The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open.

  Bernardo was waiting for them in the garage.

  No. It’d been a hallucination. Bernardo wasn’t there.

  The only greeting they received was a slap of icy air filled with snowflakes and a bone-chilling howl. The blizzard outside crept into the garage through the ventilation duct, sounding eerily like the cry of a woman. A mother’s dying wail, Lucy thought.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  The garage was a massive concrete box. The light from the lamps was faint, leaving much of the space in shadows. The heater was turned up to full blast according to the panel next to the elevator, but the warm air blowing from the vents above felt just as inadequate as the lighting.

  A few vehicles were scattered around—a mix of trucks and tractors, their wheels wrapped in snow chains or outfitted with treads. At first glance, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  The exit gate, which also served as the entrance, loomed about fifty yards ahead. It was a wide metal door with a thin gap at the top where the frigid wind slipped in, carrying a dusting of snow with it. Beside it stood another door—the back entrance to a guardhouse facing outward.

  Lucy knew that, even if she couldn’t see them, there were probably one or two guards bundled up to their ears inside that guardhouse, watching the frost spirals the wind was sketching outside. She crossed her fingers, hoping they were cold and too focused on the boring landscape to step out—at least long enough for her to hide Broga in the car.

  She mentally traced the path she’d have to take once she got through that gate. She just prayed the route would be clear and that no snowstorms were in the forecast. Otherwise, the moment she opened the gate with the remote, the guards might try to stop her, warning her not to go out, and she’d lose precious time trying to convince them to let her leave.

  She made sure Broga was well wrapped in the blanket and, taking his hand, led him with her as they ducked between two tractors.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  The boy stared at her with wide eyes. He didn’t speak, but it was obvious he was scared. He was trembling, pale, and his lips had darkened. The wind had tousled the hair that the blanket didn’t cover, leaving snowflakes clinging to him. Damn it. It was freezing! Lucy was so nervous and scared that she felt little of it, but her cheeks were starting to frost over, and her hands were so cold her fingers hardly moved.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me,” she told Broga, though the boy seemed more interested in watching his breath condense in the air. That simple natural equation of water vapor had him mesmerized. Such innocence!

  “There will not be another Major Surgery!” Lucy swore.

  She glanced back. The elevator doors were still open, which meant no one had called it yet.

  Still holding the boy’s hand, she crouched and moved between the few vehicles until she reached her car—a gray sedan parked next to Bernardo’s.

  Bernardo! Was it possible he had already noticed she was gone? She needed to move fast. If she didn’t…

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud… Her heart felt like it was about to explode.

  The door to the guardhouse was still shut.

  Oh, Lucy, what have you gotten yourself into? Those guards are armed and ready to shoot any intruder… or any traitor.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  Something cold and wet touched her lips. Her nose was running. She noticed Broga was congested too. The poor boy’s nose was dripping, his cheeks were red from the biting cold, and the rest of his skin was as white as his pajamas. They had to get inside the car before one of them sneezed. A sneeze in a massive concrete box would echo like an explosion.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  She popped the trunk and struggled to lift Broga inside. The boy wasn’t heavy, but she was weak. Her arms felt useless. Her hands didn’t just tremble—they shook violently. “Haven’t you ever picked up a child? You’ll never be a good mother if you don’t know how to do this.”

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  “Come on. Help me out here, will you?” she whispered.

  Broga understood what she needed and, placing his feet on the car’s bumper, climbed into the trunk himself.

  Lucy rewarded him with a nervous smile, which he returned.

  “Don’t take off the blanket,” she warned. She lowered the trunk lid but didn’t shut it completely. The next step of her plan could take a few minutes, and she didn’t want the boy trapped in the dark for too long—she feared he’d panic and scream.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  Her throat began to itch. The cold felt like an invisible grip squeezing her neck. She wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand, pulled a device out of her pocket, and turned it on. The screen lit up with a green glow.

  “What’s that?” Broga asked curiously, peeking over the edge of the trunk.

  Lucy motioned for silence.

  “What’s that?” the boy repeated, this time in a softer voice.

  “A cloaking de-device. A friend of-of mine invented it,” Lucy stammered, unsure whether it was from the cold or the fear.

  As she waited for the device to activate, she glanced toward the exit. The guardhouse door remained closed; no guards had stepped out. She should have looked over her shoulder—toward the elevator.

  On the device’s screen, a radar image appeared, followed by a blinking red light and a series of numerical codes. “Hurry up, damn it! Faster!” Lucy’s legs twitched as if she were about to sprint. The cold and fear were overwhelming. How long would it take that infernal machine to decode and override the garage’s electronic systems?

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  “Cloaking de-device?” Broga mumbled.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lucy hurried to answer before he could speak again. “It’s a gift for you, y’know? It’ll make you invisible so the bad men won’t be able to see you.”

  The screen on the device flashed a notification: Infrared detectors neutralized. Protection area: ten-point-eight square feet.

  “Here,” Lucy said, handing the device to Broga and asking him to wrap it in his hands—she could barely feel her own. “Hold it tight, okay? Don’t drop it, because it might break. Got it?”

  Broga nodded.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  Now she could leave the lab without setting off alarms. The car would roll past the guard post, and the soldiers would see nothing more than Dr. Templeton behind the wheel. The infrared scanners scanning the vehicle before it exited would register a single occupant: her. The stowaway in the trunk? To the sensors, Broga would be nothing more than luggage—a bundle in the back.

  Thud, thud… Thud, thud…

  “Are we going to get Brun with this?” Broga asked, shaking the device curiously.

  Lucy grabbed his wrist to stop him. “Yeah, yeah,” she lied, and with a trembling finger to her lips, she asked him to stay quiet. Then she gave him a knowing look and a reassuring wink; she was about to close the trunk, leaving him in the dark for a moment, and she didn’t want him to panic.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The voice behind her stabbed her heart with terror.

  The wind howled louder.

  It was Bernardo. He’d found them.

  Her breath caught, and a chill sharper than the arctic wind pierced her chest like an icicle.

  The ground beneath Lucy seemed to vanish, as though someone had yanked the rug out from under her. Her heart, gripped by fear’s heavy hand, felt like it had stopped pumping blood. True terror had raked its claws across her, and was now ready to slice through her thin flesh.

  THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD…

  She turned. Her husband was stepping out of the elevator, his face red and twisted into an infernal grimace. He was heading straight for her, his white lab coat flaring with each furious step.

  He had busted her! How?! The elevator! When had the doors closed?!

  Bernardo had descended into the freezing garage without even a coat, his rage so intense it overpowered his common sense.

  “No…” Lucy whimpered.

  Everything unraveled in an instant—her frantic escape plan, her fleeting courage, her desperate hope that saving Broga might somehow redeem her. In that moment, Lucy realized how desperately she wanted to leave that cold, desolate place. She also realized how foolish she’d been to let things spiral this far. It had taken the loss of her fifth pregnancy and the crushing weight of despair for her maternal instincts to awaken. For once, she’d acted on her own will, defying Bernardo’s oppressive control. It was a shame that such an epiphany had come when it no longer mattered.

  THUD, THUD…

  Goodbye, freedom. Goodbye, Broga. Forgive me, Brun.

  THUD, THUD…

  Time slowed down. Lucy witnessed the moment in slow motion, as if watching it through a blurry lens, filled with tiny white specks swirling in the air; her ears were sealed by a whistle that blurred into the sound of crying.

  She saw Bernardo flailing his arms, pointing at the sedan’s trunk, shouting about the boy. And then, as if snapping out of a hypnotic trance, the wind and her rage hurled her at him. She began hitting him—his face, his chest, his arms—

  Bernardo fought back, trying to shake her off. He was yelling—no, barking—baring his teeth like the rabid dog he was. Lucy couldn’t make out his words. All she heard was her own voice, as if someone else had spoken it: “I won’t let you take the boy, you bastard! He’s mine! He’s mine!”

  Bernardo replied, maybe something like, ‘He’s not yours, you crazy bitch!’ He raised a hand and lowered it.

  Lucy realized she’d just been slapped, but she didn’t feel it—her face was too numb from the cold. The icy wind had dulled the pain. Still, the blow sent her stumbling backward, off balance. The cars, her husband, her car, the boy, the concrete walls—they all spun around her. Then the ground rose up to meet her with a rough slap.

  She watched Bernardo wrench little, helpless Broga out of the trunk. The poor boy was trembling, his face crumpling as though he were about to cry. The blue blanket Lucy had lovingly wrapped him in slipped to the ground and was whisked away by the wind.

  The cloaking device she’d given Broga! Where was it? Did the boy still have it, or had he dropped it in the trunk?

  Maybe you’re not fit to be a mother, but you can at least act like one.

  She tried to knock her husband down using the weight of her body. It didn’t work. She was so light that a headwind could’ve softened the blow. Bernardo was scrawny too, but he still overpowered her physically.

  They yelled, wrestled, clawed. Bernardo spat something about The Order and how they wouldn’t let this slide. He mentioned a medical review board and declaring her insane. He didn’t mention the betrayal she was committing, or that it would end with her tossed into a pit with a bullet in the back of her head—but some things didn’t need to be said.

  She hadn’t considered that the noise from their scuffle might have drawn the guards at the guardhouse.

  And then, all of a sudden, Bernardo’s face twisted in pain. The wrinkles carved into his skin by years and harsh weather were laid bare; his glasses slid down his hooked nose.

  In a flash, he collapsed to the ground.

  Behind him stood Dr. Rosa Tyler.

  Lucy, her hair a tangled mess and a bleeding cut on her lip she didn’t even remember getting—maybe from when she fell—looked at Rosa, and Rosa looked back at her. Both of them stood frozen in the swirling snow, wide-eyed, shaken, puffing clouds of breath into the frigid air.

  Rosa’s dark skin melted into the shadows and the poor lighting of the garage. Her broad silhouette stood out only because of the soft-pink lab coat she wore. In her trembling hands, a metal pipe still vibrated.

  “I saw you going down, and I… I followed you. Then I saw him, and I…” Rosa stammered.

  But Lucy couldn’t hear her. The adrenaline had stolen most of her senses. What did register was the way Rosa trembled. And who could blame her? They were in the parking garage, where it was freezing even with the heat on full blast, and the poor woman wasn’t wearing a coat. Lucy would’ve gladly given her own—but…

  No. There was no time for that.

  From the way Rosa was rambling, Lucy guessed she was apologizing for what she’d just done. The poor woman was in shock.

  Lucy wanted to thank her for knocking out her husband. She wanted to ask her to help with the boy standing next to the gray sedan. But no words came.

  Then she saw herself kneel before the child.

  Broga’s brown hair was tousled and dusted with snow. His eyes were red, his little nose runny, his skin worryingly purple, and he wouldn’t stop shivering.

  He was going to freeze to death.

  The blanket! Lucy remembered, searching for it. Where was it? Broga needed the blanket!

  The metal pipe she’d seen in Rosa’s hands dropped beside her, and the clang of it hitting the cement snapped her out of her daze. It wasn’t just a pipe—it was a tire iron, and one end of it was stained with blood. Bernardo’s blood. Was he dead?

  She had the urge to check on her fallen husband—but stopped herself.

  The blanket was more important. Broga needed it.

  And as if summoned by her thoughts, the blue blanket—dusted with snowflakes that shimmered like diamonds—appeared before her eyes. Rosa had picked it up and was holding it out to her. Lucy thought she thanked her, though all that came out was a rough groan from deep in her throat, which, by the way, was aching terribly.

  Shivering from the cold, Broga stretched out his tiny hands for the thermal blanket. Lucy wrapped him up in it, and he clung to it desperately, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. She rubbed his little arms to warm him and was pleasantly surprised to find that he was still holding the cloaking device in his left hand.

  He’s left-handed, she remembered, and rewarded his bravery with a smile.

  The corners of Broga’s mouth lifted slightly. Was that a grateful smile? Yes.

  A strange warmth flooded Lucy’s chest—she had just done something a real mother would do: protect her child.

  But the sound of hurried footsteps came carried by the wind—boots scraping against concrete. The guards from the guardhouse! They were coming!

  Rosa, eyes locked on the exit gate, startled and began waving her arms to get Lucy’s attention.

  Lucy took Broga by the shoulders and gave him a gentle push, hiding him between the sedan and a tractor. She didn’t have time to tell him to stay quiet, but she knew the boy was smart—he’d understand what was happening. Then she ran to join Rosa.

  Two soldiers in black polar jackets came charging in, rifles raised, shouting for them to freeze. Lucy turned to Rosa and saw her frozen in fear, hands in the air.

  They were in deep trouble.

  How much had the soldiers seen of the scuffle? Lucy had no idea. But with Bernardo lying on the ground beside them—unconscious or dead—the two women had been caught in what looked like the middle of a crime scene. And not just any crime… the possible murder of the director himself.

  If the guards hadn’t spotted Broga yet, it was only a matter of seconds.

  It was over: the escape plan, everything. They would lock her up or execute her for treason. What did it matter? Her life was already ruined. Broga would be sent back to the nursery, which was just a pretty term for a cell. The Order wouldn’t let something as trivial as the lack of a qualified neurosurgeon jeopardize years of research and mountains of money. They would operate on Broga, with or without her, with or without Bernardo, and leave him just as broken—if not worse—than his brother.

  “Hands up, Doctor! Get them up now!” one of the soldiers barked, aiming his rifle.

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through Lucy. She heard her own breath, visible as clouds of vapor in the icy air. She looked at Rosa, and Rosa looked back. Without a word, they both understood what the other was thinking.

  In that silent exchange, a new plan was born—just as desperate and reckless as the last one. With things spiraling so far out of control, there was no alternative.

  They were two, and so were the guards. The odds weren’t exactly in their favor—they were unarmed; the men were not. Disaster was inevitable.

  But among those present, there was a third figure who deserved far more than a cold operating table eager to trap them or a bleak, camouflaged cell disguised as a nursery—a little one who, for now, had gone unnoticed by the guards’ eyes.

  Neither woman would walk away unscathed, but if they rushed the men, one of them might have a chance to escape.

  Rosa, standing less than a yard from one of the guards, suddenly lunged at him, grabbing for his rifle with her large, sturdy arms. Startled, the other soldier turned to aim at her, ready to fire. Lucy threw herself at him, slapping his face just enough to throw off his aim before he pulled the trigger.

  “Lucy, run!” Rosa shouted.

  Lucy kicked the guard in the groin and turned back to where she had hidden Broga, ready to grab his hand and shove him into the car. But he was gone.

  Where had he gone?!

  Lucy craned her neck, searching among the parked vehicles, and then she saw him. Far away now, the little boy was running toward the exit gate, terrified. Wrapped in the blue blanket, he looked like a hooded gnome; his tiny feet, covered in those rubber-soled white sneakers, moving quickly.

  Then she saw Broga slipping through the door the guards had left ajar.

  ‘Don’t go in there!’ she wanted to yell, but before she could, he disappeared from view. Broga had entered the guardhouse, where a door led to the outside. If he crossed it, he would leave the building and be at the mercy of the bitter cold.

  What have you done? she berated herself. Out there, that poor child will face the polar wind. That blanket won’t keep him warm, no matter how thermal it is. You didn’t save him, Lucy—you’ve sentenced him to die of hypothermia.

  And just like that, she lost sight of him. I’m sorry, Broga.

  In the end, she hadn’t been able to act like a mother. All she’d brought was death and violence, and two little brothers had paid the price. It would have been beautiful if the boy could have lived, if she could have watched him grow. But neither would be possible now.

  Moments ago, she’d heard a gunshot. She hadn’t felt pain yet, but warmth was beginning to seep out of her stomach. She’d been shot. By whom? She didn’t know. She hadn’t seen. One of the guards, maybe? Or perhaps Bernardo—he might not have been dead, and he had clearance to carry a weapon.

  But it didn’t matter now. She had already fallen, face down on the cold concrete floor, bleeding out.

  Another shot rang out, and she knew. They had just shot Rosa.

  The only person with a heart in this forsaken place—the only one Lucy had ever called a friend, the one she had shared more with than her own husband—fell beside her. Rosa’s round face was splattered with blood and snow, her eyes wide open.

  “Rosa…” Lucy whispered through tears, asking for forgiveness.

  Broga, please, live! she begged. And as the sound of the wind howled in the distance, Lucy closed her eyes forever.