Taken (Erin Bowman)

shoulder is easy to right when needed.”
    With that, Bree picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you guys on the other side. Good luck.”
    She plants a kiss on my cheek, before sprinting off. While Harvey’s and my arrival draws eyes elsewhere, she plans to hop an inbound trolley. I watch her run, my hand pressed to the place her lips had touched.
    We begin our trek toward the glinting dome. Harvey walks in front of me, his dislocated arm cradled against his chest, while I point my rifle at his back. As we draw closer, I swear I can feel his eyes. From somewhere deep inside his fortress, Frank is watching the cameras as his prized possession appears from the woods.
    The barrier opens, wide and gleaming, and we walk into the city’s claws.
    Waiting for us beside a car, with the door already open, is Marco. Order members stand at his side, their weapons following our movements as we approach. I can see the fear starting to take over Harvey now. I feel it, too.
    “Well, if it isn’t a Weathersby twin, back from the dead. And with Mr. Maldoon, no less,” Marco comments. He bends forward and stares into my eyes, noting their color before righting himself. “Well done, Blaine. Well done indeed.”
    The guards grab us, and we are forced into the car.
    Frank’s office is as I remember it, a gleaming spectacle of decor and ornamentation. Marco shoves us into the chairs facing the desk and we wait. A moment later the doors behind us slide open, but there are no footsteps. I crane my neck around. Frank stands in the doorway. He examines his fingernails, cracks his knuckles methodically, and then enters the room.
    He looks us over, first Harvey, then me, then Harvey again. His eyes gleam. As he examines us, he presses his fingers together in his quintessential wave, but today, the motion is not thoughtful and calm. It’s menacing. They are pale and knobby, his fingers, like dead tree branches.
    “Welcome home, Blaine,” Frank says finally. His voice is as soft and buttery as ever. He smiles, a wide and mischievous grin. I shift in my seat.
    Frank puts a spidery hand on my chin and pushes my face to the side. With another finger, he traces the faint scar on my neck. “My, what happened here?”
    “I don’t know,” I lie. “The Rebels tortured me for information. I passed out and woke up with a bandage on my neck.”
    Frank squints at me. “How fortunate you are alive. We feared the worst.” He folds his arms across his chest, not once alluding to the fact that there had been a tracker under my skin. “How did you escape?”
    Frank flashes his teeth in another ominous smile and I feel like throwing up. Why hadn’t I spent less time analyzing escape routes and more time practicing answers to these types of questions? I swallow and pray my voice remains steady.
    “I went undercover. Pretended to understand their angle. Became sympathetic. I was under constant surveillance, but when I saw an opportunity, I acted on it. I jumped my guards during a rotation switch, took Harvey hostage, and hiked back.” I motion toward Harvey when I say his name and he flinches.
    “That right, Harvey?” Frank asks. “Is that how it happened?”
    “Y-yes, sir,” Harvey stammers. He looks terrified, and I don’t think he’s acting.
    “You had a good thing here, Harvey, a real good thing,” Frank coos. “I don’t know why you made it come to this.”
    The blood from Harvey’s nosebleed is now dry against his shirt, and with his bravery lost and his arm hanging limply, he really does look like a hostage.
    Frank turns his attention back to me. “I’m so sorry about your brother.” His voice doesn’t sound sorry at all. “We received reports that he was lost during the fight that broke out beyond the Hairpin. You must be devastated.”
    I’m not sure what reaction to play here: surprise, as if I hadn’t known the news, or grief, as if I am in mourning. Before I can make up my mind, Frank bends down so that his face is right before mine. I stare straight ahead, praying he can’t see the edges of the blue contacts in my eyes.
    “So, Blaine,” Frank says. “You come back here, after disappearing for over two months, and because you have single-handedly completed Operation Ferret, you think I’m going to believe you.”
    “Don’t you?” I ask.
    “No, Blaine. I don’t. Not one bit.” The softness of his voice is gone, a bitter edge breaking through. “But you can make me believe you.