Page 154 of Victorious

“Come on,” said Gill.

“Kick back,” added Batista. “Before we give away your seat.”

He saw the fold-up chair they’d saved for him. A rickety piece of shit, always on the verge of breaking. Someone had written Golden Boy on duct tape and slapped it on the back.

Golden Boy.

That’s what they called him. Not just because he was a towhead, or a crack shot, but because he’d made it through every mission without so much as a scratch. They joked he was invincible, blessed, said so long as they stayed close enough his good luck would wear off and—

Noah shuddered, feeling suddenly sick.

Because looking from the chair to the other soldiers, he remembered.

The mission going off the rails.

The gunshots and explosions.

The shouts and screams and then the horrible, haunting silence.

He didn’t want to think about that. Here, it hadn’t happened yet. Here, it never would. He wanted to step into the tent, and sink into the waiting chair, and drink his beer, and let the dream fold over him. And Noah might have—but Dr. Gray’s order kept a tempo in his head.

Don’t stop until you reach the target.

Don’t stop—and so he didn’t.

Noah kept walking past the barracks full of his dead friends, until the laughter and the music guttered. Until the desert heat gave way to sudden cold. The dusk, to midday, the dust, to snow, the war zone where he’d lived—and died—replaced by an expensive cul-de-sac. A house with a neatly shoveled path, and a bright green door.

Noah’s head cleared as his dream sloughed off, replaced by someone else’s.

He cracked his neck, and drew his gun, and went to clean up Eli’s mess.

XIINOW. THEN.

6 HOURS BEFORE THE END

SYDNEY ran her hand along her bedroom wall.

Credit to her sister, the room looked exactly as it had, down to the patterned duvet, the book on the bedside table, the one she’d been reading for class, even the lyrics she’d scribbled on the mirror, a month after her sister left.

A time capsule of another time. Another life. A dream, crafted lovingly from her own memory. Her sister’s power was shocking in its thoroughness. Sydney had been braced for a glitch. She’d expected—on some level even hoped—her sister would be weaker than she’d been. Instead, she’d made Serena Clarke a god.

One who did not tolerate dissent.

She rubbed her wrist, where her sister’s fingers had dug in. The skin ached beneath her touch, as if there was a bruise. Not that she could see it.

Sydney turned toward the bed. A stuffed animal sat tucked among the pillows, a purple scarf, the one Serena had brought her in the hospital, wrapped around its neck. Sydney drew it out, and saw it was a spotted dog.

The closest her parents had let her get to having her own pet. She thought of Dol, attacking Eli. Dol, in need of help. And Mitch. Where was Mitch? What if he was hurt? What if he was dead?

Panic coiled in her chest. Even if she was safe here—and Sydney didn’t think she was—what about them?

She needed to help them, and she couldn’t do that here, inside the dream. But it seemed like anyone who got close enough got dragged inside it. So maybe she didn’t need Serena to drop the illusion. Maybe she just needed her to move it.

With sudden resolve, Sydney abandoned the bedroom and ducked back into the hall. She was just heading for the banister when she heard the sound.

A metal click.

Sydney went still. She’d spent long enough around Victor to recognize the muted exhale of a weapon with a silencer screwed on.