The Conspiracy of Us (The Conspiracy of Us 1)

It only took a few seconds to realize we were being chased.

Jack cut off a truck. The bike wobbled, and I slid precariously on the seat. I dug my fingers into Jack’s chest and he grabbed my leg, fighting to keep me upright. I gripped the bike hard with my knees, and when we balanced again, he sped back up. The wind whipped so hard in my face that I buried it in the hollow between his shoulder blades. I could feel his frantic heartbeat against my cheek and under my palms at the same time as he sped around a traffic circle, flaunting the rules of the elaborate dance by cutting across all five lanes only to fly back out the way we’d come in. Behind us, a screech and a crunch, and, when I glanced back, a pileup of cars.

The car following us careened around the wreck.

Jack drove up onto a sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, then turned into a dark alley. The cobblestones under us shook the bike so hard, my teeth chattered together, and then we were flying onto another street where two sleek white trams were going in opposite directions. Jack gunned the bike, and we flew straight toward them.

“Jack,” I said. No. He couldn’t be trying this. This was suicide. My fingers bunched in his shirt. “Jack!”

At the very last second, we shot between the trams, close enough for me to lock eyes with one of the conductors. Then we were out the other side and the trams formed a barrier.

Jack ground the bike to a stop in an alley. We jumped off, and I swept strands of my ponytail out of my mouth as we ducked through a low doorway, emerging in another world of color and sound and—I choked—smell.

It was a market, a huge one, with low, arched ceilings over stalls selling scarves and rugs and gold and silver trinkets and mounds of colorful spices all wedged into a space that seemed too small to hold them.

Even though it was late, hundreds of people still browsed and bargained. Two shopkeepers sitting cross-legged on the floor of their booth under hundreds of colored lanterns glanced up from their tea as we passed, Jack helping me limp as fast as I could.

Down a narrow side aisle, I saw the source of the smell. Dead fish hung all along the back of a stall.

Jack dragged me toward the fish and I gagged, but it was the only deserted stall around. We ducked in and crouched behind the sales counter, and I inspected my leg again. The bleeding hadn’t slowed at all, and my tissue was soaked through, my leg slippery with blood.

“We’ve got to elevate it and keep pressure on it,” Jack whispered. “Here.”

He produced a knife and slit his own shirt at the waist, ripping off a long strip. He propped my leg on his knee and wrapped the shred of cloth around my thigh, tying it in a knot.

I nodded as I tried to catch my breath, incredibly aware of my bare leg balanced across his lap, and of what that was doing to my very short dress. I tucked the blazer around me as well as I could. Jack peered through the cold glass case of fish heads and innards, and I followed his gaze. “Do you see them?” I breathed.

And then I did. We’d almost been quick enough. Almost, but not quite. A group of men in turbans carrying a rolled-up rug passed the entrance to our aisle—and behind them were all four guys from Mr. Emerson’s apartment, staring right at us.

The one who seemed like the leader saw me and grinned. I jumped up. My leg screamed as we dashed out the back of the stall, parting the—thankfully dried—fish like the bead curtains I had on my closet door when I was thirteen.

Footsteps pounded behind us, but at least they weren’t shooting. Yet.

Jack grabbed my hand. We raced around a corner, and my heart sank. Dead end. I wheeled around, but it was too late. The leader came into view not ten feet away. This close, I could tell he wasn’t too much older than us. He had short, spiky dreads and cinnamoncolored skin, and a dark scar bisected his face from below one eye to his chin. When he saw us, a lopsided grin curved the scar into a grotesque dimple.

Jack yanked me behind him and pulled the gun from his jacket.

The redhead and the other two followed Scarface, guns drawn.

“Give us whatever you bloody kids took from that safe,” Scarface said.

Frantically, I searched for something, anything that would give us a few seconds. Shooting in this crowded place would be a disaster. If we could just get out of their line of sight, we could disappear. This place was a maze.

The shopkeeper at the next stall stood plastered against a rack of jars, his eyes wide. Steps away from him, I saw it. His stall had a rickety wooden roof, held up by poles tied to the ground. If I timed it right, and if I could get the Order guys under it, I could crash the roof on them and we’d get those seconds.

“Give me the note,” I whispered to Jack.

“We can’t let them have it,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I have a plan.” I pulled him to the side so the stall was between us and the Order.

“You’d better be right,” Jack murmured. “Inside left jacket pocket.”

I reached around him and stuck my hand in his pocket, feeling around until I found the scrap of paper. He kept the gun trained on the men as I pretended to trip and grabbed the support rope.

“Okay,” I said, holding out the note and letting my voice waver like I was afraid they’d shoot us. I nudged Jack, gesturing for him to lower the gun. “Here. Take it.”

All four of them darted toward us, and when they were a couple of yards away, I yanked the cord. The stall trembled—and as the redhead reached toward me, its entire top collapsed. His fingers grazed my arm as I jumped out of the way.

What I hadn’t realized was that the top of the stall was more than a roof. It was a spice stall, and the top must have been used for extra storage. Bags full of spices tilted and tipped, and finally fell. Red and yellow and cinnamon brown and saffron orange rained down in fragrant cascades. I sneezed once, twice, three times, trying to keep a hold on Jack’s back, wiping at my eyes with my other hand.

In the second it took for the men to realize what had happened, we were sprinting down the next aisle, and my heart leapt in triumph.

We didn’t try to outrun them this time. Jack ducked into the tiny bit of space between two tentlike shops and pulled me after him, yanking the fabric closed to cover our tracks. We fought off the rippling white canvas, staining it orange and yellow and red on our way to the center of the bazaar.

Finally Jack stopped, so suddenly that I slammed into him.

“Do you think they’re—” I started, but he put a finger to his lips and cocked his head to the side. The fabric billowed into us from both sides, and I clamped my mouth shut.