Page 148 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
No goddamn way.
“Victor Channing, I’ve got your girl!” James calls out, looking up at the barred windows of the school. “You’ve got two minutes to get your ass out here.”
Breathe, Bernie, breathe. I decide that my best option here is to throw myself at James the way I did with my first attacker, aim my elbow for his dick. Maybe he’ll drop his gun? Maybe I can grab it? There isn’t much else I can do.
But I’m going to fight until endless darkness finally takes me, that much I can promise.
Guess I’d forgotten yet again that Havoc never does anything in half measures.
One of the cars across the street—a vintage one belonging to a member of our crew—explodes, bathing the air in yellow and orange flames. The wave of heat alone is enough to make James stumble, and that’s before the second bomb goes off. And then the third.
Hael.
I shove up to my feet, and I run, bleeding and broken but not beaten.
No, never that.
Never.Callum ParkTen minutes earlier …Trouble has a smell.
I know for a fact that it does because I always catch a whiff of it just before shit goes down. It tastes like wet copper on the back of your tongue, and its scent is as sharp as rubbing alcohol. Even before my phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming text, I can sense it.
Something is wrong.
Ignoring the droning words of my first period teacher, I slip my phone from my pocket and stare down at the text from Bernadette.
Mare’s nest.
It’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it?
Actually, it’s been around for hundreds of years. According to the 1811 edition of the Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, you could say something like, “This man has found a mare’s nest and is laughing at the eggs” to indicate insanity. During that same time period, it also came to mean a place, situation, or condition of great confusion and disorder. As if, say, someone had wreaked havoc in their wake. That usage stemmed from what was very likely a misunderstanding of the original phrase.
And that’s why it’s perfect for us as a safety word.
It means havoc, but only to some people. Everyone else just misunderstands and the meaning changes. Only we know what, exactly, that phrase means to us.
I stand up from my chair so quickly and so silently that nobody else in the class seems to notice. My footfalls are mere whispers as I creep along the back of the classroom and exit into the hallway.
My absolute first destination in any crisis is Bernadette which means I head straight for Mr. Darkwood’s class in the main hall. Before I even round the first corner in that direction, I hear heavy footfalls traveling my way.
Without a second thought, I haul myself up and onto the top of the metal lockers that line either side of the hallway, waiting to see who it is that’s coming with such confident, sturdy footsteps.
Two men round the corner, wearing ski masks and carrying pistols outfitted with silencers.
Executioners.
GMP executioners.
It takes them a second to spot me, but that’s enough time for me to pull the knife from the pocket of my shorts and chuck it at the throat of the first man like I’m playing darts. The blade digs into his throat, spilling blood as he pulls the trigger on his weapon and sends several stray shots into the ceiling and, coincidentally, into his partner as he flails around and bleeds all over the floors of Prescott High.
The alarm goes off, the automated system warning of a school shooter on campus. That’s about as advanced as our technology is here at Prescott. There are no automatic locks on the classroom doors, no live security feed with which to follow the intruders’ movements.
This is something Havoc is going to have to handle personally.
As the two men bleed and struggle in the hall, I get on my knees and remove the vent directly above my head, crawling into the metal duct that’s been carefully reinforced for the sole purpose of holding my weight. We made this alteration during sophomore year, but we’ve never had a reason to use it.
I’m beyond grateful for it now.
As soon as I slip into the duct, I pull the rubber skeleton mask from inside my hoodie and slide it on, shimmying down the length of the hallway and in the direction of Bernadette’s first period class. There’s no room in my head for panic; panic doesn’t do anybody any good.
Instead, I focus on getting to her as quickly as I possibly can, not bothering to hide the sound of my movements and opting for speed over stealth. The alarm continues to blare as I work my way around the corner and pause. A distant howl catches my attention, followed shortly by one directly below me.
