Hero (Gone 9)

“But she’s saying she can save at least a few . . . ,” Simone protested.

Dekka lost patience. She erupted in all the despair and fear and self-loathing she’d managed to suppress. “Hey, thanks for pointing that out, Simone,” she snapped savagely. “I wasn’t quite clear on it you know? I wasn’t quite clear in my head”—she stabbed a finger at her own temple, startling her living dreads—“that I was condemning some innocent people to die. Maybe children. Yeah, never even occurred to me!”

Simone bristled at first, but then sat back, abashed.

“Listen,” Dekka raged on. “If anyone else wants to take over and make the decisions, be my guest. Because I am happy to let someone else do this.?

?? She glared around, no doubt expecting an argument, but Sam saw around him only faces marked by pity.

“I’m so sorry,” Simone said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Dekka bit her lip and seemed to be heaving with every breath.

The pilot came on in their headphones. “Five minutes!”

Malik helped Francis to sit up, then stood back to let a morphed Armo lift her easily in his arms. Dekka squatted and hefted the artillery shell. “Malik, go ahead and set the timer. It can’t be as long as we were planning on for Grand Central. Make it for . . . I guess one minute. Hit it right before we go.”

Malik leaned forward and poked at the timer duct-taped to the shell.

“Sam? As soon as we jump back . . .”

“As soon as you’re clear, Dekka.”

“Francis?” Dekka asked. “Can you do this?”

Francis nodded. She was in obvious pain, held like a baby in Armo’s arms, grimacing, her voice shuddering. “I can do it.”

“Yep,” Dekka said.

“We’re passing the train,” the pilot announced.

Cruz, her forehead bandaged gruesomely, came to lay her head briefly on Armo’s bicep. “Don’t get killed.”

“You trying to tell me what to do?” Armo demanded archly.

Cruz smiled through tears. “Never.”

Malik slid the helicopter door open and was almost knocked down by the stiff wind. The noise of the rotors rose from merely deafening to overwhelming. They had run ahead of the train and come to a stable hover. The Acela raced at them like a bullet.

Armo moved Francis to the door and stood there, fur flapping, as Francis looked down. It was always better when Francis knew where she was aiming. Francis reached and took hold of Dekka’s hand.

“All right,” Dekka said to Malik. “Hit it.”

Malik leaned forward and pushed the button on the timer.

The helicopter hovered over the tracks.

The train rushed toward it.

Armo cradled Francis in his arms. Dekka held the nerve gas shell. 01:00 . . . 00:59 . . . 00:58 . . .

Sam leaned out the side door, face stretched back into a grimace by the wind, droplets of blood torn from his oozing wound.

“Ready?” Dekka’s voice was flat.

00:55 . . . 00:54 . . .

Francis nodded.