Free Forged by Erin Bowman Page B

Gage’s voice is audible over the wind. Mist from the Gulf blows onto my front, icy pricks against my nose and neck.
    â€œI’ll report back when Badger’s taken care of. If the others are with him, do you want them alive?’
    An answer I can’t make out.
    â€œNo, that’s fine. I have no problem wiping the place clean. Happy to be of service.”
    Something mumbled.
    â€œTonight,” Gage says sternly. “I’ll do it as soon as I’m back. And then I get the rest of the pay? Good, good.”
    I’m shoved over the edge of our boat and hauled onto another. My shin bangs something. Hard. I keep waiting for the blast of a firearm, but it never comes. That would be too easy. They didn’t go through all this trouble just to kill me.
    Gage’s boat roars to life, then fades out across the Gulf.
    In the darkness beneath my blindfold, I picture Charlie complaining about eggs, and Aiden chasing Rusty, and Clipper’s blushing face at the mention of Riley. Sammy cracks a joke about my tardiness, saying Blaine and I can find our way through a forest but manage to get lost among marked streets. Bree is unamused. She turns to Badger, scowling, and says something is wrong. Adam agrees.
    They sweep the town and find the dropped crate of water. At Mercy’s, they learn Blaine and I never arrived. When theyget back to the bookshop they put an armed watch at the door and start weighing their options, discussing what might have happened, devising a plan.
    These are the things I tell myself to dull the twisting sensation in my stomach, to ignore the bile scratching at my throat.
    Their executioner is coming, but they’ll be prepared. They have to be. I repeat it, over and over, not sure if I’m lying to myself.
    We’re moving again. I crouch on the deck to shield my face from the frigid air. Nearby, someone laughs, shrill and in tune with the clawing wind.
    Far too soon the engine slows, then dies out completely. I’m lugged to my feet, off the boat, toward whatever—and whoever—is waiting.

NINE
    I CAN’T SEE A THING , but the rhythmic lull of the water and the soft thump of our boat against an unseen structure tells me we are in some kind of port. The strain of pulleys and the clank of cargo suggests a large one. Surrounded, somehow, given the echo. By mountains? Rock? Someone shoves me between the shoulder blades, forcing me forward. The ground beneath my feet is sturdy. Not dirt or mud like the streets of Bone Harbor or Pine Ridge, but man-made. Even and level. Slick with a sheen from the ocean.
    â€œNo, that one’s going to Lode,” I hear someone shout. “To Lode, you idiot! Dock 3B.”
    â€œWhat about the Haven shipment?”
    â€œIt went out yesterday, with the other cargo for Taem and Radix.”
    Radix . Another domed city? I tuck the name away and breathe deep. It smells different here than the other gulfside ports I’ve been in. There’s the normal salty air and the lingering stench of diesel engines, but there’s also something cool and sharp about the place. I’m tugged along by an escort I can’t see, and I start to feel like we’re walking into the belly of a cave. A cave with damp, bloody walls, if the metallic tinge to the air tells me anything.
    The swoosh of a door sliding open reminds me of Union Central, Frank’s base of operations in Taem. The commotion and smells are cut off as the door closes behind us and the lighting—even from beneath my blindfold—changes. It is bright here.
    I try to keep track of my path, but there are too many turns, plus a few levels. My escort pushes me—hard—and I fall to my knees. A door slams. It’s pitch-black now. Even after I use my still-bound arms to pull the blindfold off I can’t see much. I feel my way around the room. Maybe two wingspans by another two. Windowless. One door, locked.
    Not a room. A cell.
    I shout for a while,