Prototype Read Online Free Page B

Free of the main casino, I face a full hotel lobby. The men and few women disperse, willing to leave my capture to the multiple security guys behind me. The front doors have only begun to slide open on my approach when a heavy body slams into me. We crash through the window. I roll into the semicircular driveway with a scattering of glass shards. The fast-approaching
whir
of an electric car engine warns me to keep rolling across the drive. I am clear by only seconds when the squeal of tires rends the air, followed by a
thunk
as the vehicle hits the man.
    My head spins and I feel as if I have been running for miles. I cannot remember which way to the nearest public teleporter, but I have to move. Shouts warn everyone to get out of the way. They are too close.
    I roll to my knees and clamber to my feet, then take off down the street, refusing to look back. Something hot and wet oozes down the side of my face and tickles my cheek.
    I duck into the first public teleporter I find. Through the glass, I can see the mass of white-and-gold-clad casino security continue to pursue me. I use my nose to type in an untraceable code followed by the port number I no longer have a choice but to use. The security draws too close, with guns raised. Spearmint floods the booth. My body numbs and the Las Vegas Strip disappears.
    The resistance command center looks no different as I appear inside one of the ten teleporters lining the wall. Stations arranged in a semicircular pattern fill several rows of wide steps and face a cavernous room of monitors. Each station is in the shape of an elongated number three and manned by two resistance members. They stare at four video relay monitors apiece. The eight monitors per station are hooded by a shelf that gives off enough soft light to illuminate a single keyboard inlaid in a pale wooden desktop.
    I find myself frozen inside the teleporter, unable to stop the port number to downtown Polson, Montana, from filtering into my thoughts. It is not yet too late to make the choice to return where I know I am welcome. Except Peter is too old to fight for me and I bring nothing but trouble. Especially now.
    Swallowing my fear, I step out of the teleporter. People stand from their stations to face me, some speechless, others whispering to a close neighbor. Nobody welcomes me, the impostor who looks like Emma Wade.
    I approach the nearest young man who does not look as hostile as a few of the others. “Can you tell me where I can find”—asking for Noah feels like too much. I am not ready—“Foster Birmingham?”
    A man of average height steps forward and brushes the younger one aside. His hair is flaming red, cut short and spiky. His freckled face is rectangular and hard-edged. He is almost attractive, but not kind, according to the set of his jaw. Fierce green eyes take my measure, scanning me from scuffed boot to bound arms. I know I must look a sight—I can feel the tickle of hair sticking to the sides of my face and neck, not to mention the blood now dripping off my chin all over my leather jacket—but I wish he did not have to be so thorough in his assessment of my state.
    “You made a mistake coming here,” he says, squaring his shoulders and tucking his hands behind his back.
    I balk for only a moment. “Who are you?”
    “Major Clint Reid.”
    My thoughts trip on the word “major”—Emma’s old position inside the ranks of this group. There is a pulse of indignation toward this man who takes Her place.
    Still, I will try to be civil, though this man already sets my teeth on edge. “My name is—”
    “I know exactly who you are, Mrs. Burke.”
    Heat blossoms in my cheeks. No one has called me this in well over a year, and I do not like it. “That is not my name.”
    He ignores me and uses two fingers to motion for someone to come over. “Lock her up.”

CHAPTER 4
    I expected several reactions when I arrived, but locking me up was not one of them. “What?”
    Two men reach for me. I