NewU Pt. 37

The sound of another car engine echoed into the room, yanking me back to the moment, getting closer by the second. There was no gunfire heralding its arrival as it had done for us; there were no mighty explosions of landmines or rockets, just the deep bass rumble of an engine getting closer. Finally, it pulled to a stop outside. My ears tracked the doors opening and the sounds of what sounded like three men alighting from it

"He's here," one of the Inquisitors said, his voice coming from a spot that would have looked over the wall and out onto the street.

"Get him on his feet," another voice said. A few seconds later, two men hooked their hands under my armpits and hoisted me upright. I may have gone a little overboard with the blood from that gash above my eye because it had flowed down the entire side of my face, blurring my vision as I tried to blink it clear. I spat out a mouth full of dust and was turned to face the archway, listening as three sets of feet made their way up the stairs. I made a point of not looking at the pile of rubble. Olena was hiding in there with my radio, and I didn't want to draw any attention to it.

A blurred outline of a man appeared in the doorway, standing there for a moment and just looking at me.

My vision was thick from the blood that had run down into my eyes, and blinking didn't seem to be clearing it as fast as I would have liked. That blood had been caked in the dust and the soot from the concrete floor, too.

His thick, rich, Italian accent identified him with the very first syllable. "Hello, Pete."

In an instant, that shadow of corruption shattered into nothingness. Every doubt, every question, and every manipulation vanished as the infection dissipated.

Time froze. My mind smashed against itself as a thousand thoughts all competed for primacy at the same time. I remembered the way the ghosts in my city stopped to look at him as I showed him around, the suspicion and the unease on their faces as if they could sense the corruption being left in his wake. That wind. Memories, some mine, some belonging to Uri, of excuses made to keep my training - and the training of others - at its lowest possible level. Charlotte's almost instinctive hatred of the man.

But mostly, I felt that pit of betrayal in my stomach. Uri had once considered him to be one of his closest friends, his most steadfast ally, his confidant... a brother in arms. Yet the attack on the party had raised too many questions. The memory of the moment that Uri's own corruption was shattered flashed through my mind, the moment in the diner with me when he realized that the only person who could be responsible for that level of treachery was his friend.

I remembered that look of horror washing over his face.

His attempts to keep me away from him, to protect me, to protect this mission, even if it meant putting himself in harm's way. Waking up one morning to find him gone from their camp and knowing... knowing... that he was on his way here to silence Olena.

Knowing it was a trap, but knowing he had to come anyway.

Even if it meant his death.

I sighed deeply, letting my face finally express my utter loathing of the man in front of me before it hung toward the ground.

"... Marco..."