Ch.39: The Betrayal

Thorne freezes. He’s leaning against the wall, gasping for air, but his eyes are fixed on the gun in Isabella’s hand.

It’s a standard issue Glock 19. Likely taken from the guard she knocked out. Her grip is shaky, but her finger is on the trigger.

"Isabella," I say, my voice raspy from the gas. "Put it down. We're on the same side."

She laughs. It’s a brittle, jagged sound.

"We are not on the same side," she spits. "You want your life back. I want my face back. And this..." She gestures with the gun at Thorne. "...this is the only way I get it."

Thorne wipes soot from his mouth. "You think killing me will fix your face?"

"No," Isabella says. "But killing Aris will."

She steps closer to him. The gun doesn't waver.

"Aris won't let me leave," she says. "He'll hunt me down. He'll take the face back. He said the Client is waiting."

"So let us help you escape," Thorne says.

"Escape isn't enough!" she screams. "I need surgery! I need reconstruction! Look at me!"

She points to her cheek. The grey, dead skin is peeling away like old wallpaper.

"No legitimate doctor will touch this mess. They'll call the police. And I'll go to prison for fraud."

She looks at Thorne with a desperate, terrifying clarity.

"I need Aris's money. I need his contacts. I need his lab."

"So you're going to take over?" I ask, incredulous.

"I'm going to survive," she corrects me. "And for that, Aris has to die."

She turns the gun on Thorne again.

"You're a cop," she says. "You have training. You can get close to him. You can take him out."

"I was planning on it," Thorne growls.

"Good," she says. "Because if you don't..."

She shifts her aim.

She points the gun at my head.

I flinch. I look into her eyes—my eyes—and I see nothing but cornered animal panic.

"If you don't kill him," she says to Thorne, "I kill her."

Thorne stiffens. "Don't be stupid, Isabella. You need her. She's the donor."

"I don't need a donor anymore," she says. "The graft failed. I need a clean slate. And she... she's just evidence."

She cocks the gun. *Click.*

"You have five minutes, Detective. Go upstairs. Find him. Put a bullet in his brain."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I put a bullet in hers."

Thorne looks at me. He calculates the odds. He’s injured, unarmed, and facing a woman who has lost her mind.

"Fine," he says. "I'll do it."

"Good choice," Isabella says. She tosses him the keycard.

Thorne catches it. He looks at me one last time.

"I'll come back for you," he promises.

He turns and runs toward the stairs.

I am alone with her.

Isabella keeps the gun trained on me. She backs away until she is standing by the blast door control panel.

"Don't look at me like that," she snaps.

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like you pity me."

"I do pity you," I say. "You think killing Aris will solve your problems? You think you can just walk away from this?"

"I have to try," she whispers.

She touches her face again. A flake of grey skin falls to the floor.

"It hurts," she says. "It hurts so much."

"I know," I say. "It's my skin. I can feel it dying."

She looks at me, startled.

"You can feel it?"

"We're connected, Bella," I lie. Or maybe it isn't a lie. Maybe the shared biology goes deeper than blood types. "As long as you wear my face, we're linked."

She shudders.

"Then I'll cut it off myself," she vows. "After he's dead."

From upstairs, a gunshot echoes.

*BOOM.*

Then another.

*BOOM.*

Isabella flinches. "Is it done?"

I listen. There is shouting. The sound of breaking glass.

"No," I say. "It's just starting."

She looks at the ceiling, terrified.

"Go check," she orders me.

"I can't walk," I remind her. "I'm in a wheelchair."

"Then crawl!" she screams. "Crawl to the monitor! Tell me what's happening!"

She waves the gun.

I wheel myself to the wall monitor. The screen is fuzzy, interference from the storm outside and the power fluctuations inside.

I switch the feed to the ballroom.

It’s empty. The gas has cleared mostly, sucked out by the emergency vents.

I switch to the hallway outside the panic room.

Thorne is there. He is taking cover behind a marble pillar.

Aris is there too. He is wearing a gas mask. He has an assault rifle.

He is firing at Thorne.

*RAT-TAT-TAT.*

Chips of marble fly. Thorne ducks.

"He's pinned down," I report. "Aris has a rifle."

"Useless!" Isabella screeches. "He's useless!"

She paces the small corridor.

"I have to do it myself," she mutters. "I have to do everything myself."

She looks at me.

"You're coming with me."

"Why?"

"Because you're my shield," she says. "Aris won't shoot you. He still thinks he can harvest your organs."

She grabs the handles of my wheelchair.

"We're going upstairs."

She pushes me toward the lift.

"And if you try anything," she whispers in my ear, "if you try to signal him, or scream..."

She presses the cold muzzle of the gun against my neck.

"Kill him, and I'll let the vegetable live."