Page 8

My vision pulses. I’m going to pass out, but then I remember John. I wrench my head toward the rubble above me. The second floor has collapsed. Palinsky leans over the broken window. Smith moves toward debris. Osbourne is yelling inaudibly into a radio. I can’t see Garcia.

The painted blue flower is gone; the wall is ripped open to daylight.

“John,” I cough.

Vasquez leans toward me. “What?”

“John. Blake.”

He looks around quickly, then shakes his head. “Don’t see him, man. We’ll find him, but I need to focus on you right now.”

“Blake!” I yell, ignoring Vasquez. “John!”

A cough answers.

Or maybe I imagine it.

Then—

“Ade.”

The voice is weak, coming from my left, behind the collapsed section of interior wall.

I twist toward the voice, pain detonating through my shoulder at the movement. Black floods the edges of my vision.

Vasquez grabs me, trying to hold me down. He’s yelling something, but I can’t hear him much anymore, only the weak voice coming from the rubble.

“John.”

“Stop fucking moving, Delmonte!”

“John!”

“Fuck. Stay fucking still! Osbourne! Smith!”

“Move,” I grunt.

“Adrien—”

“Move!”

Maybe I sound insane enough that he knows stopping me will cost more time than letting me try because his grip loosens, and the next thing I know, I’m crawling. Except crawling assumes two hands.

I drag myself.

I know without looking that I’m leaving a trail of blood behind, as there is a slick warmth beneath my body.

Dust sticks to my mouth, my tongue, my nostrils—everything.

My ears continue to ring.

Somebody calls after me, but I keep going.

A broken section of wall blocks the way. I climb over it badly, and my knee slips. My shoulder strikes concrete. The pain is so violent that my vision disappears. For a second, I am nowhere.

Then I am back, my face against rubble.

I push forward again.