With widened, bloodshot eyes, Cyrus watched as the buildings and lights of Paradiex sped past the train window. His heart was still banging against his ribs after their mad dash through the city streets. Horribly, the Beacon was twenty minutes away, but they’d escaped the HQ; they’d made it as far as the city transit.
And they had Dez to thank for that.
Rifle in hand, Dez had led them out of the HQ, barking orders to turn left, turn right, down that alley. With Fiearius’ arms thrown over their shoulders, Cyrus and Leta had followed, crossing breathlessly through the city to the temporary safety of the PIT train. Shockingly, no one had questioned them along the way nor even spared a passing glance. Apparently the librera Dez wore engraved into his arm was a powerful detractor.
Now, Dez stood at the doors, regarding the transit map thoughtfully as if leading escaped convicts was as routine as taking a lunch break. At Cyrus’ side, Leta looked tense enough to spring up at any moment. Fiearius slumped between them, his eyes half-lidded, still mumbling Society propaganda nonsense under his breath. Continue reading