Written in Fire

CHAPTER 36

Soren trembled.

Thoughts whirling and wild.

A vision of Samantha, one eyeball dangling, half the skin of her face flayed away, screaming into her gag as the torturer leaned in again—

A voice called to him, pulled him from sleep. It sounded like John’s voice, but Soren didn’t want to obey it. Waking meant remembering. Remembering what they had done to his love, his pale and perfect love, who wanted only to be wanted.

But the thought of her, of what they had done, banished unconsciousness. How had he fallen asleep in the first place? He’d wanted to pass out while they hurt her, had wanted to die, but could do neither. So how could he have fallen asleep after watching what they’d done, right there in his cell, watching her blood arc slowly through the air—

There was no blood on the floor, no blood on the wall.

No straitjacket, no chain.

No bruises on his arms, no fingernail wounds in his palms.

And in that moment he realized the truth. He’d been tricked. They hadn’t harmed Samantha. It had all happened in his head, in a virtual hell Cooper had constructed. Relief flooded him like warm water. Samantha was okay. She hadn’t been destroyed, hadn’t suffered, hadn’t even really been here. It was just a computer program, a construct, just like the Roman choir. None of it had been real—

Except his betrayal of John.

Warmth calcified into the deepest cutting cold. His oldest friend. The man who had been the boy who had saved him at Hawkesdown Academy, who had brought him the only relief he had ever known, who had seen him when no one else could, who had helped him when no one else would, and Soren had failed him.

Not failed. Betrayed.

John spoke again, impossibly, in the cell. Saying, “Soren. Myfriend.”

Saying, “Getready. Getfree.”

Saying, “Thenlookformymessage.”

He had risen from the steel bunk he’d lain on. No sign of his friend. Of course. A speaker system, some sort of intercom. John must have taken control of it. One of his hackers. The movement had moles everywhere, even in Epstein’s organization.

Soren had stretched. Cracked his knuckles. A moment later, the door to his cell had swung open of its own accord.

The room beyond was an octagon, doors on each face, banks of terminals. And the torturer sitting in a chair. Rickard’s mouth fell open. He started to rise. Slowly. So slowly.

Soren had crossed the room like a god, one hand lashing out in a nerve chop that dropped the torturer back into his chair.

The man’s throat tasted of sweat as Soren closed his teeth on it and ripped it open.

Blood slashed his face, coppery on his lips as he reached inside to grip Rickard’s living flesh and yank it through the wound he had made.

It wasn’t enough.

Not the torturer. Not the guards outside. It would never be enough. Cracking the world would barely be a start.

Soren sat on a bench and trembled. Staring at his hands, the blood crusted on them.

“Are you all right?” A teenage girl with a rifle stood before him, a pack slung over her shoulders. Her face was twisted, lips screwed up in a grimace of concern. Soren rose, took her head in his hands, and snapped her neck. Her body went limp instantly. So fragile, life. It could be taken with little more than will.

And it was only then that he remembered John’s last sentence. Look for my message.

He took ten of his seconds to think. Then rolled the corpse over and looked in her bag. Water, a flashlight, a jacket, a hunting knife, a d-pad. Yes. He lifted the girl onto the bench, her warm body heavy and smelling of urine. Sat down alongside and let her head fall on his shoulder as he used her thumbprint to access the d-pad.

The message was in a private mail account established years ago and never used. A number of files, and a video.

John’s face filled the d-pad. “Myfriend. Forgivethecliché, butifyou’reseeingthis, I’mdead.”

A howl rose in Soren’s chest. He had a flash of John’s smile as a boy. His charm, his smile, were weapons he’d used against their enemies. But for his friends, John’s smile had been a true and precious gift that had made Soren proud to be the recipient.

In the video, his dead friend did not smile. He said, “I’msorrytoaskthisofyou.”

He said, “Youaremylastcontingency. Readthesefiles.”

He said, “Ineedyourhelp. Willyouhelpme?”

I betrayed you, John.

If you’re dead, it’s my fault.

There is nothing I will not do.

In the distance, a burning flare of light angled into the sky. Another followed, and another. Like fireworks. Like the soul of his friend, streaking brilliant and finally free.

And sitting on the bench beneath star-smeared skies, a dead girl leaning against him like a lover, Soren read the dying wish of the friend he had murdered.