MirrorWorld

6.

The pair pauses for a moment. That I’m standing my ground has them wary, no doubt recalling the pugilist’s crumpled form.

“You’re going to have to get close to use those,” I say, pointing at their weapons.

For a brief moment, my logic seems to seep through. Both men look unsure, confused, and ready for a beer. But then the hairs on their arms rise up. The man with the knife shivers. With the suddenness of a fired bullet, they’re both back on task, refueled by fear of something greater than me, and ready to kill.

The man with the bat steps forward. The muscles of his tattooed forearm twitch as he twists his hands around the grip. “Not that close.”

I shrug. “Your funeral.” And I mean it. These men would kill me. I have no qualms about returning the favor. Even if I could feel fear, a jail sentence or return to SafeHaven wouldn’t be on my list. Not in this situation. I’m not only defending myself, I’m defending two other people.

Bat-man steps closer. He’s got the Slugger cocked back, twisting around in tight circles. A real Jose Canseco.

I wait patiently.

He steps into his swing, grunting his power into the weapon. But his aim is off. I don’t even need to duck. Clearly, he’s never killed anyone before, which begs the question: Why does he want to kill me? I’m never going to get a chance to ask him. The powerful missed swing overextends him. I close the short distance between us, catch his arms, and spin him around.

The man shouts in fear, but not because of me. His overeager friend has lunged with the knife and is plunging it toward where I was supposed to be. If the knife continues its arc, it will plunge into bat-man’s heart.

Only it doesn’t.

I’m struck by something as heavy as a cartoon anvil—mercy. Back when these people were an angry mob, I could have driven through them without a second thought, but I can see now that they’re out of their minds. Not themselves, and not really deserving of my wrath. Not all of it, anyway.

I twist the bat in front of the knife. The blade bounces off the wooden barrel. A quick shove knocks the bat into the man’s forehead. He drops the knife and stumbles back against the railing as a third person—a girl-next-door type—crawls out the window.

The hell is going on?

These people seem like they need to be in SafeHaven more than Seymour. They’re out of their heads. Terrified to the point of rage.

With a quick twist, bat-man’s wrists overextend, and he relinquishes the bat. I spin him around and pull back my fist to slug him, but he’s done. The man raises his hands, finally more afraid of me than whatever brought him to this point. “Who are you?” he asks.

I pick up the knife. “I have no idea.”

Shattering glass turns my gaze upward, but back down just as quickly. Glass rains down from above, breaking into smaller pieces as it strikes the grated metal stairs. When I’m finally able to look up again, girl next door is charging, fingers hooked, a scream building in her throat. Above me, a man leaps through the window and starts up after Allenby. He’s fast.

I sidestep the girl, tripping her with my foot and elbowing her in the back. She spills forward, introducing her forehead to the railing behind me. She slumps down to the fire escape floor, blood running down her face.

As more people pour through the window, I start up the stairs, armed with a bat and two knives—one ceramic, one stainless steel. For a moment, I feel good about my chances for surviving this mess. Allenby’s life is still at risk, but I can do a lot of damage to a lot of people with a knife and bat. My positive outlook changes when I reach the third story and bullets start flying. Someone inside the apartment fires three times. Only two of the bullets make it through the window, each of them sending sparks into the air as they strike the fire escape’s metal framework.

I run past without slowing or flinching. The missed bullets have as little effect on me as a shift in the breeze or a degree change in the temperature. I’m two flights higher when the shooter makes it to the window and starts firing up. But there are two levels of metal between us, and the rounds don’t make it far.

At the top story, I quickly take stock of the situation. Loud chopping and billowing dust, both the results of a helicopter’s rotor blades, mean our ride has arrived. But Allenby and her pursuer are nowhere in sight.

I discard the bat, slip one blade beneath my belt, pop the second sideways in my mouth, and leap onto the ladder like a pirate boarding a merchant’s vessel. I bound up the rungs, jump the wall at the top, and take in the scene. Allenby is on the tar-paper roof, crawling away from her attacker, a spindly man with a pipe. I don’t think she’s been struck yet, but the man is just seconds from delivering his first blow. Beyond them is the helicopter, a black number with no identifying marks, hovering a few feet above the roof. Blair sits inside looking paralyzed with fear. I see no weapons, meaning I’m the only hope Allenby has.

As I climb over the roof’s short wall, I shout, “Hey!” but the man doesn’t turn. He’s locked on target.

I run at him, taking aim with the ceramic knife. It’s a nice blade. Sharp. Well balanced. But it’s not a throwing knife. The odds of hitting the man with the blade are fifty-fifty. But I only need to hit him hard enough to get his attention.

The pipe comes up in sync with Allenby raising her arms. The defensive posture will save her life from the first blow, but she’ll have two broken arms for the effort. Twenty feet from the man, I throw the ceramic knife. The man doesn’t see it coming but twists just right as he steps over Allenby, and the blade sails past. The second knife is in the air a fraction of a second later.

The pipe descends.

The butt of the knife strikes the man’s right shoulder, knocking his strike off center, but the pipe will still connect with one of Allenby’s arms.

Except it doesn’t.

She surprises the attacker and me by rolling to the side at the last moment and kicking the man’s knee. He yelps in pain and jumps back but isn’t deterred. He raises the pipe for another strike but never gets the chance.

My shoulder strikes the man, midspine, as I ram him, lift him off the ground, and then slam him to the roof. There’s a loud crack as all my weight is transferred to the man’s spine via my shoulder. He screams in pain, still alive, but when I stand up, he’s not moving anything below the neck.

I turn to Allenby, who is now on her feet. “I knew you were military.”

She turns for the chopper. “Once upon a time.”

“Better hurry,” I say, pushing her along. “The next person has a gun.”

The helicopter lowers as we approach, allowing us to board by stepping on the skid and climbing in through the side door. Blair helps Allenby inside but leaves me to climb in by myself. As I find my seat and slide the side door shut, bullets punch into the metal where my head had been a moment before.

The pilot takes us up and away, blinding the gunman with a cloud of dust and roof grime. As we ascend, I lean to the window and look down. It’s Manchester, New Hampshire, all right, but I’ve never seen it like this. The streets are alive with people. Vehicles and some buildings are burning. The mob rushes forward. Ahead of them, a line of riot police, each holding a clear bullet-resistant shield, wait.

Molotov cocktails sail through the air, accompanied by rocks, and then bullets. The police respond with tear gas, water cannons, and then bullets of their own. War indeed.

“Hard to believe,” Allenby says.

Not really, I think, except for one detail. While scenes like this have played out all around the world for one reason or another, this is New Hampshire. It’s 90 percent forested, has a culture of holding people accountable for their actions, and the lowest murder rate in the country. How could this level of violence seep into one of the nation’s quietest states? Even more pressing, how can a city I don’t remember visiting be so familiar, and why the hell do I know so much about New Hampshire?