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  Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself and think about an alternative. My mind picks apart the locking mechanism of my shackles — or rather, what I believe the locking mechanism should be. I was able to pick the shackles Erik put on me in the Vault. But that was two years ago, and I haven’t had time to practice.

  Four thousand five hundred.

  I’m fucked.

  I’m so fu—

  Wait a second.

  I remove the bent needle from the lock, straighten it as best I can, and slip it between the ratchet teeth and the ratchet itself. And then I press down on it, pinching my wrist hard until I feel how the rasp of teeth against the ratchet smooths away.

  Gingerly, I pull at the cuff.

  My wrist comes free.

  Part Three

  No one starts a war—or rather, no one in his sense ought to do so—without first being clear in his mind what he intends to achieve by that war and how he intends to conduct it.

  Carl Von Clausewitz

  Twenty-Three

  I kick the blanket off with my free foot and get to work on the remaining ankle cuff. Time is racing away from me. Once more, I jam the needle between ratchet teeth and ratchet, but I can see already that the cuff is on too tight. There’s not enough space to push down to open it. Twisting my leg and rotating the cuff, I try to find a better position. I press down hard on the needle and the cuff. The metal cuts into my skin, but the pain barely registers. I have to get the fuck out of here, even if it costs me my foot.

  My time in the hands of the BSA taught me that the worst thing you can do when someone takes you prisoner is to think they have absolute control and you are powerless. If you believe that, you won’t be able to tackle your problems. There are always options and possibilities. Even if you are trapped in a concrete box, denied a toilet, a bed, clothes, food and clean water. Your options aren’t comparable to the luxuries you are used to, so you suffer. But when you learn to use what’s given to you, you find a way to manage. You have choices, even if each and every small choice comes with a heavy price.

  But amputating my foot isn’t one of them. I need both feet to run, and there’s no knife within my reach anyway. The cuff is now so tight, it cuts off my circulation. The shit thing just won’t open. Panting, I scan the room.

  That’s when I hear footfalls in the hallway. Someone approaching in a run. My throat closes in panic. I lunge to the IV stand, and nearly fall over and face plant the floor as the shackle jerks me back. I stretch until my spine hurts. My fingertips brush my target. Just as the door bursts open, I manage to grab the stand and whirl around, only somewhat assured by the cold, hard metal in my hands.

  Doc stands in the frame, black knuckles paling against the door handle. He scans the IV stand in my grip, my face, and says in a voice as cold as his brother’s, ‘Your friends are attacking.’

  For a fraction of a second, I grin and my hope soars, but then I realise that he and I have a disagreement about who my friends really are. My knees feel like water. ‘I need a gun.’

  He snorts. ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  I clench my jaw. ‘I keep telling you the Bull Shit Army is my enemy. Give me a gun and I’ll help you.’ Slowly, I lower the IV stand to show him I mean no harm. I must look pathetic. Rumpled clothes and hair, balancing on one leg, the other stretched over the bed and shackled to the frame. And I’m wielding an IV stand, of all things. ‘Please. A gun. And a key.’ I thrust my chin at the shackle.

  There might be doubt in his eyes. Or maybe not. But for a brief moment, he considers my request. I don’t dare breathe.

  He drags his gaze away from me, steps back, and leaves.

  I roar my fury at the shut door.

  It just can’t be. Of all the days the BSA could have attacked this specific base, they pick the very minute I’m trying to escape. My reality is worse than my nightmares. Every step I take, my legs are kicked from under me. I feel like I’m drowning in glue.

  Bellowing, I yank at the chain that holds me, knowing full well that all I’ll accomplish is to bloody my ankle.

  ‘Think, Micka,’ I groan through my teeth. Is there nothing I can use? Really nothing? My roving gaze stops on the IV stand. It’s made of metal. Just like my chains. Just like the frame of my bed.

  I slam the stand against the bed frame over and over, pausing only briefly to listen to the growing noise in the corridor. People are evacuating the building. Someone shouts a command. They all pass my door, ignoring the loud crashes I produce.

  Looks like I’m not important right now. A good time to get lost.

  One leg of the IV stand is about to come off and I haven’t even put a dent in the bed frame or the chain. My ankle is bleeding from two cuts, making me hot with fury and despair. Bellowing, I smack the chain. Two legs spring off the IV stand, which is now bent. And not a scratch to the chain.

  Part of me wants to keep bashing in things. The other part knows I have to find an alternative because this isn’t working. I pick up one of the broken-off legs. Its foot is made of rubber, its base is narrow and pretty sharp where it was welded to the stand. I flip it in my hand and consider my shackled ankle.

  The sharp end of the leg slips easily between the double strands of the cuff. Bracing my foot against the bed frame, I twist my makeshift lever in the shackle. The shackle’s edge cuts into my shin. I keep pushing until I could swear there’s a crunch of metal grinding over bone. I increase the pressure. It’s my only option. Other than cutting off my foot.

  The metal gives without the faintest noise. Might be I didn’t hear the screech because of my own shout of pain.

  I peel the shackle off my ankle, and smooth a ragged flap of skin back over my flesh. Fuck, my leg hurts. I need to stabilise my ankle and stop the bleeding before I leave here.

  I hobble over to the shelf where Doc keeps a few supplies, and pick up bandages and disinfectant. My butt hits the floor harder than I planned. My fingers are trembling with pain and fear of failure as I clean the wound and wrap a bandage around it. I grab another roll and pad to the mirror by the door, smash it in and pick up a large shard. I wrap the bandage around its base, letting only the pointy end stick out. Then I grab the IV stand, break off the remaining leg, and…realise I’m barefoot.

  The snow outside might not be a problem in the first hour or two, but I can’t afford freezing more of my toes off. I have only eight left. And this being a battleground now, sharp things are probably littering the floors.

  Quickly, I use the shard to slice and rip my bed sheet into strips, wrap my feet in several layers of them, and make sure they work like shoes and not like tripwires.

  Then, I step to the door, press my ear to it and listen.

  There’s nothing. No running, no shouting. Looks like the Sequencers have fled. I have only moments until the BSA show up here.

  Sucking in two deep breaths, I press down on the door handle.

  Twenty-Four

  The place looks abandoned, but other than that, unchanged. I whisper along the corridor and slip through one of its many grey doors in search of a window. I need to see what’s going on; I can’t just run blindly at the enemy. Especially since both sides are the enemy. It doesn’t matter how glorious they think they are, or that they believe the world will soon be saved, thanks to them. Their intentions really don’t matter. What they are willing to do and what they refuse to do are what matters. And at that, the Sequencers have turned out to be a lot like the BSA.

  I find what I’m looking for as I enter a lab. Workbenches, some looking like desks, others like see-through boxes, line the walls. Small plates with hundreds of tiny indentations are stacked inside the see-through boxes. A forgotten burner sputters a yellow flame. Several monitors show reports and calculations, and there are schematics that look like bushes or trees, but with species names and numbers instead of leaves.

  Ducking, I approach a window and scan outside. There’s a courtyard with a pond that has a fountain at its centre and is belted by tall re
eds and greenery that blooms purple and yellow. There’s even a pink pond lily. It must be…July? August? That can’t be true. Didn’t I spot melting snow only...a few weeks ago?

  I push the thought aside. What really matters to me now is access to weapons. My eyes search the room. There’s something that looks a bit like a gun, but with a small cartridge for gas instead of…

  Uh oh, did someone leave a flamethrower for the evil terrorist?

  I push down the trigger. After two sharp clicks, a blue flame shoots out of the muzzle. The flame is only as long as my hand but better than nothing. I make to pocket the small flamethrower, but realise halfway that I don’t have any pockets. Only a pair of slacks and a shirt, both without pockets because a prisoner doesn’t need that crap, does she?

  Scanning for clothes and more weapons, I run through connecting doors from one lab to the next, ducking whenever I come across a window — all of which face the empty courtyard.

  A few moments later, I’m one ridiculous wool cardigan with a reindeer motif (but with two pockets!), two flamethrowers, a large pair of scissors, and several scalpels richer. I find a toolbox under a workbench, and inside is the solution to most of my problems: lots of zip ties.

  There’s also a humongous pipe wrench. What do researchers need pipe wrenches, flamethrowers, and zip ties for?

  I abandon my mirror shard, and use the wrench and a pair of pliers to break off one half of the scissors. Then I zip tie it to the bottom of the IV stand. A spear is a far cry from a high-precision rifle, but better than nothing.

  I button the cardigan, heft my makeshift spear, and exit the lab section to try the doors on the other side of the hallway.

  All are locked.

  Knowing that I’ve already been on this level way too long, I press my ear to the exit, twist the knob, and step into a stairwell.

  A light bulb jitters above me. I lean my back against the door, and prick my ears for footfalls, voices, or anything that would tell me about enemy movement. It’s strangely quiet here. More like a cemetery than a battleground.

  Where is everybody?

  I inch forward and peek over the bannister. A guy in black two levels down is pointing his muzzle in my direction. I jerk back as a shot is fired. The report echoes through the emptiness. He mutters into a radio and receives a scratchy response.

  Gazing at my small flamethrowers and my scissor IV stand, I try to convince myself that I’m not pathetic at all and that I’m not going to die in a reindeer cardigan.

  Hurried movements on the lower levels send my heart into my throat. I can’t return to the lab wing, and I can’t stay here or run down. Hoping that upstairs isn’t just another dead end, I open the door behind me and let it fall shut, trying to make the Bull Shit Army believe I went that way.

  Then I slink up the stairs.

  One level up, I find a locked door. I don’t dare try my spear on it, because that would give me away. The next level is locked, too. I race up another set of stairs and find one door. I try the knob.

  It won’t budge.

  That’s it, then. No cover, and the only way out is right into the raised guns of the BSA. Sounds of boots on concrete and metal are coming closer.

  I catch myself muttering, ‘I’m not going back. I’m not going back.’

  Sinking my teeth into the inside of my cheeks, I shut myself up.

  I hear them splitting up on the level I came from. Boots shuffle. A door snaps shut. Someone climbs the stairs.

  One guy. Just one. I can deal with one guy.

  But I need more space to move. My feet carry me down one flight. I press my back into the darkest corner, slip the flamethrowers in my waistband at the small of my back, and park the spear against the wall behind me.

  My pulse thuds in my ears. I am not going back. Not to the Sequencers and definitely not to the BSA. Even if I break my vow to Katvar, I will not be a prisoner again. I curl and uncurl my fingers, calm my breathing, focus.

  A bearded man in black combat gear rounds the corner. The moment he spots me, his pistol swivels to my centre mass. He seems quick enough. A bit bulky, though.

  I lift my hands in surrender, plastering a nervous smile on my face.

  He doesn’t see that even though my hands are empty, I’m not harmless. All he sees is an exhausted, scared girl in a ridiculous cardigan, with strips of white fabric around her feet instead of boots.

  Grinning, he relaxes his stance, and reaches for the radio on his hip.

  Big. Fucking. Mistake.

  I rotate my body away from the line of fire as I lunge for the gun, and jerk it up, aside, and out of his hand in less than half a second. At the same time, my injured foot hits his ballsack. He goes down with a squeak. I smack the butt of his gun against his temple to make sure he stays down. With a painful huff, he folds in on himself. His radio clatters to the floor, skids through the bannister, and tumbles, tumbles, tumbles, announcing to everyone and their fleas that a BSA soldier just went down. And sure enough, lots of noise is coming from below now: clattering, loud voices, and someone chewing on his radio.

  At least I have a gun.

  As the guy by my feet moves again, I whack him on the head for good, then frisk his limp body. Two pistols, four fresh clips, and a knife. I feel much better already.

  ‘Oy, scrotum mullets!’ I shout. ‘I’ve got your comrade. If you don’t want me to hang him by his testicles from the bannister, I’d suggest you clear the building.’ I make my voice croaky and low. The last thing I need is anyone from the Bull Shit Army recognising me and reporting me to Erik.

  A few moments of silence are followed by some more chewing on the radio. They seem to be waiting for shit to trickle back down the chain of command. Someone starts a heated argument. I hope they kill each other in a brawl. What a bunch of amateurs. Definitely not from Headquarters, and I’m glad for that.

  They won’t know who I am.

  The breath of relief freezes in my mouth as someone from below shouts, ‘Is your name Mickaela Capra?’

  Twenty-Five

  ‘Fuck,’ I mutter under my breath.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ the guy shouts. ‘We’re not here to harm you.’

  Sure. You’re not here to kill me. Just to drag me back to hell, marry me to some sadistic pig, and force me to kill innocent people for you.

  The man I knocked out starts moving again. Quickly, I check the chambers of both pistols, and find a round in each. I’m not sure if his guns are any good, or if they’ll jam or even blow up in my hand the moment I squeeze the trigger. I decide to test them before I try to shoot myself out of here.

  Besides, the Bull Shit Army needs a reminder of who they’re dealing with.

  I aim at the prone man who’s just regaining consciousness and put a bullet in his head and one in his chest. One BSA asshat down, an unknown number of asshats to go.

  They start shouting in earnest now.

  I’m ready to dance.

  I place one gun on the floor, and use my free hand to pull a flamethrower from my waistband, then risk a quick peek over the bannister. They are coming up fast, careful to stay out of sight. ‘Stop shooting!’ someone shouts over and over.

  Idiots.

  I drop the first flamethrower down the stairwell and fire my pistol at its gas cartridge.

  A fireball erupts with an ear-splitting WOOOMP! and I have barely enough time to jerk back before flames can singe off my eyebrows.

  Cries of pain bounce off bare concrete walls.

  ‘Got your ballsacks singed?’ I call down.

  ‘You fucking bitch! We came to get you out of here!’

  I bark a laugh. ‘I’d rather die than go back to you, you butt maggots! Piss off or I’ll bomb you to fucking hell! One… Two…’ I don’t wait for “three.” I drop the last flamethrower. My index finger curls against the trigger when I hear a hoarse cry of, ‘Micka noooo!’

  That…voice…

  I’m dying inside.

  My mouth opens to shout a warning as a
round spins out of the barrel. Whatever I wanted to say drowns in the explosion. Nothing but survival instinct forces my body to duck away from the heat. My eyes are shut. I can’t get them to open.

  That voice.

  I suck in a breath and scream, ‘Katvar?’

  ‘Micka?’ he croaks.

  Oh no! Nononono. ‘Not you. Not you!’ I can’t feel my body, or anything, really. Only the hard metal of a gun in each hand. Despair steals my breath. Katvar taken by the BSA is a hundred times worse than anything they have done to me.

  ‘He signs that he’s okay,’ a man shouts from further down. ‘He wants me to tell you to stop shooting. You singed off Kioshi’s beard, and he’s really mad.’

  ‘I’ll kill this bitch!’ another man bellows. ‘She’s killed Lars and Vi—’ He’s shut up by what sounds like a punch to his mouth.

  The other man cuts in, ‘You heard him. If you so much as put a finger on your guns or explosives, we’ll make sure you won’t leave this building in one piece.’

  ‘Kioshi? Katvar?’ Terror is making my voice squeaky as rubber. I don’t give a shit about the threats to my life. Katvar’s life though… That’s a whole different world of pain.

  ‘Girl, you have a serious trigger-finger problem. Can I send Katvar up without getting him killed?’

  That’s Kioshi’s voice. Really Kioshi’s voice! ‘Why are you with the BSA?’

  A man groans. Another mutters something, and someone else shouts, ‘Hurry the fuck up, will ya?’

  ‘Katvar will explain. Don’t shoot!’ Kioshi shouts.

  My entire frame trembles like grass in the wind. ‘If you guys are fucking with me, I’ll bring down this building.’

  ‘We get it! You made your point, girl. Now, can we speed up this shit? People are hurt and dying.’

  ‘Get them to the hospital wing,’ I say.

  ‘What hospital wing? There is no hospital wing.’

  ‘The lab wing you just searched. There’s a room with a bed and medical supplies.’