Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (19 page)

A deep-throated laugh pours from the room. “Who’s next?”

Suddenly Destiny is by his side, whispering in his ear. “There’s nothing else we can do. Let’s go. Live.” Metallic steps resonate toward them, and Harrison makes a split-second decision, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her away. He can risk his own life, but not hers. Get her out first, then go back to finish it.

An awful and electric sense of deja vu streaking just under his skin, he forces his legs to go faster than ever before. Destiny races ahead on her hoverskates, careening up the steps just off the ground, using the incline as a ramp. Above them, Simon is muscling his father through the manhole to safety.

There are loud, unmasked sounds of pursuit behind them, and Harrison stops before the steps to turn and fire. His action seems to have no impact, the Destroyer charging forward, coming into view, his gun exploding with tongues of flame. Bullets spark off the wall a hairsbreadth from Harrison’s head, but he doesn’t back down, firing again, targeting the Destroyer’s head but missing. The cyborg roars and Harrison fires once more, this time lowering his aim.

The Destroyer grunts from the impact as the slug buries itself in his chest, but he doesn’t stop coming.

“Holy bots,” Harrison mutters, finally realizing that the Destroyer won’t be stopped by his gun, not in his current deranged state. He turns and gallops up the stairs, not looking back for fear it will give the Destroyer the advantage he needs to catch up. More bullets whizzing past, he grabs the ladder and practically flies up it, stretching for the cloud-filled sky above him. Rough, strong hands grab him and pull him to the street, which is full of people.

Harrison ignores them as the cyborg bellows behind him.

“Let go of me,” Harrison says to Simon, ripping free of his grasp, pointing his gun through the hole. The Destroyer is climbing after him, his mouth open, his eye full of rage. The cyborg is so close he can’t possibly miss.

“Die now,” Harrison says, pulling the trigger.

The Destroyer’s movement is superhuman, so fast he’s not sure exactly how he does it, swinging off to the side and avoiding the shot. In a flash he pendulums back to the ladder and takes another step up. Harrison fires again, and this time the cyborg simply raises his metal arm, the bullet deflecting harmlessly away.

Panic setting in, Harrison can’t remember whether he has any shots left or not, but he pulls the trigger anyway. The sound isn’t that of an empty chamber, but the gun doesn’t fire. A misfire, he realizes, pulling back sharply.

The Destroyer leaps through the hole, snarling like an animal. There are a few gasps and screams amongst the crowd, who shrink back, leaving a hole in their center, enough space for the cyborg and his prey. Harrison pushes Destiny behind him, but she resists, muscling to his side. “No,” he says. “Run.”

“Not without you.”

“I got this,” Simon says, stepping in front of both of them, his fully loaded gun aimed at the Destroyer. He pulls the trigger repeatedly, the gunshots joining with the crowd’s screams. Domino Destovan’s movements are impossibly quick, not dodging the bullets, but blocking them with the metallic parts of his body, using his arm and leg like shields. A woman in the crowd cries out as a ricochet tears into her leg.

When Simon’s gun clicks in his hand, his ammo spent, the Destroyer stops. “Game over. In the name of the President of the Reorganized United States of America, I hereby sentence all of you to death for crimes against your country.” Although his words are official, coming from his spit-covered lips they sound more like the rantings of a madman. He raises the gun and Harrison knows all he has left is to give Destiny a chance of getting away. Whether she takes it is up to her.

“Get ready to run,” he hisses.

“You too,” she says, and he gets the feeling her plan is similar to his own.

“He killed Corrigan Mars,” someone in the crowd says.

The Destroyer whirls around, scanning the faces of the people. “Who said that?” he demands.

“This guy’s crazy,” someone else says, from the other side.

The Destroyer spins back. “He deserved to die,” he growls. “Just like these criminals. I was serving my country. My president.”

“You made a holo of you cutting off someone’s head.” Another voice, hidden behind angry faces.

“That’s sick!”

“Screwed up!”

“Freak!”

The crowd presses in, and Harrison suddenly realizes that some of them are carrying weapons—knives and hammers and even a few firearms. They seem far more like a mob than the curious group of citizens they were a moment earlier. “You are all sentenced to termination for your treason!” the Destroyer yells, but his words are swallowed up in the roar of the crowd. Harrison is jostled from behind, and he protectively ropes his arms around Destiny, who presses her head against his chest. He searches for his father, who he knows is in far worse shape than any of them, but then he sees Simon, a head above the rest, carrying him against the human flow.

There’s a gunshot, then another, and then grunts and screams and the sickening thud of fists and feet slapping against human flesh.

The Destroyer roars, the agonized cry of a dying lion.

Harrison just holds Destiny as tightly as he can, feeling only the warmth of her body against him as the rest of the world fades away.

J
anice is tired of the news. Tired of seeing the blurry glimpse of her husband in the video shot by some amateur holographer. Tired of waiting. She can see that Harrison’s new friend, Lola the BotDog, is tired too, her chin pressed to the carpet and her eyes closed.

The news has been repeating the same information for at least two hours, and yet no one will turn it off, all staring numbly at the images dancing from Minda’s holo-screen.

“The people have spoken,” Minda murmurs.

Benson says, “But surely they wouldn’t have let them go.”

Janice knows who
them
is. Her family. Destiny. Simon. Wanted criminals, like her. Janice is sad for Benson, because he has no hope, his logical brain unable or unwilling to give him comfort or faith. She knows he’s smarter than her, but maybe being too smart isn’t a good thing sometimes. Not if it takes away your faith.

“It’s not on the news,” Minda points out.

“Pop Con has probably told them to keep quiet until they can make an official statement,” Benson says.

Which makes sense, even to her
, Janice thinks. And yet, “Wrong.”

Benson’s eyes flash to hers for an angry moment, but then drop to his lap, the spark doused. “Mom,” he says.

She pats his leg. “I know some things,” she says. “And I feel even more.”

“I know you do, Mom, but—”

“Not finished,” she chides gently. “I feel things in here”—she taps her chest, where she feels her heart beating like the tick of a clock—“that you only think up here.” She points to her head, but then also points to Benson’s in case he thinks she means her head when she really means his head. She drops her hands, feeling confused.

Benson takes one of them and squeezes. “Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For being a mom again.”

She wrinkles her brow. “I never stopped.”

“I know. I know.” He ropes an arm around her and pulls her into his side, and she closes her eyes.

Lola’s eyes flash open and she starts barking a moment before the back door thuds open. “We need help,” Harrison’s voice pleads.

Janice is on her feet even before Benson, dodging around the couch to get to her son, to throw her arms around him (and Lola, who is all over him, her tail and tongue everywhere), to release him just as quickly, to pepper the father of her children’s face with kisses, ignoring the dried blood and dark bruises that make him look like a different person. It feels good not to hate him for a few shredded seconds. “You made me right,” she whispers into his greasy hair.

When she pulls back to look at his face, his eyes flicker open, and though they’re only half-moons, she can see the twinkle in them, one that hasn’t been there for years. “I found you,” he says.

“You found yourself,” she says, knowing it’s probably both.

~~~

Despite all he’s lost, Benson can’t help the giddy feeling in his chest. His father’s injuries, dehydration and malnourishment are serious, but not enough that he won’t recover. Minda practically promised it.

Michael Kelly. Janice Kelly. Harrison Kelly. And him, Benson Kelly. Once scattered like dust on a gust of wind, now reunited under seemingly miraculous circumstances.

With his father heavily drugged and sleeping on a cot in the corner with Lola at his feet, Benson feels his breaths coming so easily, not sticking in his lungs like they have since this all started. His mother sighs beside him, and whispers something to her Zoran watch. Minda tends to Destiny’s wounds, supervised by Harrison, who gets in the way more than he helps.

Simon watches the holo-news, pointing each time he sees himself on the screen. “Do I really look that big in real life?” he asks.

“Well, they say the holo adds five kilos,” Harrison says, “but for you it subtracted about ten. You’re way bigger in real life.”

“Hilarious,” Simon says, but he smiles as the shaky video shows the Destroyer blocking his gunshots. “That dude was insane.”

Wincing as Minda presses a cold compress to her shoulder, Destiny says, “How did you know we were there?”

“The freak leaked a video of my father in his torture chamber to the press,” Harrison says.

Destiny raises her eyebrows. “So you came to save your father?”

“And you,” Benson says. “Harrison came for you.” It’s a point he has to make. He’s seen the lost look in her eyes, has seen how far she’s fallen from the spunky hoverskating girl he first met.

Destiny looks at Harrison. “But I wasn’t in the video. You couldn’t have known I’d be there.”

“I knew,” Harrison says. “The girl I know would protect those she cared about, even at the risk of losing her own life.”

Destiny goes quiet, allowing Minda to finish up with her in silence. Benson can sense there are a million words left unsaid between her and his brother, but either they’re not meant for the rest of them to hear, or they’re not ready to speak them.

As the late-afternoon shadows press through the frosty windowpanes, Harrison tells them how they managed to escape in the confusion, how the mob scene was so chaotic, their violent intentions so focused on ending the Destroyer, that they simply slipped away before the Crows arrived to get control of the situation. If not for their disguises and Michael’s beat-up, barely distinguishable face, things might’ve been different. Or maybe the citizens of Saint Louis have finally figured out who the real enemy is. In any case, they fled into the Tunnels and took a train most of the way back to the safe house. Though they received a lot of strange looks, especially considering Michael was unconscious and Simon and Harrison had to hold him up, no one said anything or tried to stop them.

When Harrison finishes, Benson whispers a silent thank you to his people, the lower class, the poor and the downtrodden and the silent. They may not have money or flare or full bellies, but the people he associates himself with know how to keep a secret.

Benson’s not exactly sure how to broach the next topic, so he just dives right into it. “The mission,” he says.

Minda pulls her holo away from Simon and switches it off. The room falls deathly silent, broken only by the sound of aut-cars whirring by outside and the heavy rise and fall of Michael’s breathing in the corner.

“The mission doesn’t change,” Minda says.

“I know,” Benson says. “But my mom doesn’t have to go anymore.” He hates that he has to say it, to risk one parent’s life to protect another’s, but it’s the right thing. This was always his father’s mission. And now that he’s alive and with them…

“He won’t be ready by tomorrow,” Minda says.

“How do you know?” Harrison says, meeting Benson’s eyes in a moment of solidarity before boring into Minda’s.

Minda sighs and runs a hand over her bald brown head. Tiny black hairs are just starting to sprout on her scalp. “I don’t. But you need to be prepared for the fact that he might sleep for a week straight. Your mom—Janice—would still have to go.”

“She doesn’t
have
to do anything,” Harrison says.

“I think I’m right here,” Janice says, looking around the room as if waiting for someone to confirm her statement. “I think I know how to speak.”

“Mom—” Benson starts to say but she immediately cuts him off.

“I know best. For a while maybe I didn’t, but I do now.” Benson goes quiet, waiting for her to continue. “Ever since I got my two boys back, the chaos in my head hasn’t exactly quieted, but things do seem to fit together now, lining up in uneven rows. Do you know what I mean?”

Although the thought of anything lined up unevenly makes him cringe, Benson nods.

Janice continues: “All the powerlessness I felt when I was in the asylum has fallen away like an old wrinkled skin”—she crinkles her nose as if in disgust at her own comparison—“and now my life is mine to live again. I won’t waste it.”

“Fine, but—” This time it’s Harrison who tries to interrupt, but she plows right through his words.

“Your father did some really bad stuff. I hated him for it, still hate him for it, but he never stopped visiting me, even when I gave him plenty of reasons not to. And he never stopped loving you both, even if he wasn’t supposed to. He’s sacrificed everything for us, and he thinks his soul might be damned because of it—and maybe it is—but he’s done enough. It’s my turn to do something for him.”

Benson’s in awe of his mother, her words flowing from her mouth with an ease he’s never heard since he was reunited with her. Maybe the uneven rows of thoughts in her head are straighter than she thinks. Maybe they’ve all underestimated her. He doesn’t want to say it, but he has to. “It’s your choice, Mom.” Harrison fires him a scathing look, but doesn’t interject again, turning his attention expectantly to their mother.

“I’m going,” she says.

“No you’re not,” her husband croaks from the cot. Benson was so caught up in his mother’s speech he didn’t even notice his father shifting in his sleep, his eyes opening.

“Michael,” Janice breathes, moving over to him. As his mom reaches out and touches his face, so delicately, as if she’s stroking something as fragile as a butterfly’s wing, Benson feels as if he’s intruding on a moment so private it should be locked away in a safe.

“You can’t die for me,” Michael says. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Calmly, but not forcefully, Janice says, “Wrong,” and strokes his other cheek. “Family doesn’t go one way. It goes every way. We help each other, we protect each other, and we die for each other, if that’s what it takes.”

Benson bites his lip as he sees tears well in his father’s eyes. The only other time he saw his father cry, when Benson was only a boy, it scared the hell out of him. Looking back, he knows he should’ve been comforted by his father’s emotion. It meant he cared. It meant his soul wasn’t damned, that he felt remorse for his sins, for the atrocities he allowed to happen so that he could carry out a plan bigger than himself and his own family.

“No,” his father says to his mother. “I can’t. I can’t lose you again. Any of you. Nothing is worth that.”

Janice strokes his hair, kisses his forehead. Harrison stands and moves to her side, resting a hand on her shoulder. “This is worth it,” he says. “This is worth risking everything. You’re staying and we’re going.”

And though Benson doesn’t know his father’s stubbornness as well as Harrison does, he sees the moment the resignation sets in and his father’s will cracks, broken just like his tired body.

“I love you,” he says, and his words fill the room, encompassing all of them. For Janice, it’s a reminder and a memory. For Harrison, it’s a kept promise. And for Benson, it’s a statement of undeniable truth.

~~~

“I like your new hairdo,” Destiny says, reaching out to stroke Harrison’s spikes.

“Really?” Harrison says, frowning.

“Yeah. Now we both have crazy hair.”

Harrison’s gray eyes shine. “She likes you,” he says, watching as Lola licks Destiny’s hand.

It tickles and Destiny laughs, the sensation feeling so foreign to her that she almost can’t believe it’s real. “She’s adorable.”

“She’s ferocious.” Although he’s already told her the story of how this little bundle of fur saved him and Simon from a bot, she still finds it hard to believe.

“Sometimes love makes us do crazy things,” she says, and she knows she’s not talking only about Lola. She hopes she’s not just talking about herself either.

“It does,” Harrison says, stroking her hand where Lola just licked it. “But we’ve only just met. It seems too soon for love.”

There’s a smile playing on his lips, and she knows he’s teasing her. Although Lola’s tail is wagging in her face while her tongue laps at his mouth, this conversation has nothing to do with the BotDog. Suddenly the privacy of the upstairs room feels terrifyingly intimate, despite their furry friend between them.

“I’ve heard that sharing intense situations can speed up emotions,” she says.

Harrison smiles fully now, and he’s so beautiful, like a sunrise meeting a sunset. Her heart is bursting from her chest, and she can’t possibly stop herself from leaning forward, past Lola, and kissing him. The electricity between them is palpable, and what begins as a tender embrace quickly turns fierce with hunger, her hand grasping the back of his head and pulling him closer, closer…and yet still he’s not close enough. Lola barks and scurries out of the way, scrambling from the room.

Harrison mumbles something witty about how much he likes the robot’s programming, but her lips don’t care about that, because she needs him and she can tell he needs her too. Like air in their lungs and blood in their veins.

And when they finally pull away, they’re both gasping and laughing, their arms around each other. “Holy geez,” Harrison says. “Where did that come from?”

“From you,” she says, biting her bottom lip.

“You—” His eyes paint hers, as if searching for something—some truth.

“What is it?”

“You’re okay?”

Oh
. God. She’d let herself forget the past. She’d imagined it away, lost in her passion, in the love she feels for Harrison Kelly, the boy who saved her more times than she saved him.