Stung by Bethany Wiggins Read Free Book Online

slam into something hard and warm. We topple to the ground, and the unpleasant smell of digesting garlic and onions tickles my nose. Rough hands grapple against my body and latch onto my hips, flinging me aside. The icy barrel of a gun finds my temple, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Instead of feeling my head explode, I hear a low, humorless chuckle.
    “Len, you always seem to be in the right place at the right time,” Micklemoore says, still chuckling. He crouches beside me, lifts my right hand, and holds out the metal box. The box lights up, a cool, soothing blue that makes my skin crawl. And when the light touches my hand, my tattoo shines through the layers of dirt and blood and makeup like a bike reflector. The box wails a warning siren.
    Micklemoore drops the box and lurches away from me faster than anyone with gray hair should be able to move. And then I can’t see anyone, because a hundred automatic weapons are pointed at every inch of my body, blocking my view.
    Like Arrin’s brother, I wait to explode.

Chapter 8
    “Bowen!” The name echoes and I flinch, expecting gunfire. “Electromagnetic wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs! Now! We got us a Ten!” Micklemoore barks.
    A moment later, a small section of guns part and a square-shouldered man fills the space. Darkness hides the features of his face, but his voice resonates deep and soft and soothing, just a tremor above a whisper. “I won’t hurt you if you hold still,” he says, kneeling beside me.
    What he doesn’t know is that I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. My whole body has turned numb with fright, right down to my lips. He leans over me and an image of a high-mountain lake settles behind my eyes. Or, more accurately, the giant pine trees that encircle the lake and sway in the wind and smell … justlike this man. I stare at him and breathe, and a temporary calm settles over me.
    “That’s it, kid. You got a name?” He lifts one of my arms and clamps something onto it, something that stretches from my wrist to just below my elbow and is cool against my skin. “I’m Bowen.” He takes my other wrist and clamps the same thing onto my forearm. I open my eyes and lift my head to look at my arms. Bowen leaps away from me, points something in my direction, and the devices on my arms hum to life and of their own will meet, like two magnets attracting each other. I try to pull my arms apart but can’t.
    Bowen kneels beside me once more and lets out a deep breath of air. “Don’t. Move.” His voice has turned hard and cold. “I will kill you if you do.” With damp, unsteady hands, he lifts my ankle and pushes the pants up around my knee, then attaches a cool metal casing around my calf and shin. He puts one on the other leg, and when it clamps into place, he scrambles away from me like I’m liable to explode at any moment. From a few feet away, he points something at me again. My legs slide together and fuse into one.
    The crowd sighs and gasps, and then some men start laughing, like they just witnessed a lion tamer caging his fiercest beast.
    “That was awesome, man,” someone says, patting Bowen on the back. “First Ten we’ve ever caught! Must be beginner’s luck.” The hundred guns disappear, replaced by the starry sky, as men move away. But not Bowen.
    “Kid, if you move I’ll release a current of electricity throughyou that’ll stop your heart before it can finish a beat. Got it?” he warns.
    I don’t dare answer. Don’t dare to move my jaw—just shift my eyes to stare at Bowen’s silhouette.
    “Unless you need to talk. Or grunt, or whatever a Ten does,” Bowen says, like he can read my mind. He leans a little closer to me, body still tense. “Can. You. Understand. What. I’m. Saying?” He overenunciates each word.
    My stomach growls. “I’m hungry,” I whisper.
    Bowen jumps at the sound of my voice, and his pale eyes catch moonlight. “Whoa. You can
talk
?” He looks from side to side, then reaches into his pants pocket.