The children’s chorus crescendoed into a familiar tune, meaning Gwen had reached the stage and now faced the audience. She would be lifting the Fragment above the people’s heads, praying in Ofarian. She would be setting the Fragment on the pedestal before she called down the starlight.
The feeling of dread built up inside David with every pounding step.
His toe struck a tree root. He went flying. No time to get his hands out. Not enough light to know what lay below. He hit the ground. Hard. A tree trunk abraded his cheek. The wound on his chest, mostly healed but not entirely, screamed with a new pain, and he knew he’d ripped something open.
Then small hands were on him, pulling him up and rolling him over. Patting him down.
“Jesus, Kelse,” he panted. “I told you to wait up there!”
She blinked rapidly, as though just realizing she’d chased after him, and replied in a shaky voice, “You might need me.”
“That’s what I have soldiers for.”
She didn’t move. Their quick, hard breaths came out white, mingling in the cold air. She touched his head, her fingers coming away red. No time for being doctored. He shoved to his feet, ignoring the wave of unsteadiness passing through him.
They’d found the bottom of the embankment, where the great, serrated trunk of the redwood thrust out of the ground, and the back of the stage jutted up against it. David reached into his vest and pulled out a small flashlight. Flicking it on, the beam of light struck the bottom of the redwood, where time had eaten away a hole big enough to fit at least a couple of kids.
He fell to his knees, stuck his head into the hollow. He sensed Kelsey next to him, crouching low, peering up. “See? Nothing.”
“There,” she said, pointing.
He followed her finger with the flashlight. The far side of the trunk that abutted the amphitheater structure had been chipped away. He saw it now: a fresh line running perpendicular to the ground, small enough to have been missed during a cursory check. He crawled inside and pressed against the chipped seam. A sizable chunk of the trunk fell away.
Access underneath the stage.
Holy fucking shit.
Pressing his ear radio, he murmured, “Capshaw under the stage. Possible security compromise. Prep but stand down until my word. Over.”
He and Kelsey exchanged a long look. He knew she was wondering why he didn’t ignite the soldiers into action right now, get everyone away from this place as fast as possible. But that’s exactly what Wes wanted. Even if there wasn’t anything under there, Wes wanted mass panic. An example of Griffin’s ineptitude. He wanted a frightening Ice Rites to go with the awful Star Gala last night.
In a flurry, David whipped off his bulky coat. “Stay here this time.”
He slipped the flashlight between his teeth and crawled inside the tree. Moist, earthy, and woody scents assaulted his nose. He squeezed through the hole on his stomach and pushed through into the dark under the stage. Coming to a squat, he swiped spiderwebs from his face.
Scratching sounds came behind him. Of course Kelsey wouldn’t have listened. Absolutely no time to argue about it now.
Removing the flashlight from his mouth, he speared it into the black. The stage was sixty or seventy feet wide—lots of ground to cover. Just ten feet above their heads, the Rites went on. Though he couldn’t hear Gwen’s words, he could tell by the songs being sung where they were in the ceremony. In a few minutes, she would use the Fragment to call the starlight and bless the Earth’s ice.
And that’s when he saw it. Kelsey did, too, her gloved hand clamping onto his arm.
A bomb.
A small silver box, wired to cylinders. Tiny, blinking lights on a panel.
Delivery successful.
If he were Wes or Emily, he’d have the thing timed to explode right as Gwen called the starlight. Maximum impact. Which meant he had about ten minutes to shut the thing off.
“Bomb under the stage,” he murmured into his radio. “Hold your positions. Repeat, hold your positions.”
“You need to get everyone out of here,” Kelsey begged.
“No. You need to get out of here. Go, Kelse. Now.” He shoved her.
All he thought about was the potential chaos. It took five minutes to clear the amphitheater—his people had trained for that. If he didn’t take care of the bomb in four, he’d have them clear the area and deal with the aftermath and backlash.
He whipped out his phone, found the number he needed, and pressed “dial.”
Two rings. “Who is this?” came the woman’s suspicious voice.
“Adine? Adine Jones?”
Gwen had given David this number a month ago, but he’d never used it. Never imagined he’d have to. Adine Jones was a genius, according to Gwen—a technological master whose knowledge transcended this world . . . because she wasn’t of this world. She was Secondary, but not Ofarian.
“My name is David Capshaw. I’m friends with Gwen Carroway—”
“I remember you, David.” There were crunching sounds, like she was eating potato chips.
“Gwen’s in trouble. What do you know about bombs?”
She sputtered and dropped the droll attitude. “If it’s got wires and circuits, I know it. Lay it on me.”
“Here’s what I’ve got.” David passed the flashlight all around the bomb, describing corners and connections, wires and etched letters, the explosives themselves.
Adine whistled in a high arc. “That’s a short-range explosive. Small blast but capable of eviscerating anything or anyone within ten to twenty feet.”
And his beautiful, stubborn Kelsey still hovered right next to him.
David lifted his eyes to the stage directly above. To where Griffin Aames and Gwen Carroway stood together. With the Fragment.
Take out the leaders. Sacrifice the relic. Show the rest of the people how stupid and blind the new regime is for letting such a threat get this close. Assume control and build up the fractured society in your own way. Wes Pritchart’s perfect plan.
“Can I move it?” he asked Adine.
“No! Just do what I tell you.”
“Fuck.” David shook his head at the dirt, then said into his radio, “Prepare to get everyone off the stage on my word.”
“This’ll take a bit of finesse,” Adine said. He could hear her fingers flying across a keyboard. “You have an extra set of hands available?”
David didn’t want to, but he looked to Kelsey. He briefly closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“What do you need?” Kelsey whispered, and at that moment he loved her so much he nearly cried.
Her panic was gone. Her lips were pressed together in determination. This was the Kelsey he knew. The one who saw the problem, turned it over and over in her mind, and charged toward the solution.
“Go on,” he said into the phone, but firmly held Kelsey with his eyes. “Tell us what to do.”
Kelsey settled back on her heels and gave him a short nod of confidence. Adine started talking, fast enough he had to tell her to slow down.
“You have wire cutters?” Adine asked.
David patted his vest. “I have a knife.”
“That’ll do. Here’s where you make the first snip . . .”
They worked diligently, quietly. Kelsey held or turned or cut whatever object Adine told her to, all without breaking a sweat. The unflappable doctor, intensely working on an emergency patient.
Above, the song that pleaded for the stars’ blessing began in earnest. They were inside that five-minute mark, if that. All the lights on the circuit board were still lit up. All the Ofarians still sat in their seats.