Countdown. Michelle Rowen
if she still had one. And she isn’t afraid of using her body to get exactly what she wants. This girl’s as cold as ice.”
I felt the color drain from my face, and I glanced at Rogan.
“That’s not true,” I said.
His expression was guarded, but there was an edge of curiosity in his gaze. “All of it or most of it?”
“Most.”
The camera then whirred over to block Rogan’s path.
“Rogan Ellis, seventeen years old, is guilty of nine counts of first-degree murder in what is now known as the Dormitory Murders. After a one-night rampage that left nine female university students dead and dismembered, he was sent to St. Augustine’s Detention Hall for dangerous youths until his eighteenth birthday, when he was to be transferred to Saradone Maximum Security Prison to serve a life sentence with no chance for parole.”
Rogan glanced at me with an unfamiliar expression playing across his face, but I’d gone cold and silent.
“That’s not true, either,” he said, his voice suddenly void of emotion.
“All of it or most of it?” I asked shakily.
“Most.”
Nine girls. Dead and dismembered.
I felt ill. I could have dropped to my knees on the cold, hard pavement and thrown up, but there was nothing in my stomach. It was one thing to imagine what he was guilty of, but another to have it sent across the airwaves directly into my brain.
He was horrible. He was a monster, like the man who’d murdered my family.
And if I didn’t stay with him I was going to die.
The thought made me feel even sicker.
Maybe they’re lying, a small voice in my mind insisted. Why would you believe what they say? They totally exaggerated who you are. Maybe he didn’t do it.
Why would I even think that? Because he had nice eyes? Because he was vaguely charming and injured, and I wanted to make it out of this alive—and to do that, I needed him?
Yeah, something like that.
“Tell us, Rogan Ellis, do you feel any remorse for what you’ve done? And how do you feel your sociopathic tendencies will serve you in Countdown, especially now that you’re teamed with Kira—a girl who lost her own family to a brutal murder?”
I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me, instead staring daggers at the camera, refusing to answer any of the “get to know you” questions the voice was asking on behalf of the audience.
“Ten minutes now remain in this level of Countdown.”
The time update was like a slap in the face.
I grabbed Rogan’s shirt again. “We have to get going. Now.”
The camera moved to block our way, and I swatted it with the back of my hand.
“We’re not far,” Rogan said.
“We better not be.”
“You didn’t tell me your family was murdered.”
“Forget it.”
His brow furrowed as we hurried along the road. “Kira, what they said about me...”
“Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t care who you are or what you did. I just want to live. And if it means that I have to put up with a piece of garbage like you, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
“I understand.”
“And one more thing—” I squeezed his shoulder hard, under the collar of his shirt just above his wound, and he let out a gasp of pain “—you try anything or you even look at me funny? I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”
He knocked my hand away, his gaze fierce. “Sounds fair enough.”
I wiped a drop of his blood off my hand and ignored the mild flash of pain in my head. I’d touched him. Touched his skin. I’d concentrated as best as I could considering the situation I currently found myself in—
And I’d tried to feel something, some feeling. Some clue to help me.
There wasn’t time to get much more than a headache and a jumble of confusion.
All I knew for sure was that there was more to Rogan’s story. Much more. But right now there was no time to figure it out.
If we didn’t hurry, in less than ten minutes, we were going to die.
Chapter 4
“HOW MUCH FARTHER?” I took a quick look over my shoulder to see that Rogan was about twenty feet behind me. I ran fast. Currently, he didn’t. Since I couldn’t let him lag too far behind—thanks to the brain implants from hell—it was becoming a problem.
His already strained face creased into a deeper frown. He stopped walking and looked around the gray, deserted street.
“We should almost be there” was his final proclamation, but he sounded uncertain.
“We better be,” I muttered. “Which way?”
“Take a left at the next intersection.”
I took the left along the street up ahead. None of it looked familiar to me. The area was desolate; there was no one around—unless you counted the spherical silver digicam whizzing around that I already hated enough to fantasize about smashing into a million little pieces.
I’d taken a swipe at it a minute ago when it got too close. The thing was faster than it looked—and it looked pretty damn fast.
This whole situation was so bizarre I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that it was actually happening to me. But it was. If my heart wasn’t pounding so hard that it hurt and if I hadn’t already experienced enough stress and pain to fill up five lifetimes, I would have sworn that I was dreaming.
Rogan cursed.
I looked back at him with alarm. “What now?”
He scanned the dead-end alley we’d just walked into. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
“Like what?” I didn’t try to hide the hard edge of panic in my voice. “And hurry up, because we’re almost out of time.”
As if in reply, the voice in my head announced, “There are two minutes remaining in this level of Countdown.”
Rogan brought a hand up to his wound and swayed on his feet. I ran to his side to support him before he keeled over.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“I heard it.”
“So?”
“I could have sworn this was the right turn. I know this neighborhood. At least, I used to know it. It’s been a while, though. Things change.” His dark brows drew together.
I was now bracing his full weight against me to keep him from toppling over. “Yeah, you’re a whole lot of help.”
“I guess we won’t be winning the grand prize, will we? Knocked out at level two. It’s embarrassing.” He said it so wryly that I knew he was joking.
Joking. At a time like this? He was even crazier than he looked.
He was also very pale, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his grimy face. My hand was pressed to his chest to hold him steady, and his heart beat erratically. I pulled at his shirt to take a quick peek at the wound underneath. It looked raw and open, as if it had been inflicted with a sharp object like a big butcher’s knife. Definitely not from a gun. I’d seen bullet wounds up close and personal before—the image seared into my brain forever, along with my father’s glazed, unseeing