He twisted the hand portion of his prosthetic and removed it. He stuck it in a pocket, then took out another attachment that was affixed to his belt. It resembled a hand, but with yellow-white plastic fingers that barely hid the wires below. He twisted it onto the end of his prosthetic forearm. Peyton watched in wonder as the fingers twitched. The stump must have given tiny impulses to the prosthetic, which electronically controlled the hand and fingers. For the first time in her life, Peyton saw her brother use a real left hand. She wondered if the Citium had leveraged this gift to gain control over him. She couldn’t imagine what he had been through, or what his road back would be like. He was a classic victim of Stockholm Syndrome—when captives come to trust and, in some cases, join their captors.

Another series of explosions rocked the building. The lights flickered, and everyone froze. If the power went out, it was over—and if the building was hit, they’d be trapped down here, crushed.

“Keep working,” Peyton said. “I’m going above to radio them, tell them to not hit the building.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lin said. “If there are Citium troops, I’ll deal with them.”

All eyes turned to Charlotte. She moved to stand beside Andrew. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter 127

Chapter 127

The lights flickered in the stairwell as Peyton pounded up the stairs. The elevators were either broken or had been shut down.

Her mother lagged behind her. The woman had always been in excellent health, but she was in her late seventies.

Another explosion rattled the metal staircase, nearly throwing Peyton off her feet. Lin grabbed the handrail and braced herself on the wall. “Go on, darling, I’m right behind you.”

“No you’re not. We’re staying together, Mom.”

She wrapped her arm around the lithe woman, and they climbed the stairs together, the bombs exploding outside as they marched.

At the ground floor landing, Peyton paused when she saw a thin film of smoke issuing forth from the crack beneath the door. She placed her hand on the door, felt warmth, then pulled the bottom of her shirt around her hand and lightly touched the handle. It was too hot for her to touch.

We’re trapped.

Conner crouched over his brother’s limp body. Desmond’s face was bloodied and bruised. He took his brother in his arms and hugged him tight, rocking.

“Des,” he whispered.

Right after Desmond had been knocked out, the air raids had struck the building. It sounded as though a large portion of it had collapsed, and fire was consuming the rest. The flames were closing in, marching down the hallway toward them. The soldiers had left. Rats fleeing a sinking ship—or more precisely, a burning island.