then she cares for me. Everything about this scenario is believable. Consistent.”
I tense.
I don’t know why his derision bothers me. I’ve spent most of my life perfecting a perception of myself. I’ve never wanted anyone other than Clara to imagine me capable of emotion. I should be pleased he thinks I’m cold and inhuman. Instead, it makes me feel ill.
I rifle through the medical supplies, searching for scissors and antiseptic. “Do you—”
“How did you know how to do that?” he says, pointing to the ceiling. “How’d you know how to reroute the power supply? How are you capable of genius-level computer hacking? How’d you know where the emergency kit was? How’d you know there were life vests on board? How are you so familiar with the tech and mech of this aircraft? And while we’re asking important questions: What, exactly, is the purpose of your mission? Because you’re clearly much more than a serial killer. You’re some kind of highly trained operative, and I’m going to give you one chance to prove me wrong before I punt you into the ocean.”
I go uncomfortably still. This is my own fault. I should’ve anticipated this. I should’ve anticipated the pitfalls of proximity.
I underestimated him.
ROSABELLE
CHAPTER 17
My mistake.
I knew James wouldn’t trust me right away, but I thought he’d be easier to manage. He’s a stronger, more formidable fighter, but I pegged him as emotionally inferior. He struck me as ridiculous; unserious. His easygoing, playful attitude tricked me into thinking he might be lazy, less observant, unlikely to ask too many questions.
I pick out a pair of medical scissors, weighing the variables of the situation.
I’ve been trying to pin James’s character to a pattern without success; every time I think I’ve found consistencies in him, he introduces deviations. So far, my only concrete discovery is that he lives by some kind of moral code. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have cared to save Clara. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have offered me a chance to prove him wrong. Based on many of his actions, I’d categorized him as rash and impulsive; instead, he wants to be sure he’s making the right decision before he kills me. Another inconsistency.
This is interesting.
It seems clear to me now that James’s conscience is the only thing keeping me safe from ejection. If I give him a solid reason to doubt my intentions, he’ll likely toss me off the chopper and head home without a second thought. I can’t risk underestimating his intelligence again by feeding him a thin lie. I have no choice, then, but to settle for an admission of truth.
“I used to build these things,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sometimes I’m allowed to do regular work. Factory work.” I gather up rolls of gauze and tape from the emergency kit, a pair of tweezers. “Some of our manufacturing isn’t fully automated yet, so for a while it was my job to oversee the assembly of mini choppers. I was required to memorize not just the manual but the schematics. These,” I say, glancing around the hull, “are called PEARLs. Personal electric aerial recreational lifts. Civilian grade. I’m familiar with the military iteration because Ark Island is a militarized state. I see them everywhere. I’ve ridden in them. I know what they’re capable of.” I hesitate then, adding quietly: “I’m not a genius-level hacker. But I appreciate the compliment.”
For a full minute, James stares out the broken windshield, silent and hardly moving. I’ve never witnessed a quiet, contemplative James, and the character reversal is making me anxious. It occurs to me then that I’ve spoken more in the last several minutes than I have in years.
“I should cut off your sleeve,” I say, leaning forward. “I think your body is trying to heal itself around the bullet—”
“If I’m worth more alive than dead,” he says, moving out of reach, “why were you sent to kill me?”
“I don’t know.” Slowly, I sit back in my seat. “At the time, I wasn’t told who you were.”
He crosses his arms, wincing only slightly. “And once you found out who I was you decided to change the course of your entire life? Dumped your fiancé, abandoned your sister—”
abandoned your sister
“—walked away from a fulfilling career as a murderer— all for me? I’m flattered.”
abandoned your sister
The words catch in my head, repeating on a painful loop.
abandoned your sister
abandoned your sister
The reminder nearly rearranges me. Images of Clara attempt to crowd my mind: where she might be, what they might’ve done to her—
abandoned your sister
I shutter the thoughts desperately, withdrawing further and further inward until I fear I’ve lost my soul.
When I finally look up, I find James watching me with a fascination I’ve never felt before. Soledad only ever stared at me with suspicion; Sebastian with a mixture of longing and pity. No one has ever studied me as if I might be interesting, or worse: a real, comprehensive person. The intensity of James’s inspection makes me feel naked.
I don’t like it.
“I should really take a look at your arm,” I say, breaking the silence. “If the bullet moves—”
James stretches his neck, the action issuing cracks in the hardened blood on his face. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” he says. “The last time you came at me with a sharp object you slit my throat.”
Quietly, I say, “Are you going to hold that over my head forever?”
He raises his eyebrows. “The fact that you killed me? The fact that you watched me die without remorse, then sent me off to have my organs harvested? Yes, yes, I am.”
A rare heat creeps into my cheeks, and James doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t miss anything, I’m realizing.
“But I just saved your life,” I point out. “We have a truce.”
“Fine.” A muscle tics in his jaw. “I’m going to ask you one more question, and if you answer it honestly, maybe I’ll let you take a look at my arm.”
“I really don’t want to answer any more questions.”
“And I really don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate,” he counters.
I stifle a sigh, bracing myself.
After all these years, I thought I’d be used to it: the surveillance, the interrogations, the constant suspicion, the endless threats against my life. And yet, somehow, being hated by James feels worse. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who hates many people, and I’m surprised to discover how much it bothers me to be the exception.
“All right,” I say. “What’s your question?”
“When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”
This is so unexpected it disarms me. My right hand trembles again, and the scissors I’d been holding clatter to the floor.
My heart begins to race.
Rosa? Rosa, my stomach hurts. Rosa—
I freeze, my eyes unfocusing, my breaths loud in my head. There’s something wrong with me. My legs are cold. My hands are tingling. Something’s wrong with me and I don’t—
Rosa, what’s wrong with me?
“Hey,” says James. “You okay?”
I look up and there’s Clara, sitting in bed, tearing into a loaf of bread with a smile I haven’t seen in weeks. I stand by the door in my boots, watching her.
Aren’t you hungry, too, Rosa?
No, I lie to her.
Are you sure?
When you eat, Clara, it’s like I eat.
“Rosabelle,” he says forcefully.
I shake my head. I can feel the hard chair beneath me, the wisp of hair stuck to my neck, my hands holding each other. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”
I reach for the fallen scissors and my right hand shakes so badly I have to grip it with my left, dropping the other supplies in the process. Something’s wrong with me. Something’s wrong with me and it’s scaring me. I’m losing control of my facade and I can’t seem to pull it back into place. Maybe because I don’t know whether I’ll ever see Clara again. Maybe because interrogations have never included questions about my welfare. Or maybe it’s because there’s no chip in James’s body. No audience watching through his eyes. I haven’t had a private conversation with anyone in years and I feel safer with this stranger than I do with my own sister and it’s emotionally destabilizing.
“Why won’t you answer the question?”
“Why are you asking?” I blink, trying to focus. I can’t seem to return to my body. “Why are you—”
I suck in a breath.
The hunger I’ve been compartmentalizing for days roars suddenly back to life, spearing me with a shocking, breathtaking pain. It’s a reminder to me that underneath the bursts of adrenaline my body is slowly atrophying, stripping nutrients from my bones, metabolizing itself.
“Rosabelle, are they starving you?”
I shake my head. I shake my head and it won’t stop, Clara won’t stop crying, won’t stop screaming. There’s blood on her lips, smeared across her sallow cheeks. She’s three years old again, gnawing on her fingers. Four years old and I can count her bones. I curl around her every night, pressing down on her stomach so she can sleep, trapping the pain with my hands. She whimpers for hours and I can’t get it out of my head. I can never get it out of my head.
I can’t stop shaking my head.
Aren’t you hungry, too, Rosa?
“No,” I say out loud.
“So you’re defending them? Protecting them?” James sounds angry. “Great. That’s two good reasons to throw you into the ocean right now.”
I look up, no longer able to hide my alarm.
Never mind the fact that I haven’t eaten in three days, I rarely sleep through the night anymore. I haven’t felt warm water on my skin in years. My mind falters more these days; my body isn’t as resilient as it might’ve been. The only clothes I’ve ever owned are the castoffs of my mother and father. I’m wearing yesterday’s hospital scrubs and the moth-eaten sweater I once used to wipe down the kitchen counters. I haven’t engaged in hand-to-hand combat in two years. The tremble in my right arm has gotten progressively worse, and it’s becoming a liability. The Reestablishment knows this. The weaker I become, the more they downgrade my assignments. The weaker I become, the less I’m worth.
My last mission was to assassinate a professor in the Academies District; he’d been flagged by Klaus as a zealot with the potential for domestic terrorism. The man spent so much time with his kids that it took me two days to get a clean shot. This mission is expected to last well over a month, and I haven’t even been ordered to kill James yet; I’ve been ordered to use him.
In order to use him I have to inspire him to trust me, and he’s too smart to survive on a diet of lies—which means I have to be willing to part with more and more truth. But I’m only good at my job when I disconnect from my own humanity. The hunger helps keep me hollow. I survive only by freely and quietly dying, over and over, inside my head.
Dealing with James will require accessing my soul, and few things have terrified me more.
I look up, into his eyes—
JAMES
CHAPTER 18
“She just passed out,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I’ve already explained this like fourteen times. I have no idea what happened.”
“And you didn’t do anything to her?”
“No, I didn’t do anything to her!”
“All right, everyone needs to chill,” Kenji says, biting into a carrot stick. He offers me the bag and I reach for a carrot, muttering thanks when he says, “Obviously James didn’t do anything to this girl, because if he had any idea what he was doing he would’ve killed her days ago.”
“Hey—”
“Look,” Kenji says, crunching. “I love you, you know I love you, and props for coming home mostly in one piece, but you literally shaved years off our lives. We thought you were dead.” He chews for another second, then: “Honestly, if we weren’t over the moon to have you home right now, I’d beat the shit out of you.”
“I second that,” says Adam.
Kenji reaches for another carrot, then nods at Adam. “The snack game gets stronger every day, man. A little peanut butter, too? In its own little container?” He takes another bite. “Did you cut these carrots yourself?”
“Yeah, and I’ve got apple slices, too,” says Adam, rifling through the backpack at his feet. “Roman decided he’s only eating apples this week.”
“Wasn’t he only eating bananas last week?” asks Winston, intercepting the bag of apple slices.
“Yeah, but—”
“Hey,” I say, sitting forward. “Why’d you call for a meeting if you’re not even going to talk to me?”
“I didn’t call this meeting,” says Kenji. “Warner did. And we’re ten minutes early, so technically the meeting hasn’t started yet. This is snack time.”
“Yeah,” says Winston around a bite of apple. “This is snack time. We work hard for snack time.”
I sigh. “Do you know where he is?”
“Who? Warner?” Kenji crunches. Shrugs. “Probably thinking up the best way to kill you without J finding out.”
“How’s she doing, by the way?” I sink back in my seat. “I haven’t seen her yet.”
“She’s okay. Slight improvement. She wanted to visit you in recovery, but the doctor says she shouldn’t be exposed to idiots. They think it might be contagious.”
I throw my carrot stick at his head. “Don’t be a dick,” I say. “I’m genuinely worried about her.”
“If you were genuinely worried about her,” says Winston, “you wouldn’t have disappeared like that. We were planning your memorial.”
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ve apologized a million times.”
“You weren’t here,” says Kenji. “You don’t know what it was like. Even when we got the call to come get you yesterday, people had a hard time. People were really overwhelmed. People cried.”
“You cried,” says Winston. “I didn’t cry.”
“I said people cried—”
“Hey, have you seen Warner yet?” Adam asks, turning to face me.
“Yeah.” I tense a little at the memory. “Only for a second, though. He came to see me in recovery.”
“Did he say anything?” Adam asks.
“No. He just stared at me from the doorway.”
Adam and Winston share a glance.
“What?” I say.
Kenji swallows the last of his carrot, then looks into the empty bag. “Yeah, um, you should know,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me. “Warner is mad mad. If he actually tried to kill you I wouldn’t even blame him. J cried for like twelve hours straight. Inconsolable. That man damn near lost his mind— Oh,” he says to Adam, “hey, do you have any more of those gummy bears?”
I drag my hands down my face, exhaling through my nose.
Adam tosses a small package to Kenji, a blur of color arcing across the room. Kenji catches it easily, turning the packet over in his hands before ripping it open.
The rustling plastic and synthetic fruit scents instantly transport me to another moment. Heightened feeling snakes through my body, thrills of fear and excitement. I realize then that I’ll never be able to look at gummy bears without remembering Rosabelle.
“Does anyone know if she’s awake yet?” I ask.
“Who? Gigi? She’s five, bro, she doesn’t really nap anymore—”
“Not Gigi,” I say, fighting a wave of irritation. “Rosabelle.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Winston nods. He’s still working on his bag of apple slices. “I mean, I don’t know about awake, exactly, but she’s been stable for a few hours. Consciousness comes and goes.”
“A few hours?” I stiffen. “A few hours and no one thought to tell me?”
Adam laughs. “I don’t think people are going to tell you much of anything anymore. Warner’s already removed a bunch of your security clearances. She’s officially no longer your concern.”
