Page 58 of The Omega Trials: Part Two

I stretch my arms above my head and yawn wide. I think this might be one of my more peaceful mornings in months, but then my phone rings, the clunky vibrations rattling on the bedside table.

I answer groggily, fighting another yawn. “Yes?”

“You need to get to the apartments right now—don’t use the Echelon’s driver—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down.” I sit up and try to process Ecker’s frantic sentences.

“Listen, dude, you need to go.Now.I’m telling you, you have to check on Sin’s grandma—”

“What.Happened?” I demand aggressively to break through his nonstop stream.

“It’s those fucking Cyans!” He shouts loud enough that Sinclair stirs next to me, gently rousing from sleep. “One of them was missing. That’s what all the fuss was about last night. They just found his body and—”

“Shit,” I curse, immediately knowing it won’t matter we were nowhere near the Estate last night.

“Yeah, it’s bad. Real bad,” Ecker continues. “You just need to go, okay? Take Sinclair with you. Make sure they’re safe.”

“I understand,” I say solemnly, feeling the weight of the potential consequences crashing down on me.

I look over at Sinclair rubbing her eyes and stretching her legs.Make sure they’re safe.

They. Sinclair and her grandma.

Right now, I know with certainty only one of them is and that scares the fucking shit out of me.

Forgetting about the newly fixed elevator, Sinclair races up the stairwell of her old apartment.1 She must be running off pure adrenaline because she doesn’t slow down or take a break all three flights.

When we reach her grandma’s floor, she sprints down the hall, shouting, “Ma! Ma!”

The apartment door has been kicked open, splinters of smashed doorjamb strewn all over the entryway. My heart sinks, as I know what this means.

“No, no, no.” Sinclair never stops running until she sees her grandma. She crashes onto the kitchen floor by her bleeding body.

“Oh my god, no, no, wake up! It’s me. I’m here.” She wails, and my chest rips apart when I hear her sobs. “Oh god, please, no, please.”

Her grandma is lying on the kitchen floor, red blooming across her stomach where a bullet hole is torn through her house dress, marring the pink stripes and little white flowers. Blood pools under her, and a bloody rag is clutched in her hand by her side like she was using it to hold pressure but lost the strength to do so.

Sinclair places her hands on her grandma’s stomach, then panics and cups her face instead, gently shaking her head. “Come on, Mama, come on, wake up, please.”

Her words become incoherent as her body is wracked with sobs. She hiccups between prayers and pleads.

I am paralyzed.

I’ve killed people and almost been killed. I’ve brought my brothers back from the brink of death, and I’ve seen people die right in front of me. But right now, I’m utterly paralyzed, not knowing what to do to stop Sinclair’s heart from breaking beyond repair.

I can’t think, so I just do.

Falling to the floor beside her, I wrap my arms around her shaking body. Agony rips through my muscles and inconceivable pain consumes every cell in my body, but I don’t let go.

She slumps back into me, her hands falling away from her grandma’s face, leaving behind streaks of blood on her weathered cheeks, and I don’t let go.

She screams and screams, harrowing, heart-wrenching screams. And I don’t let go.

I don’t let go.

Iwon’tlet go.

I’ll take all the pain in the world if there’s even the slightest chance it will take some of hers away.

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