Pyro

Chapter 32

The car jostled us. Mr. Cal plowed into Sam, who grumbled curses. Plastic cups littered the van, and the four of us-Mr. Cal, Sam, Zoe, and I-were crammed. But Zoe and I embraced the front seats, distancing ourselves from the unruly mess and men crowding the back.

The black windows spurned light, but Wais batted me away and cried, "This is a rental! You're getting blood on the seats!"

Blood?

Now that he mentioned it, my fingers felt glued together, as if joined by a sticky substance. It must've been from when I stabbed Ruby...

A pang of regret clenched my heart, but I shoved it away. But though I tried, my voice came out with an almost indiscernible quiver. "The police are right behind us. We need a plan."

And it was true. Though the sound echoed in the distance, they weren't far behind. We held a thirty-second lead, and the seconds dwindled.

That was when Mr. Cal's fingers curled around my shoulder. He jerked me back and barked a stream of directions at Wais, who obeyed without question.

Morass muddled my mind, and I slunk against the wall, rubbing my forehead. An unceasing drumbeat thrummed in my head, urticating my skull. Vexation tugged at my thoughts, wondering how on earth this could've all been concocted-the escape plan, execution-but Mr. Cal mumbled something to Wais, who slammed on the brakes. Wais, anomalous to his inability to take anything seriously, said, "Everyone, when we get out of the car, do what I say. No questions- we don't have time for them. Now, out!" Wais leapt out, smashing the car door shut.

Mr. Cal barreled past me and led Sam by the hand out of the car. It took Zoe ramming her foot in my back to jump out the car and my thoughts to move, and I blinked rapidly, my eyes blinded with light. Dots danced in my vision and the honking of cars pervaded the air.

Somehow, we'd been caught in lunch rush.

Two black cars sandwiched our van, and traffic stretched as far as I could see. Heat bounced off the cars and radiated in the air: the high rises blocked us in.

The closest people, too engrossed in their fervent honking or mindless conversations on the phone, hadn't noticed us: two glaring men in orange jumpsuits, two people dressed as prison guards, and an idiot loitering with them. I dabbed at my forehead, sweltering, and said with police sirens drowning out my voice, "Lead the way, Wais."

Wais clapped Mr. Cal's shoulder, grinning. "All you, buddy."

Mr. Cal brushed his hand off, and off we went.

We earned some started gasps from passerbys who either jumped back in horror, fear, or revulsion. One women in particular bellowed out a strident screech and sent her handbag hurtling into the air.

The shriek lulled me out of my trance, and I hastened my pace.

Mr. Cal shepherded us into a derelict alleyway. Cracked pavement littered with bags fluttering in the wind and foul fast-food wrappers made up the alleyway that broke off into three directions-left, right, and forward. We bolted right, nearly plowing into Kaz, who jumper backwards and cursed in incredulity. "Next time," he hissed, shoving his hands in his jean pockets, "watch where you're going. You almost ran me over!"

I bit back the urge to smother him.

Wais scowled. "Complain later. Do you have the change of clothes?"

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, unzipping the backpack he toted. Kaz chucked it at Wais, still bemoaning our carelessness, while Mr. Cal riffled in the pack, revealing crisp, clean clothing.

That absolved our issue of jumpsuits and guard outfits. But-

"Henry. Change," ordered Zoe.

I snapped my gaze to her. Her hands deftly slid off the guard uniform, and, hear flaring my cheeks, I eschewed looking at her. Hastily, I ripped off my own blood-stained, dirt-imbued jumpsuit, and propelled it into a muddy puddle.