I needed to get out of Peter's grip, and I had no plan on finding out what Ramos had planned for me. I lost track of whether I was one or two doors down from Clemons, maybe my screams would bring him down to me, but I had Peter to deal with.

Well, time for Plan Z.

I quickly studied the room's layout. I was in some sort of reception hall of a large office. Two couches propped to the right, a rectangular coffee table stood at knee-height, bookshelves on the opposite side filled with new and old leather-bound books, a semi-circular desk that I assumed belonged to the secretary, and behind that was a glass door leading to the main office. I saw more bookshelves behind the glass, a large oak desk, a Mac computer on top, a bunch of picture frames, and one of those cute, little environmental-friendly pencil cups and file sorters. A golden Maneki-Neko cat figurine, with its arms swinging back and forth as if beckoning at me, sat next to the computer. A thin placard sat in the middle, which said: GOV. ADAM GAFFNEY.

I was in the governor's main office, but there was no sign of him; Peter and I were alone.

The next thing I looked for was weapons I could use. Aside from the ones Peter carried, I couldn't possibly wrestle it off him without him firing the first shot (with the gun the only thing I could probably grab, albeit a slim chance). The only ones nearest to me were my fist. I eyed the full-length wall mirror, and if I managed to break them, I could use the shards as a knife, but I would end up cutting my hand.

There got to be something better.

Think, Bren. Think.

Then I saw the scissors sitting at the edge of the secretary's table. If I got Peter off of me, I only had to roll over and grab it. I also saw the Kodiak bear figurine sitting on the coffee table, looking durable to render Peter incapable if I smashed it over his head. I saw the books on the shelves, some leather-bound, hardcover, a hard weapon to beat him with. There was a half-eaten noodle cup sitting on the secretary's table, a plastic fork inside it. There was also the paper trimmer, with its guillotine halfway up. I could pull that off and use it as a machete. I could use the pencils to stab him with, use the lamp as a hammer, smash the computer screen over him, maybe wrap the HDMI cord around his neck, perhaps even throw that cactus pot sitting at the far side of the room. That gotta sting.

I surveyed all the objects around me in a couple of seconds. I turned my gaze back to Peter, who had just gotten off the line with Ramos with a static click.

"Captain's on his way," he said. Peter gave a little shrug, and he changed the radio dial to another channel. "Now, for the cherry on top..."

I frowned, not knowing what he had planned. I could still feel the barrel of his pistol at my side.

"Haskell. Do you copy?" Peter called out, a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Copy. What's your status?" Haskell replied a second later.

"Badger still with you?" Peter asked.

"Yes. Over."

"Stay alert. Let him know we have the intruder pinned down in 507."

"How many?"

"One."

"Is it him?"

"Copy."

A pause. I could imagine Haskell mulling the information. I kicked his ass, making him look like a total bitch in the woods, so I reckoned he also wanted payback. It seemed I had been attracting a lot of those companies lately. Perhaps, I got to start making a list of the people I pissed off. Maybe it would be good for my health.

It didn't take long until Haskell replied. "Alright. I'll let him know. Over and out."

Peter turned to look at me, then said, "Well. It seems like the party's getting started, baby."

"I'm not your baby," I spat.

"You liked it when I called you that before."

"That was before."

"Well, this can be a new chapter between you and me."

"This ain't a YouTube apology video."

"Aw, don't be like that, Watts. Can't we reminisce on the good ole times?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little?"

"I gotta say, I mostly blocked them off my memory. Bad for my health if I linger on it too long, you know? I mean, especially when you're in the picture."

I could stall him long enough for him to drop his guard, and maybe I could find the opportunity to strike him and perhaps dive for the gun. It could work. I just had to keep him talking, prod him, jabbed him.

"Come on. It ain't that bad. We had our share of fun," Peter said.

"Last time I remember was you ghosting me when things got complicated."

"The past is the past."

"Excuse me? The past is the past? You know what, fuck you."

Peter's smile grew wider. "Yeah? You want that, don't you? Like the good old times, eh? See, I know what you want, Watts. I always do. I know who you are from the inside and out. Now, calm yourself. The party's coming, right?"

I swallowed—time for a new tactic. "Your parents sent you to a conversion camp, is that it? One that masquerades as a military school?"

Peter's smile faltered.

I continued, "Must be rough living there, trapped and alone. Bible studies and what, straight war games and a side dish of torture porn, or whatever the fuck they do down there."

"You have no idea," Peter said, gritting his teeth. He leaned over, his breath tickling against my ear, and added, "Be quiet. They're going to be here soon."

I had no intention of keeping my mouth shut. "And despite everything they pulled at you, you still found your true self, found the rainbow bridge, and huzzah, finally enjoyed gay sex rather than blue-balling the other person while you're the only one who can have an orgasm like the good ole times. Well, good for you, bud. Should I give you a medal? Congratulate you? Pity you at the same time?"

Peter glared at me.

I let out a soft chuckle. "Wow, Peter. Frankly, I don't buy your bullshit of finding yourself and all that crap, or whatever makes you sleep better at night, pretending to be this New You. You may be proud, accepting who you are now, but that does not erase the months you put me through hell. Maybe I just haven't realized until today that I am fucking around with a raging asshole. I was young and stupid, and perhaps I romanticized what we have, thinking I got to let you be, told myself you are in your own journey, and so I should give you some space. Sue me. I never had that kind of relationship before, no matter how small it was. Then, I realize you don't have to gaslight me."

I raised my head (which was the only thing I could move at this position), leaning closer toward him. "Statistically speaking, half of the relationships are toxic. Between us, maybe that's you all along, but you blamed me for all of it, the video, the scandal, the bullying. You blamed me, our relationship, for destroying your family and making you an outcast in school, and that I seduced you, that I made you gay. You made me feel like shit. You ghosted me when I needed you most. You made me think it was all my fault, that I drove your family away from you, and that the problem was all me."

Peter was about to say something, but I cut him off. "But guess what, Peter? This is not like the good ole times anymore. You have no idea what I want and who I am."

I suddenly looked over his shoulder, staring at the door at the far side of the room (which led to the hallway). Peter turned around, following my gaze.

That's the time I struck.

I grabbed Peter's arm that had the gun, pushing it to the side. His finger instinctively squeezed the trigger, and the gun fired, blasting a hole on the floor. I winced, thinking it would bring every soldier who heard the shot to our location, and they weren't far behind. My other hand curled into a fist, and as he turned around to face me, eyes stunned, I punched his throat.

Reflexes kicked in, and Peter's flight-or-fight soon followed. As I calculated, he dropped his radio, brought his hand over his throat to protect it. I feigned another lunge for his face with my fist, and he reeled back, getting off of me.

I smiled. With him halfway up and with my legs now free from his weight, I brought my right knee close to my stomach, and like a battering ram, I kicked him right on the chest. Peter staggered back, still clutching his throat. His ankles hit the glass coffee table behind him, stumbled, and went down, smashing the glass into pieces.

I rolled toward the secretary's table and grabbed the table lamp, pulling off the shades to reveal the fluorescent bulb and the pipe. Peter got up quicker than I thought, but he lost his pistol somewhere during his fall. I swung the lamp at Peter like a club, but he dodged it with a quick duck and brought a fist to my stomach.

I crumpled, brought my right arm to block his other fist, but his hands clasped around my jacket, and the next thing I knew, he swept me off my feet, throwing me against the bookshelves. White spots flooded my vision, felt my entire body clamped, and went rigid with pain. I wanted to scream and howl as I slumped onto the ground, the books knocked out from the force falling all on top of me. For a second or two, all I wanted was to stay on that floor, letting the pain subside.

From the corner of my eye, Peter stalked toward me, hell-bent with fury.

I tried to grab something to block his blows, and instead, I found a hardcover book. He took his knife out of its leather sheathe, roared as he brought the blade down over my head. I raised the book over just in time, the knife piercing it where my shoulder used to be. His hands were still on the blade's hilt. I threw the book to the side, yanking the blade away from his grip. I didn't give him a chance to strike me as I rolled over to my right, avoiding his kick.

I summoned up every will I had in me, grabbed another hardcover book lying on the floor, and whirled around to face Peter. This time, I was fortunate enough to catch a break. The book smashed his face, hopefully knocking a tooth out of him, and he staggered back against the bookshelves. I hit him repeatedly with the book, mustering all the strength I had left, and put it all on my arms, beating him with it until all Peter could do bring his arms up to protect his head from each blow. I brought him down to his knees.

Peter slumped onto the ground, heaving, curling up like a fetus.

I stopped, trying to catch my breath. I glanced at the window, thinking that maybe I could make it to Clemons's office before Ramos arrived. Clemons had got to be only one or two offices down by now, but my mind was still ringing, and I had no clue how far he was. If I was back out on the ledge, I wasn't confident I would make it after fighting Peter. I was already winded.

Peter stirred on the floor.

"You..." I panted, still trying to catch my breath. "You stay down there. Don't move."

"A book, Watts? Really?" Peter seethed. "A fucking book?"

"Sturdy," I said, the only word I could muster between breaths.

"No one beats someone with a book!"

I looked at the book in my hand, a hardcover copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Some of the pages had been ripped and torn, mostly my fault. I gave Peter a small shrug, then said, "Hey, it still hurts, right?"

Peter only let out a muffled groan.

"See? I rest my case," I said.

I tried to walk to the window, but pain gripped my sides where Peter had punched me. I winced.

Just then, the doors opened, and three armed men stormed in. I quickly raised my hand. I was outgunned, outmanned, and no space for cover, standing out in the open and too late to run for the office doors. They'd have the first shot, and I wouldn't be able to dodge their bullets.

I caught a glimpse of Captain Ramos for the first time up-close. I was surprised to find him a lot older than Peter, maybe by two or three years, though he had that prominent scar running on his upper right lip. He had short-cropped blond hair, blue eyes that looked like the size of an owl's, but I could feel shadows dancing behind his gaze. He was leaned and muscled, his skin tanned by being under the sun too much. He carried his shoulders with ease, his rifle an extension of himself as he told me to freeze, and the way he entered the room showed a hunger over a prey caught in a trap. I realized that he was savoring this, and he did not look concerned that Peter was on the ground. I only saw him glanced once at his fallen comrade, but nothing more.

"You," Captain Ramos said. "I imagined you to be taller or more...muscular."

I looked around warily, tried to hold my tongue, but I couldn't help myself. "I imagined you to be uglier." I paused, looking him up and down. "Turns out I was right."

Ramos sneered, and I didn't even feel it until a second later when the bullet went through my leg.

I screamed, my knees buckled, and I fell to the floor, clutching my bleeding leg. I didn't know if the bullet hit the major arteries, but I saw that it wasn't bleeding too badly. I hoped that the round went through clean. I leaned my back against the wall, glaring at Ramos stalking toward me. The other two soldiers behind him exchanged puzzled looks. I wanted to call for their help and wanted them to intervene, but I had a feeling they would not do anything about it.

Ramos kept his eyes on me. "You killed Lampp."

"He went after a kid."

"He was a good guy."

"He went after a kid," I repeated.

Ramos huffed. He rolled back his combat uniform's jacket's right sleeve, showing his lower arm bandaged up. "That fucking kid slashed my arm."

I almost laugh, but it hurt too much. I kept both my hands over my wound. "Serves you right."

Ramos pointed at my wound. "Does that hurt?"

I scowled, then said, "Give me that gun of yours, and you'll find out."

Ramos snorted, but he didn't say another retort. He watched me struggled, trying to stop my bleeding. It wasn't working. I needed bandages, hell, I needed to go to a hospital. Now.

"You gonna shoot me? Or are you going to eye-fuck me all day?" I asked.

"We're gonna patch you up," Ramos said, surprising me, and I couldn't hide my expression in time. He took another step forward, crouching down in front of me. "And then, I am going to ask you questions—"

"You mean an interrogation."

"Yes. We're going to find the rest of your men. You see, you are trespassing through the Albany Quarantine Zone without authorization, no health checks, or going through the proper channels to clear you of infection. That's a no-no. You're a safety risk against the entire QZ."

I huffed, said, "But prostitution gets a free pass, right? Hypocrite."

Ramos's gaze darkened. "You're a funny man."

"Yeah. I'm a comedian. My one-act is making an ass of yourself." I tried to move my leg, but a shot of pain crawled up my spine. "Ow! Fuck!" I cursed.

Ramos smiled, making it obvious how much he enjoyed watching me suffer. "Bring him to the Med," Ramos barked to the other soldiers. "Go slow if you have to; let him feel the pain. Just make sure to keep him alive on the way there. Remember, he killed one of our own. He deserves it."

I didn't hear the other two soldiers moving toward us, and Ramos noticed it, too. He whirled around, shouting, "Didn't you hear what I just said—" but then, his voice choked, and a startled gasp escaped his lips. Ramos quickly stood up in attention.

I followed his gaze to the entrance, and there, Lieutenant General Dean Clemons stood, hair of flaming red, eyes piercing with control, striding into the room as if no man could hurt him. I almost let out a sob; the pain was getting to me.

Clemons surveyed the mess around the room, glancing at Ramos and Peter before his eyes found mine. They went wide.

I managed a smile. "Hi, uncle. Long time no see."

The first thing I noticed was Ramos going rigid, stunned as his gaze flicked from Clemons to me. He did not know we were acquainted, or if he did learn it from Peter, he wasn't told we were close like family. The second thing I noticed was Peter's expression as he clamored up to his feet with a suppressed smile. I realized Peter had set Ramos up, stolen Ramos's toy (me) right under his nose. Ramos's confusion turned into anger, but it wasn't addressed to me—It was for Peter.

The two men did not get along. Interesting.

"Brendan?" Clemons sputtered. "My God! What...how?" He strode toward me and halted on his tracks, now noticing the wound on my leg. "Who shot him?"

No one answered.

Or, maybe I didn't hear it. Suddenly, my vision became blurry; a hissing sound rang right behind my ear. I looked up, and Clemons was already on his knees in front of me, trying to stop the bleeding with his combat uniform's jacket, pressing it hard against my wound. His lips were moving, but no voice came out. The other two soldiers that came in with Ramos now surrounded me. They were helping me up to my feet, dragging me across the floor.

Another shot of pain, like barbed wire, coiling around my leg, and I screamed. More white dots flooded my periphery, found myself tilting to the side.

I was out cold before my head hit the ground.