Amandine tapped on the wall in the same cheery rhythm she always used on their trailer door. There was a dull thud in response.
“Somebody's back there.”
The convoy moved slowly down the road, and the blaring sirens and searchlights scanning the fields surrounding the prison soon faded into the distance behind them. Police cruisers fell into place between each of the trucks, and a mounted patrol galloped alongside them.
Coronado cursed a long, vulgar string of profanities in Spanish, punctuating his tirade with blows to the steering wheel. Sneaking away would be impossible now.
“I hope you have that gun handy, René.” Coronado lit another cigarette with a snap and pointed to his mirror. “We've got horses on either side, and that damned Inquestor just pulled up behind us again!”
René was unable to see from the back without sticking his head out of the window. “Does he recognize us?”
Suddenly, there came a thunderous pounding from the roof. Coronado yelped and nearly drove the truck off the road when Sangria dropped onto the hood. She wore a bandit mask and the black, tattered scrap costume that Amandine made on her first day in camp. Ribbons and netting whipped wildly around her; she gave a dainty wave with her fingertips before climbing back onto the roof again.
“What in God's name is she doing?” Coronado craned his neck. “She looks ridiculous!”
Sangria sprinted down the length of the truck and slammed an empty birdcage straight into Carver’s windshield. The glass exploded, and the car swerved sharply off of the road, barreling sideways down the hill.
Everything happened in an instant. René used the gun to bash out the window beside him, and he sprang like a coiled snake onto the mounted rider to their left. As soon as René was clear, Coronado swerved hard right and knocked the other rider to the ditch. He checked his mirrors again and saw that the Interceptor had come to rest upside down with smoke pouring out of the hood. The Inquestor was nowhere in sight.
René waved to Coronado, pointed to the front of the procession, and kicked the horse into a hard gallop.
“What is he doing?” Amandine cried. “He'll be seen! He'll be shot!”
Just as she said this, René vanished from the saddle, clinging to the far side of the horse with the skill of a trained trick-rider.
Sangria reappeared fluidly on the hood and pantomimed turning a key in a lock.
“Why the hell did she bring that absurd outfit? A jailbreak is no time for theatrics.” Coronado furiously cranked the window down. “Amandine, I hope you know how to drive.”
“A little.” She scrambled into the front. “Gas. Brake. Wheel.” She indicated each one in turn.
“Shifter?” Coronado crossed himself and climbed out.
“I never really got the hang of that part.” She frowned and took the wheel.
The illusionist balanced on the hood with Sangria, and he gestured for Amandine to move closer to the patrol car in front of them. Amandine saw the pair exchange a few brief words before they jumped with their hands held tight. They moved like a crack of lightning. The instant they landed, Sangria smashed the window with a tent stake, and Coronado set the passengers ablaze. He wasn't nearly as sure on his feet as Sangria, but she held him steady as the car swerved, and they leaped for the next truck.
Coronado clung to the ladder on the back door of the prison truck while Sangria climbed up. She was a cat in the fading light and her sash fluttered behind her like a tail. She climbed over the truck and wrenched the driver's door open, using her ankles to rip the driver out and slip into his seat.
They were grossly outnumbered, but the three performers had decided to cause as much damage as they possibly could before they were inevitably stopped. While Sangria used her truck to smash into the patrol car in front of her, René took care of the other mounted riders, appearing in his saddle and pistol-whipping them to the ground before they even knew he was there.
Sangria’s truck veered from side to side, and Coronado held onto the ladder for dear life with a lockpick pinched between his lips. Amandine moved in slowly to help, but the illusionist motioned her back. If he fell off, he didn't want her to run him over.
Coronado was about to try the lock when a curious thought occurred to him. He leaned over to look around the truck and noticed that while the leading vehicle surely must have noticed their presence by now, it had picked up speed instead of stopping.
He cursed, put away his pick, and knocked urgently on the door. To his surprise, the guard peeked outside, opened the door, and helped Coronado inside.
The illusionist steadied himself on the handrail. “Saludos, señores.”
About ten unshackled prisoners and a guard wearing a red scarf stared at him in confusion. “Has there been a change of plans?” the guard asked.
René didn’t know what possessed him to seek out Caroline’s truck. Ever since he let Amandine walk into the prison, it felt like Fortune had decided to correct his destiny with a much sterner hand. He had to make sure he wasn’t dreaming when he realized that he was hiding behind a galloping horse, pistol in hand, with a bandana covering his face.
Well, would you look at that, he thought with bitter amusement. I’m an outlaw.
He came upon Caroline's truck and was astonished to see her at the wheel. She spotted him when he peeked over the saddle. She looked equally surprised, even with the large, loose bandage that covered half of her face. Sensing he wasn't a NAR agent, she pointed off into the distance beyond the trees. René barely had enough time to mount up properly and pull the horse back as a wall of vehicles with improvised armor burst from the tree line and rammed into the side of the procession. Amandine swerved to avoid a crushed patrol car that went spinning like a boomerang into a field right in front of her.
René turned hard and darted through the vehicular carnage back to Coronado's truck.
“What the hell is going on?” Coronado shouted from the back of the prison truck. His new friends inside seemed curious as well.
“It's the rebels!” Amandine cheered. “They are rescuing their comrades!”
A bullet whizzed past René’s ear. “We'd better move before we get mistaken for NAR agents.” Caroline's truck sounded its horn several times, and he pointed at it. “Follow that truck!”
“Is my mother still in there?” Amandine asked, but they were already moving and he didn't hear her. Laying low against the saddle, René gestured to Sangria, and she followed suit.
René rode up alongside Caroline again, waving his hat to get her attention. A pair of men in guard uniforms and red scarves appeared at the back of Caroline's truck and pointed their automatic rifles at him.
Caroline stared at René with bewilderment and raised her shoulders as if to ask, “What do you want?”
“Your daughter,” he shouted.
She shrugged again and shook her head.
“Your daughter! Ta fille! Amandine!” He pointed wildly at Coronado's truck, which was gaining on them. Her face hardened. She shouted something to the men at the back, and they withdrew.
The armored ambush vehicles stayed behind, engaged in a fierce firefight with the remaining NAR agents. Caroline led the rest of the prisoners away from the battle, allowing the mysterious truck and rider to follow.
They drove for hours, weaving through a maze of hidden dirt roads until they reached a sandy path that followed a creek. The trucks crept beneath the trees down into a small, rocky canyon, and eventually the narrow path opened up to reveal a pair of colossal, steel doors set deep into the cliffs. They were eighty feet wide and painted to match the surrounding rock except where rust bled orange from the hundreds of giant bolts holding them in place. René stared up at the impenetrable wall in amazement; this was the rebels’ hidden base.
The blast doors opened, groaning and squealing on their tracks to let the trucks in while more fighters came out to meet their returning comrades.
Caroline jerked her truck out of line and leaped out. She was a terrifying si
ght to behold— her chopped hair was wild, and all of the gore that ran down the right side of her face was poorly concealed by an improvised bandage. Brandishing a pistol, she stalked up to René before he could dismount.
“You! The one starting trouble at the back! You nearly ruined everything!” She pointed and her men surrounded the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”
René gripped the reins and walked the horse backwards. The gray Irish draught was surprisingly calm and he only flicked his ears when Caroline advanced. “Attendez, madame! Amandine tried to—” He explanation was cut short when he was yanked from the saddle.
“You deaf or just stupid? I said, ‘Who the hell are you?’”
René was restrained and disarmed. His grimy 1911 was given to Caroline, and she held it up to the headlights to study it. She clearly recognized the weapon, but didn’t understand why this soot-blackened, French-speaking teenager had it in his possession.
“René!” He shook off the men on his arms and picked his hat up off the ground. Caroline spotted the glint of a silver thimble attached to the band, and her confusion gave way to dread. “My name is René Personne! I am not your enemy! If you doubt me, ask Amandine yourself!” He pointed to the last two trucks at the end of the procession.
Coronado jumped out first. He ignored the guards who encircled him with their guns drawn as he helped Amandine and Sangria down from the driver's seat in turn. Familiar with the routine, he slumped against the cab with his arms crossed while his vehicle was searched.
The sight of her daughter stole Caroline’s breath, and she closed the distance between them in three quick strides.
“Maman, your eye!”Amandine wailed.
“My eye? Look at your eye!” With a bloodied hand, Caroline touched the blue thread that decorated Amandine's brow. “Stitched up beautifully, though. Did you do that yourself in a moving truck?”
“Yes. Well, the truck wasn't moving, and René held a mirror—”
“You dumb girl!” Caroline slapped her on the side of her head. “Stupid, foolish girl! What were you doing at the prison?”
“I was trying to get you out,” she answered defensively, rubbing her head.
“You didn't have to worry about me.” Caroline waved at the crowd around them. “I was taken care of by my comrades. But where is my contact? He should have been taking care of you.”
“Contact?” she blinked. “Maman, nobody came for me. Nobody but NAR agents.”
Caroline growled at this. “You need to tell me exactly what happened. He was supposed to find you at the house, tell you everything, and bring you here for safekeeping.”
“Well, I’ve had an inquestor and a couple of police officers following me since Pearisville. Maybe he was trying to avoid them.” Amandine clasped her mother’s hands, desperate for more answers. “Who was your contact, maman? Who did you send?”
“My most loyal agent. The only one I knew you would recognize and trust without question,” Caroline answered. “DJMA.”
“Marc Antony?” Amandine gasped. “Yes, I think I would have known him if I saw him!”
“If he knew you were heading this way, he likely kept his head down as long as you had NAR agents on you. When he can, he avoids them like the plague.”
Amandine thought back to everyone she had met along her journey. With growing amazement, she realized that she had met only one smooth-talking, rebel-linked, music enthusiast who actively avoided inquestors. Was it just a coincidence that Glorious appeared out of the blue only days after she did? Did he always volunteer to chaperone Amandine so he could keep an eye on her? Was that why Marmi sensed deception in him?
Caroline scanned the milling crowd for her contact, but instead she found the three strangers standing awkwardly against a curious black truck. A pair of uneasy youths, one dressed like a cowboy and the other like a burlesque burglar, were looking for reassurance from a weary older gentleman.
“If my agent never found you, how did you make it all this way?”
“I had help.” Amandine nodded towards her companions. When she looked back at her mother, she was appalled all over again by her grisly wound. “Let’s go find a doctor for that cut, and I can explain everything. Please ask your friends to be kind to mine.”
At Caroline's command, everyone moved inside the bunker. The cavernous room immediately behind the blast doors was a garage full of vehicles ranging from civilian cars, police cruisers, NAR trucks, and a pair of sleek Interceptors. Amandine had to do a double-take when she saw a pin-up caricature of her mother painted on the side of a deconstructed Sherman tank.
Caroline led the way past the vehicles down a wide green hallway, following the spray-painted arrows on the walls until she reached the infirmary. When the medic saw Caroline, he turned down his dance record and leapt out of his swivel office chair.
“Cleo.” He hurried towards her. He was a young man, just a handful of years older than Amandine, with loose brown hair that flopped over the left side of his square face. Strangely, he wore an apron, and Amandine thought it made him look more like a butcher than a doctor. “Looks like the clink needs a new barber.”
“And he cut me a little too close,” Caroline replied, pointing to the blood-soaked rag over her eye. She laid down on the examination table and grit her teeth when he peeled away the makeshift bandage. “How bad is it, Doc? I can’t see out of it.”
“Jehoshaphat.” He brushed his hair away to get a closer look, baring a puckered, J-shaped scar that hooked across his cheekbone. “They got you better than they got me.”
“And I’m only now starting to feel it,” she admitted, her voice quivering in pain.
“Adrenaline is one hell of a chemical. Luckily, I’ve got the next best thing.” Doc rummaged around in his apron pocket and administered a syrette of morphine. It only took a moment for the medicine to take effect and Caroline sighed with relief. Doc waggled a second syrette in front of her face. “Want another? You can waltz on the moon while I get you patched up.”
“No, thank you.” She settled in more comfortably, and Doc brought her a glass of water. “I want to be awake enough to hear how my daughter found her own little pocket of resistance fighters.”
Amandine sat on a nearby gurney and told her story. As she recounted the events following her mother’s arrest, she took sewing supplies from her suitcase and made a red scarf to cover her mother's ragged hair and the eye that could not be saved.
Once the young medic was finished suturing Caroline’s face, Amandine followed her mother to the ladies' showers. The room was already full of other freed women who were washing away all evidence of their time in prison. They greeted Caroline with admiration and respect, even when she stripped naked and joined them.
Once she was clean, Caroline put on a new jumpsuit and let another woman trim her hair into a neat pixie cut.
“Your makeup will last twice as long if you only have to put it on half of your face,” Amandine chirped when someone brought Caroline some cosmetics. “Why are you putting it on in the middle of the night, anyway? You should eat something and get some rest.”
“Tall-Me is due to arrive as soon as he's done cleaning up the mess on the roads,” Caroline replied. “I don’t want him to look at a monster when he—”
Caroline’s hand shook, and her brush fell into the sink with a puff of ivory powder. The finality of her injury struck hard as her daughter’s light-hearted remark sunk in. She stared at the mangled stranger in the mirror— no longer a beauty, not even a decent fighter now that she was half-blind and her rifle was lost. She reached for her eye, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the bristling black stitches that were stained mustard with iodine. Putting on makeup suddenly felt as pointless as adding lace to a potato sack.
Before despair closed it’s smothering grip, Amandine appeared behind her and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Caroline blinked. The kiss was like a slap to the face, and all at once, she squeezed her daughter against her chest. What did her eye matte
r? She had Amandine. She was alive, safe, and had grown stronger and more beautiful than she could have ever imagined.
“You alright, maman?” Amandine asked, setting her completed sewing project on the sink beside her makeup.
“Oui.” Caroline dabbed her tears. “I just realized what a terrible, foolish mother I’ve been. I should have told you everything. I thought I was protecting you by keeping you ignorant, but I see now that my secrets— my pride— nearly cost us our lives. Forgive me, ma belle.”
She reached for Amandine again, but the girl hesitated. Caroline glanced in the mirror and noted with disgust that her missing eye was still capable of crying. It was beginning to make a horrific mess, so she sopped it up with tissues and covered it with a fresh bandage before it got any worse. “Sacré bleu, there’s no helping it! I really do look like a monster!”
Amandine didn’t want her mother to dwell on her eye. “You don’t look like a monster. If anything, you look very fashion-forward with a haircut like that.” She tugged her own hair back and tried to envision Caroline’s new look on herself. “And just think of the hats! Berets, fedoras, fascinators... You could wear them at a saucy angle on this side.”
“Is that what this is?” Caroline asked, pointing to the headwrap. “Chapeau haute couture?”
“I was a traveling costumer, not a milliner.” Amandine shrugged. “A scarf is the best I can do.”
“Dommage.” Caroline smiled. “At least it matches.”
Caroline mustered up her strength much like Amandine summoned her optimism. She didn’t care if she lost both of her eyes. She had survived the inquestors and led all of the prisoners to safety, which meant she could still face Tall-Me with her head held high. Encouraged, she decided to give her remaining eye a little more decoration.
“Speaking of Tall-Me—” Caroline painted a long, black wing over her eyelashes like an Egyptian queen. “I think it's important that you meet him as well.”
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