The Enemy

Prologue

Emma—June 2010

"John?"

"Emma." Suddenly, his warm palm was against her back. The bright sunshine hit his deep blue eyes and made them so bright. 

She felt like her heart was in her throat. Birds chirped in the distance and leaves rustled in the soft breeze overhead. She swallowed and did her best to act normal. "Is everything alright? You pulled me out here all of a sudden." She tried to tuck a frizzy, brown strand of hair behind her ear for what felt like the umpteenth time.
His smile blazed. "Alright?" He laughed. "Everything is better than alright." He leaned forward, tilting his head towards hers. "Ems, I couldn't wait any longer." His sweet breath caressed her cheeks. John brushed the stubborn lock of hair behind her ear, and it stayed. Perfect. He was perfect. "Before graduation tomorrow, I've got to tell you that I want to be with you. I want us to be together in uni and in our careers and wherever life takes us."

She blinked away the feeling of lightheadedness. She resisted the urge to pinch herself. "Wait. You want to be with me?" She stared into the blueness of his eyes. He wanted to be with her? He  wanted to be with her? One of Charterhouse's ancient trees towered above them; the gnarled bark dug into her back, but she didn't care. "You're serious?"

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long." He took her hands in his. His were warm and strong. "I've been an idiot." His smile seemed to brighten even this sunniest day. "You've been right in front of me for so long, but I never noticed." He quirked a brow. "Are the feelings mutual, Ems? Do you want me back?"

Her throat felt so tight she worried it might constrict. This had to be a dream. Things like this didn't happen to girls like her. "I—" she stammered. A violent blush raced up her neck and to her cheeks. "John, I—" she looked up to see him stifling a laugh. "John!" She flicked him. "I think you know the answer to that question."

"I think I do."

"It would be immature and well, cruel frankly, to force me to say it."

"Well, then I won't, weirdo." His smile crinkled the sides of his eyes. "For now." Then, his face came closer and closer, and it was like all of Emma's years of unending fantasy yet so much more than all of them at the same time.

"You're not like any girl I've ever known." He moved closer, so very close, until his lips met hers.

She had loved John Huxton for the better part of the last four years, and somehow, someway he had noticed her back. Her unending, idiotic stubbornness had paid off. His lips were so warm, and he smelled so damn good. She'd snogged a couple other blokes, but none compared this. This, this would officially be her first real kiss.

A distant, out-of-place noise interrupted the birds and the leaves and the breeze. As John's lips began to press deliciously along her cheek and jaw and neared her neck, Emma's eyes fluttered open. The sound grew, a screeching sound; a roaring sound. She sighed as John moved back to her lips again, but not before a strange sight caught her eye. "John—"

He pulled back, eyes clouded. "Yes?"

"John, what's tha—"

A large, black lorry was speeding down the lane up to Charterhouse school. Years later, Emma would still perfectly recall the instinctual feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach upon sighting it. She had gone from feeling absolute bliss to total doom. Something wasn't just strange; something wasn't right. She pointed towards it. It was her last clear memory of that day for many years to come.

Fifteen minutes later and Emma's hands were shaking uncontrollably and covered in splotches of bright, sticky blood and soot. Feeling miles away from the tree and John, she wrenched open the doors of the shotgun cabinet that she'd opened hundreds of times before and pulled out her preferred twelve gauge shooter. If this were an appropriate time for her sense of humor, she'd express a thought about the typicality of her first real kiss occurring in tandem with some event of terror. Just her bloody luck.

"Keep it together, Emma." She struggled as she reached down into the pocket of her cardigan to retrieve two shells, fighting with denial. She heard screams from outside the room and shook herself. This was not the time for a mental breakdown. She looked down at her bloody hand clutched around the ammo. Had this been the same hand that had just stroked through John Huxton's hair?

She bit back a sob. She dropped a shell as she tried to insert it. "Fuck," she hissed into the near darkness. She struggled to pick it up in her trembling hands. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She exhaled. She took a breath. She willed her pulse to calm. This was just like any other practice. A boom sounded from somewhere outside the room. This was just another day on the range, and she needed to push everything else away and focus. This was about survival. She inhaled again, and the tang of wood polish and smoke filled her nostrils. Familiarity. She felt the nervous tightness in her chest ease a little. She slid in the shells, hands more settled despite the perspiration beading all over her body, and loaded the gun with a sharp click. She nestled the butt in the crook of her right shoulder and gripped the fore end. All those years of practice on the Clay Pigeon Team and she'd never considered having to use this particular skill for self-defense.

Time changed. Suddenly, hands, mean hands, gripped her. In a new corridor, images of a snarling mouth and gun barrels flashed across her mind. Her throat felt raw with exertion. A lifeless body lay on the floor, blood pooled about it.

"Who are you?"

"No!"

"Who is she?"

"Emma Stapleton," said a disembodied voice.

"No! No!"

A leer. "Emma. Stapleton."

She fought. She kicked and scratched and thrashed, but her limbs felt like jello. She yelled, she screamed.

"Stapleton!" Pale eyes, perfectly coiffed hair, palm cupping her jaw. "Stapleton." A concerned, puckered brow.

She whimpered. Her gaze went to the bloody gash nestled deep into her left forearm.

"Stapleton!" He shook her. "Breathe! Stay awake!"

Time flew. She rested against a moving bed as if numbed. Red and blue lights flashed over everything. John. She moved to get up. "John!"

Urgent hands pressed her back down. "Miss, you need to lie back; you've lost a lot of blood. We're going to transport you to hospital—"

"Emma!" John sprinted over. He muscled his way to her side. Her heart wanted to explode with relief. "Emma!" He held her face gingerly. He bent and pressed kisses over every inch of her uncovered head. "Emma, how could you?" He kissed her. Her John Huxton, the school golden boy, kissed her. He was hers. "You're so stupid, Emma. So stupid." His words held no real heat. He kissed her.

Emma smiled. She cried. She couldn't believe she was alive. She couldn't believe why she was alive. She was in pain. Other people, innocent people, were dead. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

A hundred yards away, a young man and Charterhouse student was handcuffed and folded into the back of a police van. His pale blue eyes burned out at the passing scene; then, he shut them and sat back, letting his head rest. He exhaled, and the world seemed to move in a sluggish pace around him. It was all over. Nothing would ever be the same again.