Ch.57: The Last Resort

The King of the Rats gave us a "suite"—a dry section of tunnel that had been converted into a concrete box with a heavy steel door. There was a mattress on the floor, a bucket for water, and a single, dim bulb powered by Julian's stolen geothermal tap.

Julian sat on the mattress, his back against the wall. He was cleaning his rifle, the repetitive motion a way to keep his hands from shaking. His wound had reopened during the drive; a fresh stain bloomed on his side.

"We can't stay here," I said, pacing the small space.

"We're safe here," Julian said. "For now."

"For how long? Until the bounty goes up? Until one of these people decides fifty million credits is worth more than free electricity?"

"I trust them," Julian said.

"You bought them," I corrected. "There's a difference. And when the money runs out—or when Sterling cuts the geothermal line—they'll turn on us."

I stopped pacing. I looked at him.

"There's only one way to end this."

"No," Julian said immediately, not even looking up.

"Hear me out."

"No, Harper. I know that look. That's your 'I'm going to do something stupid and self-sacrificial' look."

"It's tactical," I argued. "Sterling wants us both. But he wants me more. I'm the witness. I'm the one who can testify about the confession."

"And if you turn yourself in, he kills you before you ever see a courtroom."

"Not if I do it publicly. Not if I walk into the precinct with a camera crew. If I'm in custody, I'm safe. I can demand a trial. I can present the evidence."

"The evidence is gone!" Julian snapped, slamming the rifle parts onto the floor. "The drive is corrupted. The servers are melted. All we have is your word against the richest man in the city."

"And the list," I said. "We still have the payroll list on the tablet."

"It's a digital file. Easy to fake. Easy to dismiss."

He stood up, groaning as his injury flared. He walked over to me, grabbing my shoulders.

"Listen to me. We are not splitting up. We stay together. We fight together. Or we die together."

"That's romantic," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "But it's bad strategy. If we stay here, we both die. If I go... you have a chance."

"A chance for what? To live without you?"

He shook his head.

"I won't do it. I forbid it."

"You forbid it?" I laughed, a wet, jagged sound. "You're not my boss anymore, Julian. You're just a fugitive with a bullet hole in his side."

"I'm your partner," he said. "And partners don't leave partners behind."

He pulled me into a hug. He smelled of gun oil and sweat and blood. I buried my face in his chest, listening to his heart beat. Strong. Steady.

"Promise me," he whispered into my hair. "Promise me you won't leave."

"I promise," I lied.

We sat on the mattress, eating the last of the protein bars Silas had scavenged. Julian was fading. The blood loss was taking its toll.

"Rest," I said. "I'll take the first watch."

"Silas is outside," he mumbled, his eyes drooping.

"I know. But I can't sleep."

He tried to fight it, but his body betrayed him. Within minutes, his breathing deepened. He was out.

I watched him sleep. I memorized the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. I thought about the life we could have had if things were different. If we had met at a gala instead of a murder scene.

I reached into my pocket.

I still had the morphine syrette from the med kit. There was a half dose left.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

I uncapped the needle. I found a vein in his arm.

He didn't even stir as I injected it.

He would sleep for twelve hours. Maybe more. Long enough for me to get to the surface. Long enough for me to draw Sterling's fire.

I kissed his forehead.

"Forgive me," I whispered.

I stood up. I took the tablet with the payroll list. I took the stun baton.

I didn't take a gun. I wouldn't need it where I was going.

I walked to the door. Silas was sitting outside, whittling a piece of wood.

"Where are you going?" he asked, not looking up.

"To the bathroom," I said. "Down the hall."

He grunted. "Don't go far."

I walked down the tunnel. I turned the corner.

And then I ran.

I ran until my lungs burned. I ran until I found the exit ladder. I climbed up, pushing open the manhole cover.

The city air hit me like a slap. Cold. Polluted. Real.

I stood in the street. It was raining again.

I walked to the nearest public terminal. I hailed a cab. Not a stealth drone. A bright yellow taxi.

"Where to?" the automated voice asked.

"Central Police Precinct," I said. "Main entrance."

The ride was short. The streets were empty, patrolled by Sterling's private security drones.

I got out in front of the station. It was a fortress of blue light and concrete.

I walked up the steps. I raised my hands.

A dozen officers drew their weapons.

"Harper Vance!" a sergeant shouted. "Get on the ground!"

I didn't get on the ground. I held up the tablet.

"I am Harper Vance," I shouted, my voice echoing off the stone facade. "And I have evidence of a conspiracy that goes to the highest levels of this government!"

"Get down!"

I looked at the security cameras. I knew they were rolling.

"I demand protective custody!" I yelled. "And I demand a trial!"

They swarmed me. Rough hands grabbed me, throwing me to the pavement. The tablet skidded across the wet stone.

"You're under arrest," the sergeant hissed in my ear as he cuffed me. "For the murder of..."

"Save the speech," I said, my cheek pressed against the cold ground. "Just book me."

They hauled me up. They dragged me through the doors.

I looked back at the empty street. At the dark skyline where Julian was sleeping, safe in the dark.

'Forgive me,' I whispered. And walked into the police station.