The Inner Circle

damn warning. Just like her father.

On my left, Dallas looks down at his chest, where the blood puddle has blossomed, soaking his shirt. His legs sway, beginning to buckle.

Wasting no time, Palmiotti turns his gun toward me. I see the blackness of the barrel. I wait for him to make some final threat, but it doesn’t come. “My apologies, Beecher,” he says as he pulls the trigger and-

Ftttt.

The air twists with a brutal hiss.

Palmiotti doesn’t notice. Not until he looks down and spots the singed black hole, like a cigarette burn, that smolders in his forearm. A thin drip of blood begins to run down.

It’s not like the movies. There’s no wisp of smoke twirling from the barrel. There’s just Clementine. And her gun.

She saved me.

Palmiotti stands there, stunned. His gun drops from his hand, bounces along the floor, and makes a dull thud near Dallas’s feet.

Dallas can barely stand, but he knows this is his chance. His last chance. He spots Palmiotti’s gun.

But before Dallas can even bend for it, he grabs his own chest. He’s bleeding bad. His legs buckle and he crumples, empty-handed, to the dusty floor.

“I’m leaving now,” Clementine says, keeping her gun on Palmiotti and once again tightening her finger around the trigger. “You can hand me that file now, please.”

107

'Dallas…! ” I yell, sliding on my knees and trying to catch him as he falls forward.

I’m not nearly fast enough. I grab his waist, but his face knocks with a scary thud against the concrete.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clementine holding her gun inches from Palmiotti’s face. Without a word, she plucks the file from his grip.

“Dallas, can you hear me!?” I call out, rolling him on his back.

“I–I didn’t know, Beecher…” Dallas stutters, holding his chest, his eyes hopping back and forth, unable to focus. “I swear I didn’t know…”

“Dallas, listen-”

“You shoot him back!” Dallas interrupts, reaching out and pointing to Palmiotti’s gun. He wriggles-and reaches all the way out, finally grabbing it.

Next to us, Palmiotti’s bent over, dealing with his own pain and putting maximum pressure on the bullet wound in his arm.

Dallas fights hard to shove the gun in my hand, but his movement’s too jerky. The gun bounces off my wrist, crashing to the ground.

I pick it up just as Clementine races at us.

Clementine stops. Her ginger brown eyes lock with my own. She has no idea what I’m thinking. No idea if I’m capable of picking this gun up and shooting her with it. But whatever she sees in my eyes, she knows she has no chance of making it all the way to the front entrance of the cave-all the way down the long well-populated main cavern-without us screaming murder. Switching directions, and not seeming the least bit worried, she tucks the file in the back of her pants and takes off deeper into the cave.

In my lap, Dallas is barely moving. Barely fighting. “Beecher, why can’t I see in my left eye? ” he cries, his voice crashing.

As the blood seeps out beneath him, I know there’s only one thing he needs.

A doctor.

“You need to help him,” I say, raising my gun and pointing it toward Palmiotti.

But Palmiotti’s gone. He’s already racing to the back of the cave, chasing after Clementine.

“Palmiotti, do not leave him!” I yell.

“She has the file, Beecher! Even you don’t want her having that on the President!”

“Get back here…!” I insist.

There’s a quick drumroll of footsteps.

Palmiotti-and Clementine-are long gone.

108

Dallas’s head is in my lap. He struggles to sit up. He can’t.

“D-Don’t you dare sit here and nurse me,” he hisses, his breathing quick, but not out of control. “What Palmiotti did to us… you take that, Beecher!” He motions to Palmiotti’s gun. “You take that and do what’s right!”

Behind me, I still hear the echo of Palmiotti chasing after Clementine. I watch Dallas’s chest rise and fall, making sure he’s taking full breaths.

“Beecher, y-you need to do what’s right,” Dallas begs.

But as he fights to get the words out, the only thing I hear is Tot’s voice in my head. Two days ago, he said that history is a selection process-that it chooses moments and events, and even people-that it hands them a situation that they shouldn’t be able to overcome, and that it’s in those moments, in that fight, that people find out who they are. It was a good speech. And for two days now, I’ve assumed history had chosen me.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

History doesn’t choose individual people.

History chooses everyone. Every day.

The only question is: How long will you ignore the call?

I’ve been waiting for Tot… for Dallas… for the Culper Ring… for just about anyone to save me. But there’s only one person who can do that.

“I got it,” I tell him.

Holding Palmiotti’s gun, and still thinking about what Clementine said about my dad, I glance to my right. On the wall, there’s a small red fire alarm built into the rock. I hop to my feet and jab my elbow into the glass. The alarm screams, sending a high-pitched howl swirling through the cave.

That should bring Dallas the help he needs far faster than anything I can do. But as I check to make sure he’s still conscious…

“I’m fine…” Dallas whispers, drowned out by the alarm. “I’m fine. Go…”

Far behind us, there’s a low rumble as hundreds of employees follow their protocol and pour into the cave’s main artery, ready to evacuate. I barely hear it-especially as my own heartbeat pulses in my ears.

This isn’t history.

But it is my life. And my father’s. What she said…

I need to know.

Running full speed with a gun in my hand, I turn the corner and head deeper into the cave.

Clementine’s out there. So is Palmiotti.

I know they’re waiting for me.

But they have no idea what’s coming.

109