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  “Oh, you’re so helpful.”

  “Hey, it would make me slow down.”

  “Rylee.” Preston’s voice. “Do see if you can slow him down. I’m going to try cutting him off. Maybe take a few shots at the street ahead of him. Just to spook him.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Great. Wasting bullets. If she had to shoot, she’d prefer to aim directly at the Elect.

  Drawing out her pistol, she took aim just to the right of the cycle. The kickback from the shot threw her hand back more than she expected. Why would anyone try to shoot one of these things with one hand? It was hard enough aiming a pistol with two hands when stationary, not to mention traveling at eighty miles-per-hour.

  She didn’t see the bullet strike, but the Elect’s cycle swerved to the right. Again, she took aim, this time on the left side, and fired. Ready for the flail of the gun in her hand, she controlled it better and saw a spark ignite off the street. The Elect swerved right. What if one of the bullets ricocheted off the street into a window? At least she was shooting down-street.

  Her shots had done their job. The Elect’s speed decreased some. She lifted her pistol to fire again. Without warning, the Elect reached back his arm. It fell over the shoulder of the girl, pointing directly at Rylee. The slight shimmer of a gun’s barrel reflected the light of her headlights.

  “Desolation!”

  With a jerk, she leaned hard to the right, just as the Elect fired the shot. What kind of pistol was it? It was hard to tell in the low light and from her angle. But the grip…

  Stop it! An Elect is shooting at you and you’re trying to figure out what kind of pistol he has?

  The Elect hadn’t even turned to look at her as he shot, yet he had aimed straight at her.

  How are they so precise?

  “Did you just say dislocation?” Serghei asked.

  “Yes! I’m going to dislocate your nose if you don’t leave me alone. I’m being shot at.” He knew that’s not what she said.

  “You know, the nose doesn’t have a socket. So, you can’t technically—”

  “Hold on, Ry,” Preston’s voice broke in. “I’m almost there.”

  Right. No problem.

  The Elect fired another shot. Again she dodged...barely. But he predicted her maneuver, immediately following up with a second shot. Something struck the top of her shoulder. It didn’t knock her back though. She tested her arm. Did the bullet just graze? How did he shoot so well like that, and one-handed?

  This was insane. She was going to get herself killed if she didn’t do something. Time to waste more bullets. Swerving hard to the left, she fired off two rounds. Then swerved to the other side, and fired off three more.

  How many rounds was that? Six? Seven? She fired again. It was working. The shots were keeping him busy enough to prevent retaliation. This wouldn’t last, though. He’d figure out she wasn’t trying to hit him.

  Where was Preston? They were running out of time. Soon they would be out of the slums. And the closer they got to the boundary the more likely they’d run into Regulators. That would only bring them trouble. Already a full squadron could be heading their way.

  The Elect got off a shot at her. It whizzed past her head, a sharp whistle sounding in her ear. She couldn’t keep this up. What if…

  Without stopping to talk herself out of it, she gunned the engine. More rapidly than she expected, her cycle brought her alongside the Elect. Not bothering to aim properly, she fired a single round at the Elect, then squeezed the left brake handle as tightly as she could. With a lurch, she fell behind him. Despite the Elects enhanced reflexes, she had apparently caught him off guard.

  The bullet struck the Elect somewhere on his side. He nearly fell off his cycle from the impact. Yet he managed to stay on.

  How did he—

  She ducked as he swung his arm around and unleashed a torrent of bullets at her. One struck the front-right fender, almost hitting her knee. She slammed on her brakes even harder. Another bullet struck the windshield, passing through, barely missing her face. The shot made her jerk hard left. Her front tire struck a pothole. In vain she tried to compensate. But the bike was already tilting, her rear tire starting to slide. She felt the loss of control, and panic gripped her.

  There wasn’t enough time to power out of it. She was too close to the buildings. If her back wheel struck the wall, she would be smashed against the bricks. Only one way out. Pulling hard to the right, she laid the bike down. With a force that whipped her neck like a flimsy cord, her back slammed against the pavement.

  I don’t even have on a helmet, she thought as sparks from the side of the cycle’s aluminum body sprayed like fireworks across the asphalt. Luckily, she managed to not get her leg pinned under the cycle. Her body slid free of it. Still, she fought to keep her legs from being mangled by the street’s coarse surface. Beneath her back, pinned between flesh and asphalt, she could feel her rifle being ground to powder. The sound made her wish she were sliding on her face instead.

  After what felt like minutes, she stopped sliding.

  Body trembling, she lay on the icy street, unmoving. With a frazzled brain, she attempted a mental triage of her wounds. At first she felt nothing but shock and cold. Then the pain ruptured through the barrier formed by her adrenaline. Her thigh and left forearm felt like they’d been fried by a thousand volts of electricity. Her spine felt like someone had rammed railroad spikes into it. But she was alive.

  The Elect was alive, too. And getting away with his prize.

  From up the street, a screech of wheels made her jerk her head in that direction. Through the gloom she couldn’t make out anything.

  Gunfire erupted suddenly.

  “Rylee, where are you?” It was Preston’s voice in her earpiece. “I need backup.”

  Had he managed to barricade the road?

  There was no time to ask questions. Or to worry about her injuries. A shootout—a duel—with an Elect was an extremely dangerous thing. Even if most Elects were idiots and held their guns with just one hand, they could still be surprisingly accurate.

  Forcing herself to move, Rylee rolled onto her front and pushed herself up onto all fours. Her back screamed in pain. Then she unslung her rifle. She forced herself to put off inspecting its damage. It was still in one piece. It would fire—maybe.

  Placing the bipod legs on the street, she painfully leaned over her rifle. Within the thermal scope, she found the Elect crouched behind his cycle, exchanging gunfire with someone she couldn’t see. The girl was behind him, lying on the ground, her hands trying to shield her face and head. Screams split the air between the sharp bursts of gunfire. Where was Preston? And why wasn’t that Elect incapacitated, or dead? She’d clearly struck him in the side with a bullet.

  Could the PNU suppress pain to such a degree? Maybe. The PNU only controlled the brain. The Elect’s blood loss should still slow him down. Unless he wasn’t bleeding, because he wore a tactical vest. Bulletproof. Only Regulators wore those.

  Taking aim at his head, and hoping her rifle still worked, she pulled the trigger.

  The Elect’s head rocked forward, and his body slumped to the street.

  Rylee exhaled in relief, resting her forehead on her rifle’s stock.

  “Rylee? Was that your shot?” Preston’s voice came into her earpiece.

  “You owe me one,” she muttered.

  “No kidding. Good job.”

  “Not to spoil this beautiful moment,” Serghei’s voice crackled over the line, “but Houston, we have a problem.”

  “What now?”

  “Regulators.”

  THREE

  “How many?” Preston asked over the line.

  “Oh, one or two squadrons,” Serghei said calmly over the line.

  Rylee groaned. “You’ve got to be joking. One or two squadrons?”

  “Would I joke about something like this?”

  Rylee rolled her eyes.

  “How close?” Preston asked.<
br />
  “Eh, two minutes. If you’re lucky.”

  “Ry,” Preston said, “my cycle’s Swiss cheese. Is yours operative?”

  Rylee let out a deranged laugh, casting a glance over at the gray mass smashed against a wall. Its front wheel was obviously bent beyond repair. “You might be able to salvage a few bolts from it."

  She could almost hear Preston shaking his head as he evaluated their plight.

  “The dead Elect’s cycle might work,” he said after a moment. “You could use it to return the girl, then lead off some of the Regulators.”

  “No, you take her,” Rylee said. “You’re…,” she grimaced as pain jolted through her back, “closer.”

  Preston noted the brief pause in her reply as she tried to talk through the pain. “Ry, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “Just go. I’ll be fine. Nothing’s broken.” I hope.

  “Stay put. I’m coming for you.”

  Her earpiece went silent. She decided not to argue. If she and Preston got into a stubbornness fight, the Regulators would have them detained long before either budged on the matter. And with the Regulators, there would be no question as to their conviction and summary execution. No evidence required.

  Taking a deep breath, Rylee slowly lifted herself from the street and stood on shaky legs. After all she’d done tonight, standing felt like the greatest accomplishment. Her left forearm and hip still burned. Was there any skin left? She didn’t dare to inspect the spots now. And she suddenly felt glad for the darkness. With one hand, she slung her battered rifle back over her shoulder.

  Down the street she saw a headlight come to life. A bright bluish light. Within a few moments, the headlight started to grow larger, until the cycle was stopped on the street beside her.

  Preston motioned with his head to the back of the cycle. “Get on.”

  Rylee looked at him incredulously. “There’s no way we’re all going to fit.”

  “We’ll squeeze. It will work.”

  “Am I supposed to sit on your shoulders?”

  “Fine,” he said, setting the cycle’s kickstand and climbing off. “You drive. I’ll go on foot. Get yourself back to the hideout. I can keep the Regulators busy.”

  Rylee’s eyes drifted from Preston’s determined face to the frightened, shivering girl on the cycle. Now that the girl was closer, she could see her face more clearly. Lexi Bransen. The Elects always managed to find the pretty ones. Lexi was sixteen, if Rylee remembered correctly. Only two years younger than herself. Yet Lexi still seemed like just a young girl to Rylee. Young and innocent. A slender beam of pure light in a dark world. And a beautiful one. She thought about the girl, arms wrapped tightly around Preston as he drove her home.

  Not going to happen.

  “Okay,” she said, straddling the cycle and fighting back the pain that seared up her side as she did so. “See you back at home.” It wasn’t really home. But she didn’t want to give Lexi any clues about their hideout.

  Then she flipped up the cycle’s kickstand, and raced off down the street. Lexi instantly wrapped her arms around Rylee and pressed into her back. Pain surged through Rylee’s body, momentarily making her vision go fuzzy.

  “Not so tight,” she gasped as loudly as she could.

  Lexi’s hold lessened slightly, but there was still a constant throbbing in her back.

  Rylee didn’t speed like a maniac with a death wish this time. She took care to avoid most of the cracks and ridges in the streets that still remained from the earthquakes of Desolation. As it was, running over a bit of gravel made her clench her teeth in pain.

  “Feng?” Preston’s voice came unexpectedly into her earpiece. “Where are you?”

  “Oh, so did you decide that I’m still part of this team?” Feng still sounded out of breath. “Never mind me, I’ve just been chasing down an Elect alone and on foot.”

  “Very noble,” Preston said. “Now get you and that wisecracking Chinese tongue of yours back to the hideout. And watch out for the Regulators.”

  “Don’t worry about me. The Regulators won’t come near me. I smell too much like fish.”

  The line went dead.

  Within a few minutes, they reached Lexi’s street. As they drew nearer to the girl’s own building, more and more windows glowed with weak, sallow lights.

  Great! The whole neighborhood was awake. Now she really wished for a helmet.

  She stopped in front of Lexi’s building and the girl climbed off. A light shone from Lexi’s open window. Shadows traced along the walls of the room within.

  Lexi cast a longing glance at it, then turned back to Rylee.

  “Thank you,” she said, almost too sweetly. “I don’t know—”

  “If you wish to thank me, you’ll keep your mouth shut. You never saw me.”

  Movement caught Rylee’s eye. A head poked out of Lexi’s window. A man, his mouth gaped open.

  More witnesses. Not good.

  “Lexi?” the man said. “What in the world is going on?”

  Time to leave.

  Without saying another word, Rylee twisted the throttle and sped off into the night.

  Now came the gamble. Preston offering the cycle was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because she didn’t think she could have made it back to the hideout on her own. Scaling buildings was out of the question in her current condition. Even if her rope hadn’t been shredded. A fact she would have to try and hide from her grandfather. The cycle was a curse, though, because now she had to do something with it.

  If she left the cycle lying outside their hideout, it would be as good as suicide. The Regulators would find it, and then find their hideout. And then…the Elect Hunters themselves. That was what they called their little gang. The Elect Hunters. A morbid name. Serghei had unofficially given the moniker to the group two years ago when they decided to try and do something to fight back against the Elects. To fight against the growing tide of atrocities done to the Norms. It was as important to protect their gang as it was the people of the slums—more so.

  The best course of action was to take the cycle far away and destroy it. Sink it to the bottom of Lake Washington or the Sound. Both were out of the question. Unless she was willing to sacrifice herself to do it. Her wounds needed medical attention. She could feel warm blood oozing down her leg . Perhaps she could hide it in an alleyway and dispose of it later. In her exhausted state, brain muddled by pain, she reasoned this to be her best option. Maybe Preston could do a better job of disposing of it when he returned to the hideout.

  She drove within two blocks of the Elect Hunter’s hideout, just along the border of the industrial district, where row after row of dilapidated warehouses provided refuge for illegal activities, Deprecates, and rats. Rylee deposited the cycle in a narrow alleyway, behind an old garbage dumpster, long since looted of its trash. Then she dragged herself the rest of the way to the hideout, each step adding to her pain.

  Slumping against the door frame, she banged on the rusted metal that served as door to the warehouse. She tapped her earpiece. “Serg, it’s me. Let me in.”

  “Password?” He said a moment later.

  “I hate you and your passwords.”

  “Let her in, Serg,” Preston said over the line. “She’s injured.”

  Almost immediately, she heard the clanks and screeches of rusty steel, as Serghei unbolted and opened the door. Weak light spilled out into the alleyway. A lanky figure appeared in the doorway and hurried her inside.

  “Gunshot wound?” Serghei asked, as he took hold of her shoulder to give her support. “Broken femur? Cracked skull?” He asked it not out of concern or worry. No, he sounded eager. Too eager.

  “Just some scrapes and bruises,” Rylee said through clenched teeth. Now that the adrenaline from the night’s activities was wearing off, she felt the pain more acutely. “I laid down the Elect’s cycle. Slid a good way.”

  “Wicked!” he said.

  Wicked? Where did Serghei come up with these ex
pressions? Of course, she knew exactly where they came from. Serghei’s movie collection. The boy was a living catalog of old movies, which he’d collected over the years during his scavenging runs.

  The word sounded especially odd spoken with his accent. A Romanian accent, Serghei claimed. But they all had their doubts about that. Both Serghei’s parents were Romanian. But Serghei had been orphaned at age two, and raised here—far away from whatever was left of Romania—in the nursery with hundreds of other non-Romanians.

  They walked down a short corridor, through another door, before coming into a large room. Rylee winced as the lights assaulted her eyes. Despite its size, the room was stuffed with things. Serghei’s things. His treasures. Old electronics equipment that hadn’t worked in twenty years, stacks of old hard drives pilfered from abandoned computers, cases of very flat Mountain Dew, piles of something called DVDs, and on and on.

  Feng was already in the room, resting in one of the hole-ridden love seats and drinking a can of the flat Mountain Dew.

  Rylee’s throat constricted at the mere thought of drinking it. Preston drank the stuff too. She didn’t know how they managed it.

  Feng raised the can to her as she walked in. His usually pale face was red, and his jet-black hair lay matted against his forehead, wet with perspiration.

  “Welcome back,” he said without energy. “Thanks for saving some fun for the rest of us.”

  “You think nearly getting shot by an Elect multiple times, then crashing a cycle is fun?”

  She unslung her rifle and eased into one of the chairs. Beneath her weight, the ancient springs in the cushions threatened to puncture the worn upholstery and prick her backside. That would feel like a massage compared to the pain she felt now.

  Feng crushed the now-empty Mountain Dew can in his fist. “If it means massacring a few tripe-face Elects…”

  Feng, whose parents had immigrated from China before he was born, actually did speak his parent’s native tongue. But unlike Serghei, he did not speak with a foreign accent.

  “Well, next time,” she said, grimacing as she adjusted her left leg, “I’ll let you have all the fun. Besides, we’re trying to protect our people, not just kill Elects.”