Page 74 of Song Bird Hearts
“Deputy—” But John doesn’t get to finish his words. Deputy Martin slams backward into the Ugly Mugs storefront after another pop, before he slides down it, leaving a long red streak behind. I gasp and cover my mouth, horrified.
Knox crawls toward him and grabs his leg, dragging him behind cover. “He ain’t gonna last long without a doctor.” He looks at Gilden. “Take care of the shooter.”
“With pleasure.”
I grab at his arm. “Don’t get shot.”
He presses a hard kiss to my lips. “Don’t worry,cher. They can’t shoot what they can’t hit.”
And then, he dances—literally dances—out into the storm of bullets. I watch open mouthed as he moves like a ballerina, leaping and twisting, and the bullets ping across the concrete around him, never hitting him. Admittedly, his dance moves feel legit, like he’s been classically trained at some point, but I’m no expert.
“What. . .the fuck?” I say, staring after him as he takes note of the direction of the bullets and starts to move into position.
“First time I saw it, I was weirded out, too,” Knox admits. “But no one expects him to leap around like a damned ballerina. He’s right. Never gets shot. It’s fuckin’ wild.”
Wild is an understatement.
He takes aim and pulls the trigger mid leap. Someone screams. The gunshots stop. I’ve never been more blown away in my life.
Gilden comes rushing back. “Everyone, get movin’. We’ve got wounded. Search for anyone else who’s hurt.”
There isn’t time to ask about his dancing, not with panic setting in, so I drop it for now. Holy shit, I don’t forget it though.
“Come on, John,” I say, wrapping my arm under his good one and helping him to his feet. “I can’t have you bleedin’ out on me.”
“I ain’t bleedin’. I’m just detoxin’ is all,” he teases.
I can’t help but laugh, tears springing to my eyes at the sight of the blood soaking his shirt. “Dammit, John. You didn’t have to?—”
“Sure, I did,” he winces as I help him into his truck. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”
The adrenaline buzzes hard and cold in my veins. All around us, Steele roars to life as they band together and help those who need it. One of our own had let the enemy in, but the finale is just around the corner.
And me?
I’m done hiding.
No matter how many times they try and shoot me.
No matter how many times they try to steal my voice.
Chapter36
Valerie
The bronze bull rider towers behind me, forever mid-spur, one hand gripping the rope, the other held high. I stand at the foot of the statue in Frederick E. Savage Park, a folding table in front of me stacked with old-fashioned paper records, USB drives, and the thick black leather-bound book that has already cost too much.
It was two when I hit “go live”.
Now it’s nearly sunset.
I haven’t moved from the chair. Not once.
“Name: Tabitha Graves,” I say, my voice rough from hours of talking. “She was nineteen when she released an expose on government bio-surveillance and its ties to a shadow organization called the 27 Foundation. Two weeks later, she was found drowned in her dorm’s bathtub. This book has her name, her article, her method of surveillance listed in the margin. Next to it? An X.” I tap my fingers against the page. “Dead. Confirmed.”
The camera zooms in with the help of a borrowed broadcast drone, the thing holding steadfast and true. My livestream number had started in the thousands when I first hit the button. Now, that number is in the millions.
“Next name: Dr. Elijah Torneau. Whistleblower. Exposed MK-cell development on illegal black-market sites. Claimed the Foundation was using experimental tech on live subjects and bribing government officials to help them do it. He lost his medical license, disappeared, and reappeared two years later as a mental patient in a closed ward. He hasn’t spoken since.” I look up at the camera with tired but angry eyes. “This is what they do. They silence. They erase. They turn real people into rumors and turn rumors into cover stories.” My jaw clenches as I turn the page. “Agent Markus Blaine. Current. Still active. Works out of Los Angeles. He recruits performers—musicians, actors, athletes—and assists in optimizing their career paths. Which sounds real nice until you realize optimizing means addicting, blackmailing, or killing.” Gilden slides a folder over to me and I take it, grateful that there’s a whole team doing real time research to give me the proof I need. “This man is currently working under the alias ‘Brian Kess,’ and if you think I’m scared to say that on record, you haven’t been watching long enough.”
