Page 68 of Because I Killed Him
Croft bites off a curse. His eyes are wild as he leaps over a patch of scorpions and swings onto the sofa’s headrest.
“Jump!” I yell.
He does, throwing all his weight into the jump, his hands catching mine as I brace myself. My body nearly rips free from the shaft at the contact. Fear flashes in Croft’s eyes, and for a moment, I know he thinks I’m going to let him drop to a horrible, painful death. I grit my teeth, muscles straining as I pull with every ounce of my engineered strength. I lift him high enough to grip the vent opening before letting go. Then we’re both inside, panting and gasping for air.
Croft pulls his dangling legs out of the vent opening and slides deeper into the shaft, his face glistening with sweat. Only then do I slump against the shaft’s cold wall, my knees trembling so hard they knock together.
“Thank you,” Croft says, his voice hoarse. “For a second, I thought—”
“I know,” I say.
He wipes the sweat from his face with a trembling hand, then checks his comm-link. Whatever was blocking reception is gone, and the comm is beeping now, a flood of messages pouring in. His eyes darken as he reads.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Follow me,” Croft commands, already crawling through the shaft.
My torn knuckles scream as I scramble after him on all fours. We weave through countless twists and turns before descending a long ladder to the level below. I can almost feel the lodge’s weight pressing down on me with bone-crushing force. The air is mostly fresh, indicating the system is working properly, but some pockets still carry a corrosive odor.
Everywhere, the shaft vibrates with the groan of pipes, the creak of wood, and the whir of fans. It’s as if I’m inside a body, hearing every sound of its functioning while crawling upward through its organs. The experience awakens a horror of narrow spaces I didn’t know I had. Occasionally, the skirt of my gown snags on an unseen edge. At one point, I even feel something soft and fleshy squish beneath my hand. Probably a dead rat, but I’d rather not consider the possibilities.
Time drags on. Now and then, a grate in the shaft appears, revealing glimpses of the rooms below. The more I see, the more familiar the Speakeasy’s layout becomes. This is the third floor, the Diamond.
In the distance, faint cries reach my ears. They grow louder and more desperate as Croft and I move toward the next grate. I peer through the slats. When I see what lies beyond, a scream wells in my throat, choked off only at the last second.
A body swings from a noose tied to a chandelier, its glassy eyes staring vacantly as Blues swarm the room below. At least a hundred Blues surround two more terrified low-citizen students, who are backed into a corner and protected by energy shields like mine. But Winston Glass’s invention is barely holding against the assault. The Blues batter the shields with furniture. One throws a chair, then ducks as it ricochets in a spray of splintered wood. Jeering voices cut through the chaos.
“Your president is dead,” dozens of Blues chant. “Your parents are dead. Soon, you’ll be dead with them.” Outside the room, fists pound on the doors. A Copper’s voice warns that if the Blues don’t unlock the door, his team will break it down.
I freeze, unable to crawl another inch.
President Reeve isdead?
Shock slams into me like a hard brake. My mind somersaults, theories firing too quickly and erratically to form anything coherent. Then everything narrows to one gut-wrenching thought:a coup attempt. Not just an attempt, but a success. That’s why Sergeant Croft’s comm wasn’t working. The group behind the coup is trying to control the flow of information during the critical hours after the president’s assassination.
The night reorders itself, pieces locking into place to form a terrifying sequence of events. The Blues in the Speakeasy probably heard about the assassination in the minutes before the networks went dark. With Reeve dead, they felt emboldened to go after the children of the representatives who had voted to ban Bliss. It’s the only scenario that fits, and it explains why Irene didn’t hesitate to try to kill me.
Then another realization strikes, even more sickening than the first.
Dad.He was with Reeve at the Bridge Banquet tonight.
I dial Dad’s number with frantic speed. The call goes straight to voicemail. Panic and rage rip through me, blasting away my fear as I watch the Blues in the room below. If any of their kind touches Dad, no amount of civil credit deduction will stop me. I’ll break my weapons restriction and kill every Blue I see.
“Is it true?” I whisper to Croft. My voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking. “Is President Reeve dead?”
“I don’t know, miss,” Croft says, but his grave expression suggests hefears the worst. “All that’s being reported is that he was shot.” He nudges me urgently. “Get moving. Climb out into the next empty room.”
“What about you?”
Croft gestures toward the door below, where the pounding grows more forceful. “I need to let the other Coppers in.”
I glance at his pistol—seventeen plasma rounds against a hundred Blues—and I know what comes next. The Blues will kill him before he even reaches the lock.
“Unbutton your shirt,” I say.
Croft looks me over, confusion dulling his violet eyes, so I add, “Just do it.”
He fumbles with the buttons on his shirt. I twist off the energy shield from my chest and press it onto his. The device emits a soft pulse of energy as it clicks into place.
