The Duplicate

Chapter Twenty-four

We don't.

In one quick motion, Trip smacks the crash-handle of the door, letting it pop open and fall shut again. Then, silence. It seems to last years, eons, forever. Until the door opens.

Every muscle in my body freezes as a gun—something big—appears, raised, aimed into the stairwell. The black gloves gripping it creep into view. Trip waits, letting them easing further, further, further still—

Trip snatches the door, yanking it closed. A pained, muffled cry rips from the Force soldier. And Trip slams his good shoulder into the door, throwing it open, seizing the barrel of the gun, jerking it up, ramming it into the soldier's helmet. A crack echoes through the stairwell, making me jump.

Stunned, fingers broken, the man struggles to gain a hold of his gun. He swings a fist, awkwardly, uselessly, hitting Trip's side. Simultaneously, my eyes trace Trip as his head snaps up, eyes ablaze as he looks through the meshed window. And abruptly, he twists and leans back, turning his head away.

A blast.

Glass shatters as a bullet smashes through the window—the sound echoing, almost deafening. With it, my involuntary scream bounds up the stairs. But Trip isn't fazed. One moment he has his head turned away, the next he's turned back—pistol raised, aimed at the soldier's helmet. He fires, and another deafening blast rings in my ears. Then another and another as Trip aims out the window. While the soldier with his head blown open is still crumpling, there is a shout from the other side of the door. And, after, only silence. Again.

Trip stays pressed against the door. Head cocked. Listening.

Still nothing. Only the distant sounds of the city. Seemingly satisfied, Trip crouches and tears the helmet off of the soldier collapsed in the doorway.

Sometime during the chaos, Dax must have grabbed my arm. Because, now, he slowly pries his stiff fingers from my coat. He swallows several times. "Are... are there anymore?"

"For now—" wincing, rolling his shoulder  "—no." Trip rips something out from inside the helmet.

My legs feel weak as Dax and I slowly approach him. I use the wall, sliding against it to keep myself on my feet. My suitcase drags over the concrete floor.

"They had to hear those shots," Dax says, as if in a trance. He's staring down at the soldier wedged between the frame and door. Though I see blood starting to pool the floor in my periphery, I won't allow myself to follow his gaze. Instead, I watch Trip stand and hold a wireless earpiece—a radio—close to his ear.

It's funny. He still looks the same—other than the small cut, no doubt from the window glass, flecked across his cheek. His eyes are still chilling, expression still solemn, both completely unaffected by the men he's just killed. And I feel sick.

Noticing my analysis of him, Trip meets my gaze, holds it for a moment as he listens to the earpiece.

"Nauseous?" he asks finally.

"A little."

And like a switch is flipped, a faint cunning glint enters Trip's eyes. "The more I'm around you," he says, "the less I think you're a nurse."

My expression turns sour. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Trip doesn't answer me. His eyes, instead, flicker towards the shattered window. The cunning glint disappears, and he shoves open the fire exit door. "Come on."

Staggering behind him, I fix my attention, grudgingly, on his back. Not the dead soldier I step over.

Sunlight beams over the windshields of the cars and trucks scattering the parking lot. I squint and shield my eyes, trying to get my bearings. We're at the very back of the parking lot. Police sirens whoop from the front. From here, I can just make out the police cruisers blocking off one lane of the traffic clogged—