Countdown

“I would have to disagree with you there,” Rogan said.

Jonathan looked at him sharply. “Time has a tendency to change many things, Rogan.”

“Not as many as you might think. But time does have a way of making things a lot clearer.”

“If you say so.”

Rogan glowered at him. “I do.”

I watched their exchange with growing certainty. “Do you two know each other?”

Rogan flicked a glance at me. “No.”

Like hell they didn’t. I wasn’t that blind. Before I could ask any more questions, he turned to Jonathan.

“Are you going to get in trouble for fixing me?”

Jonathan didn’t answer the question. “We need to talk about level three.”

“I’d rather have a long nap in a comfortable bed,” Rogan said with a humorless snort.

“I’m sure you would. And you’re partially in luck. Since the broadcast is on a break, you’ve just entered a mandatory rest period.”

Rogan’s throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s not necessary.”

“I thought you said you wanted a nap?”

“On my own terms, yeah.”

Jonathan pressed a button on the wall and another holoscreen appeared in the middle of the room. The image of an average-looking man flickered into focus. “This is Bernard Jones. He is forty years old, has been married for fifteen years, and has one child. He makes his living as an accountant. He has dreams of moving to the Colony with his family and opening a restaurant there.”

My heart jumped into my throat. Another mention of the Colony. I was starting to believe it really existed—somewhere. Sometimes I wondered if it might just be a rumor.

“Sounds like a fun guy,” I said, trying to shield my interest in the secret city. “So, what are we supposed to do, get him to do our taxes?”

“No. To successfully complete level three you are required to assassinate him.”

My mouth dropped open. “Assassinate him?”

“That’s right. There will be no weapons provided for this level. You will have to use whatever means are available to locate and eliminate this target. You will be informed on your timeline once the level begins. That’s all I can tell you. I wish you good luck.”

Rogan was frowning. “Jonathan, there has to be some way out of this. You have to let me speak to—” He broke off and yelled, clutching his head. The next moment he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I watched him fall and then raised my horrified gaze to Jonathan.

“I’m very sorry,” he said.

I opened my mouth to say something, I wasn’t even sure what; but before I got out a word, the lightning-fast pain ripped through my brain and everything went black.

LEVEL THREE

Chapter 5

I OPENED MY eyes slowly and blinked until everything came back into focus. Along with my vision, my anger returned in full force.

I absolutely hated the idea of somebody out there with their finger on a little button that could cause me pain like that. However, I did like the idea of finding whoever was in charge of that little button and giving their groin a nice, sharp introduction to my knee.

My head hurt. Badly. But at least I still seemed to be in one piece.

I glanced around and realized I was somewhere more populated. Not another empty, clinical room. I could hear voices. There was a faint sound of clothes swishing and rubbing together as a few people passed, nearby but out of sight.

There was a heavy weight pressing on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that it was Rogan—specifically his head. He was still out cold and currently using me as a pillow. We were both sprawled against a wall like a couple of homeless people. Pretty accurate, really. But this wasn’t the street. Linoleum tile felt smooth and cool against my hands. We were inside. Somewhere.

I know this place.

And then it dawned on me.

We were in the mall a few blocks north of the village. One of my main haunts. The same place I’d been when this nightmare first began—when I’d stolen my new pair of shoes. I looked down at my feet to see that the bright red sneakers were still there.

I jostled him. “Rogan.”

He didn’t wake up.

I moved my hand to the back of my head and took a moment to feel the incision mark. Then I felt for the same thing on Rogan. His dark hair slid through my fingers.

Strange. I felt not one but two incision marks on his scalp. Why were there two?

He appeared so innocent while asleep—and very nearly handsome. His eyelids fluttered, and I wondered what he was dreaming about. I looked closely at the scar on his face, and traced the line with the tip of my finger.

“Are you really as much of an evil bastard as they say you are?”

I glanced around the hallway. No one was within spitting distance, and as far as I could see, neither were the flying digicams. I wasn’t sure how long this fleeting moment of privacy would last.

I felt at his throat for his steady pulse, warm and alive beneath my touch. Then I slowly trailed down to his collarbone and under the edge of his ripped T-shirt to press my hand against his chest. Skin to skin. And I opened myself up to whatever it was I could do.

I didn’t think I was psychic or anything. But then, it couldn’t be my imagination. The pain made it real. Before, on the street, I hadn’t sensed anything from Rogan but a jumbled mass of...something.

Something.

I needed to know if I could do it again. If I could figure it out, get more this time. If I could get some sort of sense of just how bad Rogan Ellis really was and how much I should hate his guts.

All I knew for sure was that bad guys had this bad vibe that was impossible to ignore when I did this, like a cold blanket of darkness that sucked the warmth right out of me.

I didn’t know what this strange ability of mine actually was. What it meant. But I needed it to work.

I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate.

Then I suddenly found my hand in his as he pulled it away from his chest. “Hey—I’m out for a few minutes and you suddenly can’t keep your hands off me?”