Free Stolen by Melissa de La Cruz Page B

to drive as normally as possible. “A hundred times before I was dumb enough to bring you two iceholes.” He shook his dreadlocks at them.
    Snow blew in waves across the lake, sending ripples drifting toward the causeway’s concrete pillars. Red bubbles rose to the lake’s surface, gathering and popping. Wes thought the gurgling water looked like his stomach felt: anxious and boiling.
    â€œLike I said, a little slower,” he said, trying to postpone the inevitable as much as he could, but the limo was already at the dome’s entryway, right at the golden arch.
    â€œLike I said, make up your mind already,” Farouk groused.
    The shiny half loop of gold-plated steel glistened, its surface newly polished. Guards flanked the arch in front of the checkpoint, weapons raised, robo-hounds held back by leashes. El Dorado was a paradise for those who could pay to get inside—Vallonis for the wealthy. The people of El Dorado didn’t suffer from military raids or eat processed glop; here in the domed cities, they could pretend the apocalypse had never happened. Who wouldn’t want that?
    â€œBoss,” Shakes said, nudging him. “Boss.”
    â€œA minute,” Wes said, trying to figure out what he would say once the guards asked for his ID and told Farouk they weren’t on the manifest.
    â€œYou need to look at this,” Shakes said, pointing to the tip of the dome.
    A plume of black smoke drifted from the far side of the golden hemisphere. Cracks appeared across the face of its glass shield.
    â€œDamn. What is that?” Wes fumbled for his field binoculars. “Looks like they’re venting smoke.” Enclosures needed an exhaust system; otherwise a simple fire could clog the dome with smoke and threaten the lives of everyone inside.
    Wes lowered the binoculars.
    They were next at the guardhouse. One of the soldiers raised his weapon; the robo-dogs howled. The limo slowed to a stop. A security officer wearing a crisp white shirt, red tie, and blue blazer with a gold dome embroidered on the pocket stepped out of the booth, radio in hand and dark glasses on his face as he approached the front window.
    â€œHey, man, where’s Rolf?” Farouk asked, handing over his ID.
    The security guard tipped his hat, gestured back toward the booth. His radio buzzed and he put the receiver in his ear, nodding as he listened.
    â€œPassengers?” he asked.
    â€œCasino bosses from the Loss. They should be on the manifest,” Farouk said, offering the fake IDs Wes had given him earlier.
    The guard nodded and studied the IDs, radioing in their names.
    Wes looked from the guard to the dome and back to Farouk. Smoke continued to pour out of the vent, creating black clouds around the dome. More guards appeared, surrounding the limo, listening to headsets, hands pressed to their earpieces.
    Something was happening. Someone screamed, and the guards whipped around, watching smoke billow out of the entryway.
    â€œRepeat, I need clearance for a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde,” the guard said into his radio, waiting.
    Shakes rolled his eyes. Wes tried not to smile. They were two of his favorite aliases. No one read books anymore, so no one would get the joke.
    The guard’s radio buzzed.
    â€œTurn around,” he said. “Turn around, the domes are closed for today.” He made a spinning motion with his index finger, indicating the act of turning the limo in a circle.
    â€œAre you serious? I can’t turn this beast around.” Farouk gestured to the limo.
    â€œTurn around now.” The guard stepped back, a hand resting on the grip of his sidearm.
    In the distance, sirens boomed, and red and blue strobe lights reflected off the dome. Wes turned around to see as emergency vehicles approached from behind, blocking the causeway. Even if Farouk could turn around, the fire trucks and ambulances were blocking the bridge. There was no going back. A convoy of