Taken (Erin Bowman)

adjacent building with her rifle in hand. She nearly blends into the dark stone structure, her hair disguising her. I can’t quite tell, but I think she nods at me, urges me on. This is the path she and Harvey agreed upon behind closed doors. This is the path that I have had no say in. I am part of a plan already set in motion. I can refuse to play by the rules and everyone will lose.
    Or I can pull the trigger.
    I raise the rifle, position the butt against my shoulder, and look down the barrel at Harvey. His face is peaceful when he mouths, I’m ready . He closes his eyes, and I take aim.
    My blood rushes; my hair stands on end; and, as my finger reaches toward the trigger, as I am about to pull it, I hear a gunshot.
    This is when Bree shoots me. This is when I fall to the ground. And this is when the world around me goes up in flames.

THIRTY-FIVE
    FEET RACE ABOUT MY BODY. I can hear the gunfire erupting, but in a distant way, my ears ringing so intensely that everything simply hangs in space. I clutch my stomach, the place where I felt the bullet strike. I ache. I burn. I squint through the smoke. Harvey is gone. Flames lick across the platform, racing up the stake that held him just moments earlier. Someone has started a fire in the madness—as a distraction to help Frank escape the now violent square, perhaps. Or maybe it was Bree. But why?
    The crowd is a slew of panicked shouts.
    “Rebels are here! Undercover!”
    “No, it’s AmWest!”
    “They’re trying to kill the boy.”
    “They’re trying to save Harvey.”
    Not a single accusation is true. And there are certainly no Rebels in the square. None other than Bree and myself, although perhaps it is possible she was trying to take me out. But why? Was this the plan devised behind closed doors? That I should die so Harvey and Bree could return? Or maybe it is just another diversion, Bree making things up as she goes.
    I continue to hold my stomach, but the heat is intensifying quickly. I’m pretty sure my arm is on fire, but I am too stiff to shed my shirt. The platform is empty. I am alone, burning. I’m trying to come to peace with it, trying to accept that this is where I will die, when a pair of arms hook beneath my shoulders and drag me from the flaming stage. I can’t see who they belong to, and I don’t care. I let them pull me down a deserted alley and to safety. Hands rip the canvas bag holding the vaccine from my back and strip me of my shirt. Strong feet stamp out the flames that eat the material. I lie there, my back slumped against a stone wall until my senses return to me. The stinging in my eyes fades, my lungs cease screaming for air. And then my rescuer comes into view.
    “You?” I mumble. “Why are you helping me?”
    “You think you’re the only one who’s in on what’s happening here? You don’t think there have been others helping your crazy mission?” Bozo stands before me, his body hunched at an awkward angle as if he’s forgotten how to stand up straight.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “There’s a lot of people on the Rebels’ side in Taem. Just because we didn’t know about the virus doesn’t mean we weren’t ready to help when Ryder made the calls.” He seems stronger out of his cell, his voice more steady, his limbs looser. His fingers still race in odd, twitching patterns, tapping at the wall he leans against, but without his tattered prison garb, he could almost pass for a civilized member of society.
    “But . . . why would Ryder call on a crazy prisoner for help?”
    “Ryder and I grew up together. We tried to run from Frank together once, too. I was stupid and got myself hurt. Had to tell Ryder to go on without me.”
    “You!” It’s suddenly so clear. He knew about the test groups the first day I met him, I’d just thought he was talking about something else. How had I not seen it? He’s not crazy, not Bozo at all.
    “You’re Bo Chilton!” I declare.
    He shoots me a wild grin. “Guilty.”
    “How did you get out of the prison?”
    “Bree had her own set of orders from Ryder, and she paid me a visit while Mozart was playing, broke me out on the spot.”
    I should be happy about this. This plan helped me avoid shooting Harvey. This plan led to my being saved from the fire and yet I am furious. Livid.
    “She kept me in the dark. That lying, back-stabbing, stubborn . . . And she shot me!”
    “Oh, quit your whining,” Bo says. “She shot you with a rubber bullet and it was