can’t just let it go. But I can’t. She’s got as much stake in this as any of us—maybe more. “But if you run, you might not ever be able to go home.”
Her laugh is harsh. “What home? Prima? I don’t have anything waiting for me back there.” I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let me say anything else. “Look, I’m not willing to die yet. I’ll do what I have to—you do the same.”
And with that she turns to Ben. “Thanks for getting me out.”
His eyes flick to me, but I look away.
She doesn’t look at any of us as she closes her eyes and steps into the portal, but I can’t take my eyes off her as she disappears through it.
“Glad that’s fucking over with.” Elijah looks at me, his lips turned up in a smirk. “Also glad you’re the version we got. Someone should have gotten their money back for that one.”
I smile, but I don’t feel it.
02:05:44:22
When we portal in, we’ll walk right into the main office of the processing center.
Before Barclay opens the portal, he grabs my arm. “Don’t hold your breath.”
I nod and shift my grip on the USP Match. I think of the guard I killed. Then I remind myself that there’s no other way, that in two days and five hours we could all be dead. The portal opens and Barclay goes through. I follow immediately behind him, gun raised and trying to breathe normally.
Freezing-cold air whips into my lungs, then it turns warm—too warm, and I feel like I’m breathing fire, but I refuse to let myself tense up.
And then we’re there.
I relax my knees and let them give a little to keep myself from stumbling. True to Ben’s description, there are six guys hanging out in front of the computer monitors in the processing center, which is a large circular office with glass walls that overlooks the six lower levels of the prison. They’re all startled and fumbling for weapons.
“Arms behind your head,” Barclay is screaming. “Get down on the ground!”
I train my gun on the guy who looks like he’s in charge, a big bulky brute of a guy in a T-shirt and cargo pants, as Ben and Elijah come through the portal behind me, guns raised and spreading out with their backs to the window—just like Barclay instructed.
My grip on the gun is relaxed, my arms slightly bent at the elbows. The safety is already off, and my finger is on the trigger. The pounding of my heart echoes against my eardrums. I tune out the sounds around us, as if I’m at the shooting range—as if the men in front of me are targets. I know from experience that if I fire off ten shots, all ten of them will be fatal.
They’re not outnumbered, but they are out-gunned, and apparently that makes up for it. All six guys reluctantly raise their arms, some of them more hesitantly than others. Barclay moves to the first one, and I flank him just in case the guy tries to do something stupid.
But he doesn’t. He lets Barclay restrain his hands behind his back and lower him facedown on the ground, something Barclay repeats with every guy in here. I follow him, keeping my gun aimed at their heads. I speak evenly and tell each one that if he makes the wrong move, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes.
My voice is so cold, I barely recognize myself.
When we get to the last guy, I see his eyes dart around, as if he’s looking for a way out. His hand twitches and I nod toward the gun at his hip. “You’ll be dead before you get your hand on it.”
Barclay smirks and grabs the guy’s left arm, folding it behind his back. “Better not try her, Basil. She almost shot me once.”
Basil doesn’t find that as funny as Barclay apparently does, but he stays still and lets Barclay restrain him. Then he looks behind me at Ben, with nothing but pure hatred on his face.
“You drink my beer and tell me about your girlfriend and your dog, and how much you miss them, and you listen to me tell you about my family, and now you come back here and point a gun in my face?” he says. “I kept you safe here. I thought we were comrades.”
I risk a glance at Ben. His face is flushed. His gun raised, his hand quivers as he points it at this supposed