Project Gemini (WATTYS 2016 WINNER!)

Chapter Fourteen - The Illusionist. (Part 1 of 2).

I need her too.

With that, he forced himself from the operating theater, stepping through the doors and into the wall of smoke waiting for him as thoughts rushed through his mind. All he had was a gun and six bullets, hardly enough to keep Pariahs like them at bay. He had to get creative, and as the smoke rushed to immerse him a part of him wished the girl was stable enough to fight with him.

He kept his gun raised blindly at the smoke, the corridor plunged into darkness as ash fought the hot air. The gas mask held tight, saving his face from the heat and the flames that licked the ceiling. He slotted his fingers into the wall, stepping carefully as he headed for the helipad.

Two prison officers crammed into the helipad doorway, fumbling to keep their gas masks on as they didn't notice him approach. The wind whipped up the fire as the rain beat against the glass, the roof roared in a blazing inferno as it ripped through the tiles, scorching the blue-black July sky.

Kingsley grabbed the woman's arm and yanked her to face him. "Where're the others?"

She shook her head. "All in the west wing. The riot—"

"I meant the ones on the roof," he snapped.

Something flickered in her gaze, as if he was asking a stupid question. "They're gone."

"Gone where?"

The other prison officer grunted, cutting across them. He scrabbled at his mask, his fingers yanking at it as he spluttered, sweat dripping across his bald head as he convulsed. The whites of his eyes exposed as he looked up at her and Kingsley, one final plea: help me, screamed in them. The officer jerked, the static around them reached a high-pitch whine as the man's body stilled, choking on his own breath. His face went red.

Then he stilled.

Stopped, a blank expression on his face. Kingsley edged back, holding the woman with him as his grip tightened on the gun. The officer's jaw moved, testing the words, but resisting them at the same time. His gaze fixated on Kingsley.

"Come outside, Detective," the officer said, his voice off. Foreign. "Come outside."

"McLaren—" the woman started, but Kingsley hushed her.

A flicker of something unreadable on his lips. "Open the door," the officer said again.

"Can this door hold?" Kingsley asked her, his finger rested on the trigger. One simple squeeze and he could relieve him from the Illusionist's hold. A squeeze and it was over, but it was much more than that. That static itched at the corners of his mind, asking, begging, rather than forcing, to be let in.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked, her hand flexed on the baton. "Sir—"

"Don't be a coward now, Thomas," the man crooned.

Shoot him. Kingsley clenched his teeth, trying not to look at the woman. "Tell me about the door, Officer."

"It's designed for a small explosive . . ." she trailed off, looking at her colleague.

A bead of blood dripped from the man's nose.

One drip.

Then the other nostril.

The man's head rolled back, his throat bulging, choking on nothing but air.

Kingsley's stomach sunk.

The man was gone. Hijacked.

It's too late for him now.

"Protect the door, protect the operating theater," Kingsley said, shaking his head. "After I leave, don't let anyone—or anything—back in, under any circumstances. Understood?"