Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,52

guess is somehow they were able to make it look like Rousseau was dead,” he stated, his composure slowly returning. “Or, at least dead enough to fool the droids. Probably something slipped into her food by a kitchen worker. That got her out of solitary confinement, the most secure area of the prison. Then, these prisoners—Med Center workers I imagine—got her out of the morgue while we watched looped footage of her dead body. And now …” his voice trailed off as something flickered on the satellite imagery. A slender beam of light cut across the rooftop, momentarily illuminating the faces of the prisoners.

The general snatched up his TéléCom again and zoomed out on the image, until they could see almost the entire prison complex.

“The combatteurs?” the warden asked him hopefully. “Have they arrived?”

The general shook his head as a shadow passed over his face. “Negative.”

And that’s when Marcellus saw it. The lone ship descending from the sky. Heading straight toward the Trésor tower.

“What on Laterre?” The Patriarche stared wide-eyed at the monitor.

“That’s certainly not one of ours,” Chaumont said, echoing the disbelief in everyone’s eyes.

“How on Laterre did they get past our shields?” the warden bellowed, his face twisting with sudden rage.

Marcellus’s mouth fell open. It was the strangest ship he had ever seen. With a hull made up of a series of mismatched panels, it looked as if it had been cobbled together with parts of decommissioned cruiseurs and perhaps a transporteur or two. The wings jutted out in odd directions and a large window bubbled up over the top of the cockpit like a single protruding eye.

“Gallant!” the general seethed, his gaze locked on the descending craft. “We need power restored to the tower. Now.”

The warden nodded and murmured a series of hushed, angry commands into his TéléCom.

“So, we’re just supposed to sit here and watch them take her?” the Patriarche asked, looking from Marcellus to the warden to the general. But no one dared reply. The entire room was in shock at the sight playing out before them. A tense silence filled the air, as the obvious and irrefutable answer to the Patriarche’s question seemed to descend over the room as slowly and surely as that strange craft descending over the surface of Bastille.

Yes.

“Arrival on Bastille in six minutes.” Capitaine Moreau’s voice crashed through the silence.

The general snapped to attention, grabbed for his TéléCom, and in an assertive and unwavering voice said, “Capitaine Moreau. This is General Bonnefaçon. We are running out of time. The enemy is descending toward the roof of the Trésor tower. As soon as the target is in sight, I want all explosifs deployed. Spare nothing. Blow up the whole tower if you have to, but no one is getting off that moon alive.”

Marcellus froze as the general’s directives reverberated in his mind like a clap of thunder.

The Trésor tower?

“But, sir,” Moreau replied, sounding slightly unsettled by the command. “There will be prisoners inside. At least a thousand human lives at risk.”

“This is Citizen Rousseau we’re talking about!” the general roared. “She gets out and there will be even more lives at risk.”

“Copy,” Moreau said, uncertainty still lingering in her voice. “Pilotes, prime your weapons.”

Marcellus’s gaze darted from the satellite image of the roof to the view from Moreau’s cockpit cam. The great burning globe of Bastille was growing larger by the second. He had to do something. Fueled by a new wave of urgency, he moved silently toward the door and slipped, unseen, into the hallway. The second he was alone, he unfolded his TéléCom and clicked on the screen. “Access Bastille Central Command,” he whispered into the device. “Locate Prisoner 51562.”

“Locating,” the TéléCom reported. Then, a moment later, Marcellus’s pulse ratcheted up three notches as a little blinking dot appeared on the screen and the device confirmed his worst nightmare. “Prisoner 51562. Location found. Trésor tower.”

- CHAPTER 15 - CHATINE

ZAP.

The noise was unlike anything Chatine had ever heard. Like a fly buzzing its last buzz. A loose wire shorting out in the rain. Chatine snapped awake and opened her eyes. But all she saw in the cramped eleventh-floor cell block of the Trésor tower was darkness.

No orange glow, no unblinking eyes staring back at her, only a shroud of black. Was she dreaming? Chatine groggily pushed herself up onto her elbow and peered around. It was as dark as the exploits.

Then, a series of lights flickered on in the bunks around her. Not the small orange eyes that blanketed this