The Inner Circle

107

"Dallas…! ” I yell, sliding on my knees and trying to catch him as he falls forward.

I’m not nearly fast enough. I grab his waist, but his face knocks with a scary thud against the concrete.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clementine holding her gun inches from Palmiotti’s face. Without a word, she plucks the file from his grip.

“Dallas, can you hear me!?” I call out, rolling him on his back.

“I–I didn’t know, Beecher…” Dallas stutters, holding his chest, his eyes hopping back and forth, unable to focus. “I swear I didn’t know…”

“Dallas, listen-”

“You shoot him back!” Dallas interrupts, reaching out and pointing to Palmiotti’s gun. He wriggles-and reaches all the way out, finally grabbing it.

Next to us, Palmiotti’s bent over, dealing with his own pain and putting maximum pressure on the bullet wound in his arm.

Dallas fights hard to shove the gun in my hand, but his movement’s too jerky. The gun bounces off my wrist, crashing to the ground.

I pick it up just as Clementine races at us.

Clementine stops. Her ginger brown eyes lock with my own. She has no idea what I’m thinking. No idea if I’m capable of picking this gun up and shooting her with it. But whatever she sees in my eyes, she knows she has no chance of making it all the way to the front entrance of the cave-all the way down the long well-populated main cavern-without us screaming murder. Switching directions, and not seeming the least bit worried, she tucks the file in the back of her pants and takes off deeper into the cave.

In my lap, Dallas is barely moving. Barely fighting. “Beecher, why can’t I see in my left eye?” he cries, his voice crashing.

As the blood seeps out beneath him, I know there’s only one thing he needs.

A doctor.

“You need to help him,” I say, raising my gun and pointing it toward Palmiotti.

But Palmiotti’s gone. He’s already racing to the back of the cave, chasing after Clementine.

“Palmiotti, do not leave him!” I yell.

“She has the file, Beecher! Even you don’t want her having that on the President!”

“Get back here…!” I insist.

There’s a quick drumroll of footsteps.

Palmiotti-and Clementine-are long gone.