Family Secret

Chapter 32

The clock on the mantel read 9:30 p.m. in weak green digits. The house settled into sleep around them — the soft hum of pipes, a lone gear clicking from some distant rooftop clock, the neighbor’s shutters closing like a slow breath. Ryan and Kyan moved like ghosts.

They had changed into dark clothes: Nate’s old gray sweatshirt for Ryan, a too-big black hoodie for Kyan, sleeves rolled down to hide small hands. Kyan grabbed a stub of black oil pastel from the art box and drew two solemn stripes under each eye like a tiny soldier, then looked up at Ryan with grave determination. “Let’s go save Daddy,” she said, voice fierce and small. There was no giggle in it this time.

Ryan’s heart jolted in his chest. He wanted to argue — to insist they weren’t allowed to do this — but the memory of Kyan’s vision sat between his ribs like a coiled thing. He slipped his feet into sneakers, pressed his palms flat against the doorway to steady himself, and opened it.

The hallway was empty, the landing light dim. He tried, reflexively, to reach for Alexia’s thoughts — a quick check to see if she’d actually left — but the thread that usually came easily to him didn’t feel right. He felt for a moment like he’d put his hand into water and found a stone. "She’s not here," he said out loud, a whisper that stunned him with its simplicity.

Kyan bounced on the balls of her feet. “Ninja time,” she whispered.

They eased the back door open, which sighed like a tired machine. The cool night air smelled of steam and coal and something sweet — caramelized sugar from the late-night vendors on the far side of town. They slipped into the shadowed alley behind the townhouse, the cobbles muffled by freelance rugs and a discarded tarp.

For the next hour they moved in a small, careful choreography: stay in the gutters, duck behind stacked crates, sprint between pools of lamplight. The city at night was a different animal — quieter, more dangerous. Steam vents hissed like sleeping serpents. Brass pipes ran along building faces, and every balcony, every protruding sign cast a blade of shadow they used to slip between sightlines.

Their route cut through the low-rise market district: a maze of narrow lanes that smelled of fried bread and engine oil. Ryan led, ears pricked for voices. He learned to read the city in small things — where a lamplighter had left a post for repair (good for cover), which shutters were loose (could be pushed open to climb if a wall was too high), which alleys had cats (never a good idea to spook them near a patrol). Kyan hummed quietly to herself, a little comfort-song that made Ryan think of nights at the orphanage when they’d pretended the ceiling was sky and not a roof.

They skirted two Secret Service foot patrols. The officers moved like statues in heavy coats, boots polished to reflect the lamplight. Ryan pressed his back against a damp stone wall while Kyan flattened beside him, breath held until the boots and shadows passed. A hovering courier-drone whirred overhead — a soft mechanical buzz that made both of them freeze until it drifted by. Once, a vendor at a late stall cursed when a tray toppled; the noise sent them both into a crouch behind crates until the noise settled into the market’s usual clatter again.

At one bridge Ryan paused to let Kyan drink from a paper cup of water he’d grabbed from a sympathetic noodle-cart owner who thought they were just late kids. The bridge arched over the canal that ran like a spine through the city; brass pipes and steam risers turned the surface of the water into a shimmering mechanical mirror. In that reflected light Ryan could just make out the museum — a block of dark stone and brass, its rooftop lined with sentry turrets and venting columns. It looked like a sleeping giant.

They chose back routes where delivery shafts and service doors opened to small, forgotten yards. Ryan found a narrow ladder bolted to the side of a*****e and, with Kyan’s small legs wrapped around his waist, scrambled up to a low rooftop. From there they could cross a short row of corrugated roofs and drop behind the service entrance of a theater — a place with a loading ramp that led them closer to the museum’s rear gardens. The city’s machinery sighed below them; far away, the muffled clank of a tram stayed on its rails.

As they came within sight of the museum’s perimeter, the air changed: it felt thicker, like electricity before a storm. A warbling horn sounded somewhere beyond the museum’s high walls — a sound Ryan had heard in the cartoons when trouble was about to happen, and it made his stomach drop.

They crept up behind a derelict gardener’s shed and peered between two cracked boards. In the square beyond, the museum’s night lights blinked off and on as if someone was fumbling with the switches. Figures moved by the entrance, shadows within shadows. A low, distant pop echoed — then another. The sound of metal, the staccato of the first shots, rolled like distant thunder.

Ryan felt Kyan’s small hand go ice-cold in his. She mouthed the words again, but not like the childish song; this time it was a prayer disguised as a command. “We have to go.”

He tightened his grip on her hand until his knuckles hurt. They had made it this far. Behind the stone and iron of the museum, men and women were already fighting. Nate was in there somewhere. Their father. The world narrowed to that terrible, bright fact.

Ryan climbed down from the shed and stepped into the narrow gap between two hedges that hid the service dock. Every footstep felt too loud. Every breath was counted.

The square, from their vantage, was a scatter of motion and light. A flare went up and painted the courtyard silver. Someone shouted orders. A shape in dark armor ducked behind a bronze statue. A guard’s alarm bell began to clatter.

And then came the flash — a muzzle-blast, starker in the night than any sound they’d heard. Ryan’s hands clenched. He was small, but his mind was clear and fast with plans. He would get them inside. He would find a way to reach Nate. They were two children in a city full of soldiers, but they had something sharper than most: they had time enough and a recklessness born of nothing left to lose.

Kyan pressed her forehead to his shoulder and whispered in a voice that trembled but was steady in its resolve, “Hurry.”

They slipped from shadow to shadow, two black shapes threading into the teeth of the night, toward the museum and the gunfire that marked the place where Kyan’s vision had ended. The city closed around them like the throat of a beast — and they moved on, because there was no other thing they could do.

The museum loomed darker up close, its ironwork doors cracked open, one hinge bent as though forced. Ryan and Kyan slipped through the side service door, the air inside sharp with dust and smoke. The grand galleries were cavernous, ceilings arched high with glass panes that shone faintly under the city glow. Statues loomed like silent sentinels, shadows stretching across polished floors.

Gunfire rattled, sharp and close. Shouts followed.

Ryan tugged Kyan down behind a toppled display case. Peering over, he spotted Nate crouched behind a marble pillar, his sidearm gripped tight. Two other agents flanked him — one sandy-haired man with sharp eyes, the other a tall woman with pale skin and dark hair pulled back. Ryan didn’t know them, but he could read the danger in their movements: pressed in, pinned down, their fire answering volley after volley.

The Resistance soldiers were everywhere, half-hidden behind shattered pedestals and barricades of broken glass. One tossed a smoke canister; gray fog curled across the floor. Another vaulted behind a statue, rifle trained on Nate’s team.

Kyan’s small fingers gripped Ryan’s sleeve. “They’re losing,” she whispered.

Ryan’s heart pounded in his throat. He swung his backpack off his shoulders, unzipping with clumsy urgency. From inside he pulled out two worn slingshots — their secret weapons from afternoons of target practice in the park — and a canvas pouch that jingled softly. Marbles. Dozens of them, all colors, sharp and heavy enough to sting.

He pressed one slingshot into Kyan’s hand. “Aim for the bad men. Don’t stop moving. Understand?”

Her face went pale, but she nodded. Her little chin lifted, stripes still smudged under her eyes. “Got it.”

They rose together. From behind their cover, two thin silhouettes against the chaos, they let fly.

Snap—crack! A marble whizzed through the smoke and smacked against a rifle barrel with a metallic ping. The gunman cursed, jerking sideways. Another marble shattered against a soldier’s goggles; he staggered back with a shout, clawing at his face.

Kyan bit her lip, pulled back, released. Tink! The marble bounced off a helmet and sent the man stumbling into cover. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She loaded again, determination set.

The sudden, strange barrage confused the Resistance fighters. Cries of “What the hell was that?” broke their rhythm. Their formation stuttered, their focus cracked. In those precious seconds, Nate and his agents surged forward, gunfire sharp and precise. Two enemies fell. Another dropped his weapon and bolted.

Ryan and Kyan fired again and again, their arms aching but their hearts racing with adrenaline. Every marble that clattered across the floor became a tiny explosion of distraction. Nate’s team took advantage, moving with renewed momentum. The tide shifted; for the first time, it looked like they might win.

Ryan paused to reload, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. That’s when something flickered at the edge of his vision.

High above, in the lattice of the glass ceiling, a shadow crouched. Metal glinted. Ryan’s stomach dropped.

A sniper.

The barrel of a long rifle pressed against the glass pane, scope steady, lined up perfectly. Not at the man. Not at the woman. Directly at Nate.

Ryan’s throat went dry.

“Ky—” he started, but the word caught.

The rifle’s scope gleamed red in the dark, locked onto Nate’s heart.