Taken (Erin Bowman)

get you killed?
    “We need to find Blaine,” I say. “We need to tell him about these records and we need to get out of here. We can find Harvey ourselves, break Claysoot free; and when we do, we have to take everyone as far from this place as possible.”
    “What a valiant plan.” Marco is standing in the doorway, his smile malicious. “And to think Frank was actually enjoying your company, Gray. He’s going to be so disappointed when he hears you’ve both turned against him.” Marco looks thrilled with himself, and it’s all crashing down on me—what this means, how much trouble I’ve gotten not just myself into but Emma as well. Why had I thought this was a good idea? Why did I have to pull her down with me?
    Marco grabs Emma first. I’m shouting and shoving him, but he’s stronger, and then there’s another Order member in the room, seizing Emma so that Marco can bind my hands. He snaps two metal links around my wrists, tethering my hands like the water thief’s, and then grabs my jaw. He leans in so close I can see my reflection in his good eye.
    “Seems I was right from day one, putting you in a cell. How ironic.” He straightens up. “Now let’s go see what Frank wants done about this.”

EIGHTEEN
    EMMA IS DRAGGED TOWARD THE prison and I’m brought to Frank’s office even though Frank is not there. The windows are open, giant panes of glass pushed outward, and the curtains flanking them flutter in a late summer breeze.
    Marco drops a set of keys on Frank’s desk and then shoves me into the seat before it. Two guards stand at either side, guns in hand. I struggle against my restraints, and the metal digs into my skin more deeply. I quit struggling and take to staring out the window instead. The truth wasn’t worth this. My mouth suddenly tastes sour, like spoiled milk.
    Marco flops arrogantly into Frank’s seat and eyes me with disdain. “The unHeisted boy. Such a mystery you are, and what a shame that it comes to this—you turning on Frank.” He clucks his tongue. “I hope Frank is creative with his choice of punishment. There are so many exciting options.”
    He pauses, as if he expects me to offer up a suggestion for my own sentence, and then continues. “We could throw your girlfriend back in the Outer Ring and wait for her to burn, for example.” A sly smile. “But maybe that would be too quick, too painless. I think we should leave her in a cell, let her rot and wither into old age. That would bother you more, too. Wouldn’t it?”
    My fists clench and Marco smiles. “Oh, Romeo,” he coos, “you should thank me. She’ll live a long life this way.”
    An image of Bozo fills my mind: his tapping fingers, his crazed stare, his endless singing. Emma can’t sit in a cell for her entire life. It will break her. I tug against my bindings, and again, the metal drives into my skin.
    The doors burst open, but Frank does not enter. Instead it is an older Order member who walks in briskly and motions for Marco to join him. They meet beneath the maybe-drawing of a family on Frank’s wall and talk quietly. I can’t make out a single word.
    Marco eventually loses his patience. “All right, all right. What’s the verdict? What did Frank say?” he snaps.
    The Order member jerks his head toward me and says, “Execute him.”
    Straight ahead, out the open window, a black crow soars past. I think of the crow in the Claysoot meadow, how I couldn’t shoot him from the sky. I think of the crow atop the Wall, urging me to climb over. And I see this one now, flying along the roofline, guiding me again. I don’t think about it. I don’t contemplate if it’s the right choice. I react.
    I bolt from the chair, scrambling over Frank’s desk and grabbing Marco’s keys in the process. I’ve darted between the two guards and am halfway to the window before Marco starts screaming.
    “Shoot him! Shoot him now!”
    My feet are almost there, then a boot on the ledge. I push off, throw my body from the windowsill. Gunfire erupts, loud and deafening. The fall seems to take forever, my feet kicking as though I am underwater and searching for the surface.
    It is not a long drop to the roof below, but my knees buckle from the impact. I topple forward, my bound arms unable to break my momentum. Tiles scrape the side of my face. I feel the blood almost instantly, warm as it trickles past my ear.
    The gunfire continues and I run. Bullets speckle the roof around me. I don’t know where I’m