The Duplicate

Chapter Eighteen

A shrill, shocked cry rips from my throat and echoes down the alley. My palms scrape against concrete as I fall. Tears distort my vision, and my mouth hangs open; I'm afraid to move it, afraid my jaw may be broken, or shattered.

Faintly, I am aware of my attacker beside me. The smooth click of metal—a gun, a sound I am too familiar with now—rebounds off the walls.

"I will ask you this question once," the statue says. And his voice is just what I'd expect. Detached. Mechanical. No more human than a sculpture. "Where is he?"

He. No clarification is needed.

Silence stretches longer and longer as my mind frantically searches for an answer. The truth? A lie? What do I say?

A kick to the side sends me flat on the ground. Air rushes from my lungs with an audible hah. Scorching pain bursts under my skin.

"I won't ask you again," the statue says.

My lips are moving before I know I've made a decision. "I don't know who you're talking about."

The statue jerks me onto my back, his hand seizing my throat, squeezing, lifting me half way off the ground. Behind him the light-bulb on the alley wall blazes. I stare up into his eyes—two empty, black holes. Nothing is in them.

"You're lying."

I rasp. "I don't know—"

"Don't lie."

"I don't know." I take a hard, shuddering breath. "I don't know, I don't know, I swear."

The butt of his pistol cracks across my cheek so fast I don't even see it coming. This time I scream so hard it burns my throat. Statue releases me and allows me to crumple to the concrete, curl up on my side, my face in my hands.

Am I bleeding? I taste blood.

"Where is he?" Statue steps over me so a boot is on each side of my waist. "Tell me. Now."

I squeeze my eyes shut and, through tears, choke out the words, "Inside. He's still inside."

"What is he doing? What is he after?"

"He's after Verbeck."

"Why?"

I don't answer.

"Why?" The pistol presses to my temple.

Images of the gun going off race through my mind all at once. The sharp pop of the bullet. The blast. The blood. A wail claws up my throat. "I don't know, I swear, please—"

"Hound."

My eyes snap open. The statue raises his head. And there is Trip, standing at the very edge of the light's beam. He is still, extremely still.

Hope flares through me. "Trip..." I croak, frantic, terrified. "Trip, please."

Please don't let him kill me.

Please. Help me.

Trip's eyes drop down at me fleetingly but fix on Hound again. And the statue's pistol wavers against my skull, as if he's trying to decide who he should be pointing it at.

Now his voice comes a tad edgy. "Drop your gun, Triple. I know you have one."

Trip doesn't move.

"Now. Drop it."

"Don't do this," Trip says, almost in a whisper. At the sincerity in his voice, I feel a pang of surprise. He takes a cautious step forward, palms open and out at his sides as if in surrender. "Back down. I don't want to fight you."