"But it is difficult," I said steadily. "If it wasn't, then there wouldn't be any point, would there? I want to know something first. Was I ever more to you than just a … what did you laugh at earlier… a postprison piece of ass?"
He gave me a very convincing sneer. "I've been in jail a long time, sweetheart. A hot little piece of flesh willingly spreads her legs for me? What am I supposed to do, refuse?"
"I knew it."
"You're so perceptive. So now that the truth's out you're going to shoot me?"
"Maybe I am," I said. "Are you going to do something to stop me?"
"Maybe I'll shoot you first. Got enough ammo in this gun to make sure I don't miss. They haven't taken any chances this time."
"No." I glanced around at the cameras. "Can't take any chances."
"Two minutes remain in this level of The Countdown."
"Are you a good shot?" I asked him.
"I used to do target practice in my teens. And you?"
"I'm okay."
His lip curled. "Wait, I remember that you missed Kurds and shot him in the shoulder. Either that was a precise hit or you're a lousy shot. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you're a lousy shot."
"Okay, now you're just being mean. I can hit something if I have enough ammo. Don't worry about that."
"Are you going to shoot me or just talk about it?"
"In a minute."
"Fifty-nine …fifty-eight…fifty-seven …"
Rogan's jaw tensed. 'Time's ticking away, sweetheart. Hope you know what you're doing."
"I thought I told you not to call me sweetheart?"
"If you're going to shoot, can you do me a favor?"
"What's that?"
'Try not to miss." He smirked at me, but an edge of worry slid behind his blue-green eyes.
"The time has come," the announcer said, and his normally singsong voice was a little bit breathless. "The facade of friendship and caring has faded away, leaving only two raw competitors behind. Who will he victorious in the remaining seconds?"
"Thirty.. twenty-nine … twenty-eight…"
"So sick of that fucking guy," Rogan growled.
"That makes two of us. And if I never hear another countdown it'll be too damn soon."
"See, we still agree on a couple of things."
"Yeah, I guess we do."
"So, I'll do you one last favor, sweetheart." He raised an eyebrow. "You can take the first shot. Lead the way."
My hands were sweating.
"Ten … nine … eight.. "
"Sounds fair," I said, and my voice shook on the words. "Are you ready?"
His eyes narrowed and his grip tightened on the gun. "Do it, Kira."
I swung my arm around and pulled the trigger. The camera that was in the process of getting a close-up of my face, of any potential emotion that might be found there, went flying backward.
"Now, Rogan! Now!"
I heard gunfire, shot after shot after shot. I focused on the one camera on the ground, sputtering and sparking. I shot it until my gun was empty before I looked back at Rogan. Two silver cameras had crashed to the ground near him. He looked over at me, his chest heaving with every breath he took, a sheer gleam of perspiration on his forehead.
"We should probably run now," he said.
"Good idea."
I picked a direction and started running as fast as I could, with Rogan at my side.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Where are we headed?" Rogan yelled, and I tried to ignore the pain from my sprained ankle as we thundered along another side street.
I had the brief glimmer of the location in my head-the safe house that Gareth had given me when I'd done my flex on him. It wasn't much to go on, but it was all we had.
"A place close by. We're almost there."
"How did you know to shoot the cameras?" he asked.
"Just a lucky guess, actually. I was hoping that you were right about their being the things controlling our implants."
"Since we're still conscious, I'm guessing we were right. But they'll be after us on foot."
"That's why we have to keep running."
The safe house was at 358 Paragon Avenue. I was betting everything I had on the vision from Gareth being right.
"Up ahead," I said. 'Turn left on that street."
Paragon Avenue was the main street of the city and about a mile away from the street we'd been on for Level Six. We slowed to a jog as we turned the corner. My ankle throbbed.
It was like day and night compared to where we'd just come from-a deserted part of the city that made me think that nobody else in the universe existed except for Rogan, me, and the disembodied voice of the announcer. Here on Paragon Avenue I was reminded that the city and the world around it, while definitely dying, were not yet dead.
A steady flow of people moved along the sidewalks. The road was trafficked with cars and mopeds. However, there was a general feeling of malaise-these were the people who either couldn't afford to go to Offworld or had too many obligations-job, family, whatever-that kept them right where they were.
There was a man on the street corner with a long white beard. He begged for money from the passing pedestrians but was ignored as if he were completely invisible.
We weeded through the crowd while getting some sideways stares at our costumes. Black, shiny, and tight didn't really go with the business casual we were bumping up against. An old woman eyed my black thigh-highs and short skirt, sneered with disapproval, and muttered some insult I couldn't hear.
I wanted to run up to her and grab her hands and beg her to help us, to hide us, but I stopped myself. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I clutched Rogan's arm tightly and continued to hobble along, favoring my right ankle. I knew that we couldn't drag anyone into our problem. No one would offer us sanctuary. Nobody would believe us. Everyone was too busy worrying about their own lives, their own problems, their own safety. I knew that very well after being on the streets for seven years. I was used to being like the man on the corner: invisible, insignificant.
A nobody.
"Up ahead," I said to Rogan. "Number Three Fifty-eight."
He led the way without questioning me again. We'd tucked our guns into our waistbands. The black of the weapon blended against the black of our Countdown-supplied outfits. The cold metal against my skin gave me a meager sense of calm, although it didn't help my heart to stop beating as fast as it was. It felt so loud that I was sure the people passing us would be able to hear it.
Just before we reached the address, a man stepped in front of us. I felt Rogan tense up as he blocked our way and gave us a huge smile.
"You two look like fun people," he said.
"Get out of our way," Rogan growled.
"Now, now, I have something you might be interested in."
"What is it?" I asked, my voice strained.
He produced a trifold flyer printed on light blue paper. "Have you been wanting to get away? Want to figure out how to finagle a seat on the Offworld shuttle while you're on a working-class budget? Well, I have just the thing for you right here."
"Not interested," Rogan said. "Get yourself and your scam away from us."
"Scam? Not even slightly. In my course I will give you the top ten ways to get to Offworld and away from it all. There are always other options, other solutions. Just picture it: sun, sand, green grass for miles around. A perfect place for a perfect life, Offworld is. And you can get there with my help."
"It's a course?" I asked, feeling oddly disappointed.
"Yes. It's called Ten Weeks to Paradise. Five hundred dollars and you, too, can realize your dreams." He thrust the flyer at me.