Dallas parks behind the Escalade and cuts the engine.
She turns in her seat, looking us over. “Will you promise to be good boys and girls if we cut the restraints?” she asks.
“Because we’ve made it this far, and I’d like to trust that you won’t cause trouble.”
Please don’t say anything stupid, James.
“All I do is cause trouble,” James responds in monotone.
I turn to glare at him, but Dallas only laughs and climbs out.
James looks sideways at me and shrugs, not all that apologetic for antagonizing the rebels who are basically holding us hostage.
The van door slides open with a loud metallic scrape and we’re drowned in afternoon sunlight. We blink against it, and then Dallas takes my arm, pulling me from the van. I’m still adjusting to the brightness when Cas appears in front of me with a pocketknife. I suck in a frightened breath, but he quickly holds up his other hand.
“No, no,” he says with a shake of his head, sounding offended that I’d think he would hurt me. “This is to cut the zip ties.” He darts a look at James, who’s moved to just inside the door, ready to pounce. “Here, seriously,” Cas says, motioning him forward. “You’re not prisoners, man.” James waits a beat, and then hops down onto the pavement. He turns his back to Cas, but keeps his gaze steady on me as Cas saws through the plastic binding. Dallas watches on, her high-arched dark eyebrows raised in amusement. It doesn’t last long. The minute James is free, he spins and grabs Dallas’s T-shirt in his fist, backing her against the van.
“If you mess with Sloane again,” he growls, “I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Dallas asks coldly. “What will you do?” Dallas is nearly as tall as James, but she looks weak as her thin hand reaches to wrap around his wrist. She’s calling his bluff. I watch as James’s expression falters, and he lets her go. But before he steps away, Dallas’s elbow shoots out, catching James in the chin with a sudden thud before her long leg hooks around his and she takes him to the ground. I yell his name, but James is still lying there and staring at the sky. Dallas kneels next to him, smiling as she readjusts her crumpled shirt, the stretched-out material slipping off her shoulder.
“Such a temper,” she says. “Too bad you didn’t fight harder when they were dragging you into The Program.” Her words shock me, hurt me, because it’s such a cruel thing to say—as if it’s our fault we were taken. James rubs his jaw, and then pushes Dallas aside to climb up. He doesn’t argue. How can we argue against something we can’t remember?
“Now,” Dallas says, making a loud clap, “we need to get inside.” She walks toward the entrance of the loading dock.
James mumbles that he’s going to get our bag from the van.
The sun beats down on my cheeks. Without the shade of the trees, it’s hotter than I’m used to. The lot next to this one is empty, and I think Dallas was right about the seclusion. It’s quiet here.
Cas exhales and runs his hand through his long brown hair. On closer inspection, his nose doesn’t look that broken.
There’s a small cut over the bridge, swelling in the nostrils, and of course the black bruising under his eyes. Lacey could have done worse.
“Dallas wasn’t always like this,” Cas says to me quietly. “She had a very different life before The Program.”
“She was in The Program?” I ask, surprised. “She made it sound like she hated returners.”
Cas shakes his head. “She hates what The Program does.
Now she spends most of her time training.”
“Training for what?” I ask, watching as James spits a mouth-ful of blood onto the pavement. Dallas hit him harder than I thought.
“Self-defense,” Cas answers. “How to kill someone if she has to. Or wants to.” He pauses. “Look, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but we’re on the same side.”
“You sure?” I turn my shoulder so he can see the restraints still binding my hands. Cas apologizes, and gently holds my forearm so he can start cutting through the plastic.
“Who knows,” Cas says from behind me. “Maybe in the end we’ll all become friends.” My wrists pull apart as the bond is cut, and I rub the spot where the restraints have left my skin raw.
“I wouldn’t plan on that,” James responds to Cas and walks between us. He drops the duffel bag at our feet and then takes my hands to look over the red marks. He runs his thumb gently over the creased skin, and then lifts my wrist to his lips to kiss it. “Better?” he asks, looking sorry even though this wasn’t his fault.
I hug him, pressing my cheek against his neck. I’m not sure if our situation has gotten better or worse. “I’m freaking out,” I murmur.
James turns his face into my hair, whispering so Cas won’t hear. “Me too.”
And somehow those words remind me of something, a phantom memory I can’t quite place. The pill in my pocket could change that—I’d remember everything. I pull back from James and see the look in his eyes, an uncertainty, as if he senses a familiar memory too. He opens his mouth to talk, but then Dallas calls to us from the front door.
“Unless you’re advertising for handler intervention,” she says, “you’d better get out of sight.”
The mention of handlers is enough to make me move.
James takes my hand, and we walk toward the empty-looking building, toward what’s left of the rebels, and hope we’re safe from The Program. Even if for only a moment.
Chapter Two
THE INSIDE OF THE BUILDING IS CLUTTERED WITH
construction materials: large sealed buckets, piles of dusty bags, and flattened boxes of cardboard. I swallow hard, wondering how we’ll live in an empty warehouse, when Dallas goes to the other side of the room and yanks open a door.
She gestures to the space around us. “This is just the front,” she says. “We live downstairs. It’s safer that way.”
“Are there exits?” I ask, peering behind her to see a dark staircase.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you the safety inspector, Sloane? Of course there are exits, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go out during the day. They’ve been running your story on CNN and I can’t risk you being seen.”
“Did they mention me?” James asks. His anger at Dallas has tempered down, which I guess is a positive, since it looks like we’ll be stuck together for a while. My dislike for her hasn’t eased up even a bit.