"STICKS," REGGIE CURSED.

He bent over for Frankie to climb on his back and ran left, into another identical hallway.

"I don't know where to go," he said between short breaths.

So they kept on running, hallway after hallway, trying to keep as much distance as they could from the previous battle arena. And with every footstep Reggie took into the unknown, Frankie felt a little more hopeless.

Newt was nowhere in sight.

None of her friends were around.

There were no shouts or sounds heard, except for the sound of Reggie's feet hitting the ceramic floor, their heavy breaths, and her own heartbeats.

Then her eyes caught a pair of green double doors, one of them slightly ajar, at the dead end of a hallway.

After rows and rows of endless white, single doors, that path stood out terribly.

"Reggie, that way."

〰️

THE MASSIVE HANGAR looked like it was built to hold three of WICKED's enormous Bergs, but only two stood in their loading spots. They loomed like giant squatting frogs, all scorched metal and worn edges.

Other than a few cargo crates and what looked like mechanics' stations, the rest of the area was nothing but open space.

Minho was standing over a man, lying on the floor with a banged up head, together with Thomas, Newt, and Brenda.

When Brenda convinced the three Gladers to escape from WICKED with her plan —after all the running and fighting, he expected their runaway pilot to be at least conscious.

"What happened? How'd you get hurt? Who took the Berg? Where is everyone?"

The man —Jorge, groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "Calm your pants, hermana. My head feels like it's been stomped by dancing Cranks. Just give me a sec while I get my wits back together."

Brenda gave him some space and sat down with her face flushed.

"I don't know how they did it," Jorge began, "But they took over the compound, got rid of the guards, stole a Berg, flew out of here with another pilot. I was an idiot and tried to get them to wait until I could find out more about what's going on. Now my head's paying for it."

"Who?" Brenda asked, "Who are you talking about? Who left?"

"That Teresa chick. Her and the rest of the subjects. Well, all of them except you muchachos."

Minho frowned.

He thought, maybe, those tied up guards were the works of some Cranks or other group trying to infiltrate WICKED. But Teresa? Led an escape?

Wasn't she in love with WICKED? Up until the last moment they shared together, he was convinced that she was a secret spy sent by WICKED to poison their minds from the inside.

"Explain," he demanded as Newt grabbed the man's hand and pulled him to his feet. "And be quick about it."

Brenda huffed, "Would you stop? We're all on the same side."

"Just get on with it," Newt said, "Talk so we buggin' know what to do."

"Look," Jorge sighed, "I spend most of my time in this hangar, okay? I started hearing all kinds of shouts and warnings over the com, then the lights went out and I ran to find my gun. Next thing I know, Teresa and a bunch of your hooligan friends come running in here like the world's about to end, hauling old Tony along to fly a Berg.

"I dropped my lousy pistol when seven or eight Launchers were aimed at my chest, then I begged them to wait, explain things to me. But some chick with blonde hair whacked me in the forehead with the butt of her gun. I passed out, woke up to see your ugly faces staring down at me and a Berg gone. That's all I know."

Minho exchanged long glances with Thomas and Newt, trying to process the news.

He remembered Frankie saying that she would see him later, and yet she left him behind?

At least he went back and looked for her, along with the rest of the group. But she— they just left him here for WICKED to do whatever they wanted to do with him?

"They left us behind," Thomas breathed out in disbelief, "At least we went back and looked for them. They left us here for WICKED to do whatever they want with us."

The shank took the words right out of his mind.

"Maybe they did search for you," Brenda offered, "And couldn't find you. Or maybe the firefight got too nasty and they had to leave."

Minho scoffed at that, "All the guards are freaking tied up in that room back there! They had plenty of time to come look for us. No way. They left us."

"On purpose," Newt said in a low voice.

"Well, I don't know anything about this," Brenda said, shaking her head, "But why is it so hard to believe that the other subjects would have the same idea we did? To escape? They just did a better job of it."

Minho crossed his arms, glaring at her as best as he could, "Use the word subjects again and I'll smack you, girl or no girl."

"You just try it," Jorge warned, "Smack her and it'll be the last thing you do in this life."

Suddenly, the double doors were pushed open with a bang and a familiar voice shouted, "STICKS! I think they left already!"

Instinctively, Minho lifted his Launcher and pointed it at the two intruders.

"Ooh, can I try flying that thing?"

It took him a few seconds to take in their identities and tranquil his disbelief. He was still aiming at them when Jorge walked forward, announcing their presence by exclaiming ecstatically.

"Muchachos! Real glad to see you two!"

It was Frankie, hugging her medical stuff on Reggie's back. They looked like they had been running for quite a while.

The Group B boy gasped dramatically when he saw them, "You! Old man! You work for WICKED? And Brenda?!"

"We have to leave," Frankie said as the two of them jogged over, "We have dozens of guards on our tail."

"How are you here?" Minho asked.

"Long story," Frankie replied with a shrug, "How are you here?"

He smirked, "Long story, slinthead."

"Shuckface."

"Let's get out of this place," Thomas said, breaking through the flirty exchange. He turned to Jorge, "You're really a pilot?"

"He's a pilot?"

"You're a pilot?" Reggie frowned mockingly.

The man grinned, "Damn straight, hermano. One of the best."

An alarm started blaring again, the same whining scream as before. Its noise seemed louder now, echoing off the high walls and ceiling of the hangar.

Brenda gasped and Frankie diverted her eyes towards the doors she had just come through. At least a dozen black-clad guards were pouting through the opening, weapons raised.

And they started firing.