Forged (11 page)

IT WENT LIKE THIS: THE
team found the water crate Blaine and I dropped in Pine Ridge, and after following the trail, knew we'd been compromised. Back at the bookshop they theorized about how. Bree mentioned her evening with Gage at the pub—how he was fishing for details regarding the mission—and Badger put the rest together.

The team was ready when he arrived later that evening. Gage got just one shot off—which clipped Badger in the shoulder—before he was rendered weaponless. With some persuasion, he gave up the truth: Blaine and I had been taken to the Compound for questioning.

“Badger and Adam decided it was too much of a risk to come after you,” Bree explains. Our team is in dry clothes
now, crammed in the wheelhouse with May and Carl, who is steering us back to Pine Ridge. “They said our plan was solid enough to get us inside to poke around, to
look
and
observe
, but not to break anyone out. I told them it was a piss-poor excuse, that we had everything we needed to get to you guys and not doing so was cowardly.”

“Charlie's sister,” Sammy says, pointing at May, “arrived with the Order-disguised boat only to find the mission canceled. Course, Bree wouldn't give it up. Kept ranting about how it wasn't right, and we couldn't leave you. Hell, I thought the same.” Sammy pats his chest like I might have doubted him. “I mean, we're practically blood at this point.”

Clipper nods in agreement.

I feel this swelling in my chest. I know exactly what they mean. I know all too well, but if I try to put that in words, I'll choke up.

“So how
did
you change their minds?” Harvey asks.

“We didn't. Adam and Badger never approved of this.” Bree gestures at the boat. “I organized it behind their backs. The inspection team was due to arrive late Friday evening, so I decided we should do what we were always planning—infiltrate. The key was to get to the Compound a few hours early.”

“And we couldn't have done it without Carl and May,” Sammy adds. “Their stand-in Order boat got us entry, and
their trawler was waiting to pick us up once we fled.”

“I'm grateful and all, but I'm still confused.” I look toward Carl and May. “Adam didn't think this could be done, and he at least knew me and Blaine. Why would you two risk all this for strangers?”

“Just a gut instinct.” May beams, her cheeks swelling up like fresh loaves of bread. “Every minute after I arrived at the bookshop Bree went on and on and it . . . I guess it reminded us of our situation, didn't it, hon?” She glances up at Carl, who nods. “I once staged quite a production to get Carl out of a bad spot and sometimes it's worth risks, regardless of the odds. Especially for people you love.”

Bree looks mortified—she might even be blushing—but I'm hung up on May's words. My mind drifts to a letter I found in a deserted house in Bone Harbor a few months back. A love letter addressed to a man named Carl, begging him to come west, saying her brother Charlie—an Expat—would help stage a boat sinking to cover his trail.

“You two,” I say, still staring between them. “Carl's from Bone Harbor.”

May touches her chest. “How do you know that?”

“And Charlie, your brother . . . I thought he was a fisherman. That you both were.”

“Our mother passed a few months back and Charlie and I are splitting our time between the sea and the shop now that she's
no longer around.” May asks again how I knew about Carl, and I quickly explain about the letter, how it was one of a few things that led the Rebels to reconsider AmWest's status in this mess.

It is so odd the way all these lives have overlapped. For some reason, it doesn't shock me as much as it could. Instead, I just feel incredibly blessed. That Carl cared enough for May to run away with her. That May was moved enough by what Bree kept repeating in Pine Ridge to consider helping with the rescue. That Adam brought us to Badger who worked in Charlie's shop where it all came together. Such an intricate web of relationships.

“We snuck out before Adam and Badger got up this morning,” Bree explains. “Getting to the docks was easy enough with the boat and uniforms. Clipper set up the explosives—had a wetsuit and everything so he could get around unseen—and then after Sammy and I alerted the Order to the rogue ‘tracking device,' we went in. Things didn't get messy until the alarm went off.”

She doesn't know how much of it I saw in the interrogation room, and plows ahead with the story. I listen to her run through it—the guards, the way Sammy got her out of a bind, finding only Emma in the cells. I barely hear her. I'm caught up in her hand gestures and the way she speaks with such conviction. I want to tell her how it felt to see her on those screens. I want to tell her she is amazing.

“Bree refused to leave without you, so I took Emma to the boat,” Sammy cuts in.

“I still don't understand why though,” Emma mutters. “I'm a stranger.”

“Um, Gray should probably explain that later,” he says. I don't blame Sammy for not wanting to break the news to Emma. Who wants to tell someone that their Forgery tried to kill half the people on this boat? She gives me another icy look as he continues. “When I got to the boat, Harvey—who's supposed to be
dead
, mind you—was standing there with Clipper in his arms. The boy was hugging him like a teddy bear.”

“I checked his eyes first!” Clipper says. “I knew what he was, but he seemed . . . I don't know. Something was different about him. And he said he'd been helping Gray.” Clipper spins to face me. “That's true, right?”

“Yeah, Harvey heard some Mozart while I reminded him of his past life, and it jolted his loyalties. Now he's like Jackson, a malfunctioning Forgery.”

“You say
malfunctioning
like it's a bad thing,” Harvey says, but Bree looks unamused.

“So Blaine,” Emma prompts hesitantly. “He's really . . . ? I mean I heard it, but I hoped . . .”

My brother . . .

Will they throw his body into the water and let the salt eat
away at him? Will he settle somewhere on the Gulf floor like my father?

The room is suddenly suffocating.

Too afraid I'll spot pity on their faces, I leave without a backward glance.

It's cold on the deck, and I grip the icy railing just to feel its burn.

If I hadn't chased after Emma in Pine Ridge . . .

If I hadn't attacked my Forgery and tried to run . . .

Would Blaine still be alive?

I gaze out at the horizon, now a line of deep violet that blends with the night sky. If he were here, Blaine would tell me to not beat myself up. He'd probably even claim that this outcome was best, that he'd have wanted me to live if it could only be one of us. Because that was Blaine: putting everything in order, weighing lives like they were things you could barter with in a market.

The real irony is that for once I agree with him. I
can
weigh these two lives—mine and his—and I want it the other way. He has a daughter, a reason to keep going. He is—
was
—such a good person. To his core. To the very center of his being. It should have been him who lived. I wish I could have taken that bullet for him.

“Hey.”

I flinch at the nearness of Bree's voice. She's standing a half dozen steps away, a blanket still over her shoulders, her face somber. It kills me, that look. It's like she can feel exactly what I'm feeling even though I didn't ask her to. Even though she shouldn't. Because I wish this on no one—the grief and guilt and horrible, aching emptiness.

She joins me at the railing and rests her forearms against it.

“My ma used to tell me that the dead never really leave us,” she says. “She claimed they just changed form, went back to the earth, the sea, the sky. Sometimes I'd catch her whispering to the stars like my father was up there listening.” Bree grips the rail and lets the weight of her body hang back, arms outstretched. The blanket nearly falls off her shoulders.

“I thought she was full of it. The dead are dead, right? All that fancy poetry is just a way for people to cover up the ache. But one night after a friend died, I tried talking to the stars, and I swear it helped. It didn't change the fact that he was gone, or how unfair it was, but I felt less alone. More grounded. Like I might actually be okay.”

I'm trying to keep it together, but her words are too much. The stars seem exceptionally bright now, and when I look up at them I hear Blaine calling for me, over and over.

“Hey,” Bree says again, her eyes searching mine. “It's okay.”

And that's what breaks me, because it's not okay. It will never be okay: him, gone.

I slide to the deck and Bree's arms go around me, the blanket engulfing me at the same time. She has one hand in my hair, the other on my back. With my head against her chest I can hear her heartbeat, feel her draw an uneven breath. She pulls me nearer, tighter.

“It really will be okay,” she whispers. “I promise.”

Her breath is warm despite the cool March night and as she whispers this impossible promise into my hair, again and again, I realize how close we are. The small of her back is beneath my palm, the swell of her chest under my cheek. She smells like salt from the sea. Her neck is just inches from my mouth. I want to kiss her there, lean in and lose myself against her skin. She looks down at me and pauses, our lips just inches apart.

She won't tell me it's a mistake again. I know it by the longing in her eyes and the way her body quivers when my hand slides to her hip. Knowing it's my touch that causes her to react like this makes me want her more than ever. I start thinking about how else her body might move beneath my hands, how we might move together if—

I fly to my feet, let the cold wind wake me.

What is wrong with me? Blaine is dead—he's
dead
!—and I'm thinking with all the wrong parts of my body.

“Gray?”

“I can't.” Even as I say the words all I can focus on is the way she felt beneath my hands. “I just . . .” I look at her, willing her to understand. “He's dead, Bree.”

“Yes, and it's horrible. It's going to be horrible for a long, long time. Possibly forever. But that doesn't mean you have to suffer for every minute from here on.”

“It's too soon.”

“I'm not saying you should forget him, Gray, or that it will ever stop hurting. I'm saying you shouldn't force yourself to hurt any more than necessary, that's all.”

“You don't know what this feels like, Bree. How it's eating me up. How feeling anything
but
the hurt seems like a disservice to him.”

“No, I understand all too well. I've lost people I love, too.”

Sure, a father she barely knew to his own Heist. A mother she's had years to come to terms with—just like my own. But nothing like
this
. Nothing recent and fresh and practically a part of her. She doesn't let people get close to her, so who could she possibly have lost that would cause her to feel what I feel right now?

“Punishing yourself—forcing yourself to hurt—isn't going to make things better.” She reaches for me and I step backward. “Gray, I mean it.”

“Why are you pressing this? You told me you couldn't
in Pine Ridge, that it was a mistake. And now that's all changed?” I can hear my voice rising, but it feels good, like I'm spitting out poison. “Now you want to throw the last two months of ignoring me out the window? How convenient. What perfect timing! Because guess who can't now, Bree? Me. I
can't
. You'll have to find someone else if you're that desperate. Heck, I'm sure Gage would be willing.”

It's a cheap blow and I regret it the second it comes out of my mouth.

“Gage is dead. Badger shot him through the mouth.”

“Not soon enough!” All I can see is how it's too little too late, how everything is broken beyond repair. “I told you I didn't trust him, but you still let him dig for info that night at the pub—let him flirt and buy drinks and ask questions, and Blaine might still be alive if—”

“Oh, don't you dare do that!” she snaps. “I know you're upset, and devastated, but no! Not that. It isn't fair. Do you realize everything we did—
I
did—to get back to you? I shot down over a dozen men for you. One of them couldn't have been much older than us. It's tearing me up, so don't go making me regret it.”

“No one forced you to shoot them, Bree. Or to come after me.”

“Ugh, you drive me crazy!” she shrieks. “Just because
you're
hurting doesn't mean you get a free pass to hurt everyone
else, Gray. You keep doing that, and no one will be there when you actually need them. Not even me.”

She pivots and is gone.

I stare after her, tongue-tied, trying to understand how I went from whimpering to raging in a matter of seconds. Earlier I wanted to tell her she was amazing,
is
amazing. Why didn't I say that instead of things I don't believe? She's all I have left, and I just pushed her away.

For the life of me, I don't know why I did it.

THE RIDE TO PINE RIDGE
takes much longer on May's trawler than it did in Gage's boat. The duration of the journey is compounded by the fact that we keep looking at our wake, waiting for the lights of a pursuing boat to appear.

I don't understand why they never do.

“They're probably too busy trying to save that precious ship Clipper blasted,” Sammy offers. “Or maybe the security barrier's busted from when we hit it. Locked up, trapping them in.”

“They have things that fly,” I point out.

“You did blow up your boat,” Carl says, one arm slung behind May's neck, the other on the wheel. “Might be they think you're all dead.”

No one says anything after that. It seems a bit too lucky to me. We took Harvey, one of Frank's most valuable assets. How is it possible he doesn't care enough to be sweeping the Gulf for us? Is it because he already got what he needed from Harvey? The limitless Forgeries are well into production. And if so, then what about me? What was the point of bringing me all the way there only to let me slip free before getting any useful information? Maybe Frank's written it off as a lost cause now that my Forgery is dead and he has no double to paint with my scars.

I glance out the glass windows encircling the wheelhouse to where Harvey and Clipper stand on the exposed deck. Clipper hasn't stopped smiling since they went out there. I don't know what they're discussing, but I decide it doesn't matter because Clipper looks happier than I've seen him in months. He's telling a story with lots of hand gestures. Harvey watches over the rim of his glasses, intent and patient. His mouth forms a shocked
No
! in response to something Clipper says. The boy nods aggressively, still beaming, and Harvey shakes his head in admiration. He says something else and Clipper's face suddenly goes slack. Then he launches himself at Harvey and hugs him around the middle. The Forgery hugs him back. Like a father.

“We're almost there,” Carl announces.

May bounces on the balls of her feet. “Help me on the deck,
Sammy?” And then to me: “Why don't you go round up the girls. I think they went to lie down for a few.”

I have never wanted to struggle with ropes and buoys so much in my life.

I leave the bridge and take the stairs down to the crew quarters. The passage is eerily similar to the
Catherine
's. The last time I walked down a hall like this looking for Bree, I didn't know if I'd find her alive.

Voices drift from one of the quarters ahead. They're not napping like May said, and so I'm not quite sure why I start walking as quietly as possible.

“I'm sure he wanted to save you both,” Bree is saying, her voice unusually soft. Sympathetic. “Gray's heart is a lot bigger than he likes people to think.”

“You've known him long?”

“Long enough.”

There's a short pause and then Emma says, “I can't forgive him for it. I won't ever be able to look at him and
not
think about that moment.”

I wish I'd been able to tell Bree about my Forgery, the choice he forced upon me. I should have leaned on her earlier, explained why it all hurt so damn much by talking my way through it instead of blaming her for something that isn't her fault.

“I understand completely, Emma, but at the same time, is
that fair? It was a horrible situation to be put in.”

“Nothing in life is fair. A lot of it's luck and even then everyone gets screwed at least once.”

Bree laughs. “I like you a heck of a lot better than your Forgery.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“No. You don't get to say
my
Forgery
and then change the subject.”

“I really think Gray should explain it to you, like Sammy said.”

“Bree,” Emma says, and her name sounds like a door slamming. “I'm not waiting any longer for an explanation. Frank had me tending to some of them in the hospital. I know exactly what they are, and exactly what they're capable of, so don't think you're doing me any favors by sparing me the truth. What did you mean when you said
my
Forgery?”

Bree exhales. “Gray thought it was you, the girl he brought back to Crevice Valley. She came west with us to Group A, served as our medic, waited for the perfect moment to betray our team. By the time we realized she was a Forgery, she'd leaked our information several times over.”

“What? . . . I can't—Is she out there still?” Emma asks. “Please tell me no. Please tell me she's not—”

“She's dead,” Bree says. “I shot her.”

There's a muffled sob, and then relieved tears. I can hear Bree awkwardly trying to calm Emma, telling her not to cry, that it's over. My legs don't want to work, so I just stand there several paces from the room, completely useless. Which is likely what I'd be
in
the room, too. I've never been good in these sorts of moments.

“I could kill him,” Emma says.

“Frank? No one here would argue that.” Bree pauses a moment. “Look, I get it. I know how awful the Order is. It's impossible to face them and walk away without a scar—physical or otherwise. And yes, life isn't always fair, and a lot of it
is
luck, but if everyone gets screwed once like you claim, then the Order's turn is coming. We'll give them a violent shove in the right direction. Real soon. The team's been planning for so long I'm about ready to explode.”

“Will you tell them I . . .”

“Had a minor meltdown as any sane person would when learning they had a vicious double? No. Not unless you want me to.”

“Not particularly,” Emma says.

“Then I won't. Seriously, I mean it. Why are you giving me that look?”

“Sammy told me you could be mean.”

“Sammy said that?” The softness in Bree's voice is gone. “I'm gonna kick his sorry ass when we're back on land.”

“See
that
,” Emma says, and I imagine her pointing at Bree. “That sounds more like what he warned me of.”

“I'm not mean,” Bree insists. “I just don't think there's a point in taking crap from anyone. Too many people let themselves get walked all over and I decided years ago to say what I believe and not apologize for it. Some people call that mean. I think it's honest.”

“But what if you're wrong about something? Do you apologize then?”

“Not always as soon as I should. But I do. After I work up the courage.”

I feel like I'm listening to strangers become friends in the span of five minutes, and it's making me uncomfortable. Strangers should have walls up. They should be waiting for proof that the other is decent and trustworthy.

“Thanks for this.” Emma draws a ragged breath. “I feel like I haven't just
talked
with someone in months. Actually, sometimes I feel like I haven't laughed in months either.”

“Then maybe we should go find Sammy,” Bree offers. “He's good for that. And besides, I owe him a piece of my
honest
mind.”

I jolt to action, walking the remaining length of the hall noisily so they can hear me coming, and knock on the doorframe. “We're nearing shore,” I say, hanging half my torso around the jamb. They're sitting on a bottom bunk together,
Emma with her knees pulled in toward her chest, Bree with one leg tucked beneath her and the other dangling over the side. Only Bree greets my gaze.

“Great. We'll be right up.”

It's a dismissal; I'm not meant to wait for them.

Above deck I'm happy to help Sammy and May dock the boat. It's a straightforward task with a clear end goal and no surprises. The rig gets secured. The gear is unloaded. Everything makes sense.

The town is sleepy when we disembark. Smoke leaks lazily from chimneys and lights glow from behind only a few windowpanes.

“Be on guard,” Carl warns.

“For?” Sammy draws his gun, though I'm skeptical it will even work after taking a swim in salt water.

“Nothing's waiting for us here, but that doesn't mean someone isn't waiting back
there
.” Carl points in the general direction of the bookshop.

Harvey holds a hand out. “Give me a spare. I don't like being unarmed if we could be facing something.”

This desire to carry a weapon is so unlike Harvey, but Sammy passes over an extra knife without comment. Harvey grunts, and his eyes drift toward Bree. She's standing on the edge of the wharf, facing the Gulf, and it's obvious she has plenty of firearms to spare. The rifle has returned to
its place across her back, and two handguns are holstered at her hips. In the end, Harvey doesn't argue. He pulls Clipper a little closer and adjusts his grip on the knife.

As we start our walk to the shop, a loon call cuts through the night. I turn toward the water. Not a loon call. Bree. She's still standing on the lip of the wharf, her hands cupped at her lips. Her shoulders move as she draws another breath, and it is followed by a second cry, a whistle produced right from her hands.

I know she won't get an actual response—it's far too late for the birds to be out—but the song she's producing is so beautiful that I stand there anyway, mesmerized. It sounds like a good-bye, and I decide that, at least for me and Blaine, it is. I try to make my own, and not surprisingly, I fail.

I listen to Bree's calls and look up at the stars and talk to Blaine in the corners of my mind. I promise him I'll set things right. I'll get back to Kale, hug her for both of us, be as much of a father to her as I possibly can now that he's gone. I'll make sure his death isn't for naught.

With these promises, the ache in my abdomen becomes a fire, a fuel, a reason to keep going. I actually feel it happen. There's this small twist in my gut where the grief shrivels into a hardened pit of resolve. I feel so possessed in that moment, so at peace with my words to Blaine, that I realize I have no choice but to succeed. I'll make this right, or I'll die
trying. And I'm completely okay with that.

Bree drops her arms to her sides, cutting a loon cry off abruptly. When she turns to face me, I feel like we're the only two people in the world.

“I'm so sorry about earlier,” I say. “I didn't mean it.”

“I know.”

“You're the last person I want to push away, Bree. Ever. But I wasn't thinking straight and—”

“I
know
,” she says tersely. “But thank you.”