“For you to secure her release. You know the President. I’m sure you’ve had dealings with Madame Neiman as well. Your reach is far greater than mine.” I take a deep breath. “And you owe me this much.”
He stares at his hands, not speaking for a moment. “This girl is no good for you, Zane. I know you think you care about her, but she isn’t your match—”
“This has nothing to do with my feelings. This is about an innocent girl who, if found guilty, will die.”
Peering at me, he says, “And you are still fully committed to Arian? Ready to be married and start a family in only a few short weeks?”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Can I make that kind of promise? Can I force myself into a life I don’t want? Yes, if it means saving Sienna.
Steeling myself, I reply, “Absolutely. Nothing has changed.”
My father heaves a deep sigh and says, “All right then, I will do my best.” He slips his glasses back on, focusing on his desk-screen, signaling the end of our conversation.
As I leave the room, I hope his best is enough.
36
SIENNA
The hours turn into days, and then weeks, or possibly months. I’m not sure of the passing of time, just that it does pass.
The air in the cell is warm, stale, and reeks of feces. After a few days of holding in my bowel movements, because I refused to use the metal bucket in the corner, I couldn’t hold it in a moment longer. The pain in my side had become too unbearable. Hovered over the tin like a common dog, I finally relieved myself, and ever since, the stench has been a constant reminder of my weakness.
Every day, twice a day, through a small opening in the bottom of the door, my tiny rations are slid through on a crude metal bowl. A piece of bread, two slices of beef jerky, and a cup of water. Enough to keep you from starving, but not enough to give you the energy to try to escape.
The nights are cold and leave me shivering, and the days are hot and long and leave me sweating. There is no escaping the cold or the heat, so I’ve resigned myself. This is my life. This is my punishment.
Hour after hour, day after day, I sit and wait. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. To see a familiar face? For someone to come clean my poop pail? For interaction with someone other than myself?
When I do use my voice, mostly to talk to myself, it sounds foreign to my own ears. Perhaps it’s the way it echoes off the concrete walls or maybe that it sounds hollow without Curly’s witty banter or Trina’s cute remarks coming back at me. I’ve taken to humming instead, a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was a child. I try not to dwell on thoughts of my mother or Emily, because when I do, the sobs bring me to my knees and expend any energy I have.
I’ve grown accustomed to the constant groaning ache in my back and the dryness in my mouth. The lumpy cot has springs that poke into my side when I lay flat, which is why I try to sleep sitting up.
The days are a constant reminder of all I’ve done wrong in my life and the many mistakes I’ve made that have put others’ lives in danger. Over and over, I dream about going back in time, erasing all that’s happened and all that has yet to happen.
When the door to my cell finally does open, and two guards enter and move to the sides, standing at attention, I barely care enough to lift my head.
Heels click against the concrete floor, and the freshly scrubbed image of Madame Neiman enters the room. Once again, she’s wearing a navy business suit with the emblem of Pacifica on her left shoulder.
“The convict will rise,” she orders, her voice cold and authoritative.
I just stare at her, too weak to stand. She snaps her fingers and the guards move to my side, dragging me to my feet.
“Convict one-four-zero-two, also known as Sienna Preston,” she says, her voice ringing through the small cell, “has been found guilty for the deaths of Colonel George Radcliffe and Rayne Williams. Her execution is set for the day after tomorrow.” Her eyes never meet mine, but I sense the satisfaction in her words.
“What about my friends?” I cry out. “What will happen to them?”
But the woman doesn’t answer me. Instead, she turns on her heel, waits for the guards to open the door, and leaves without ever looking back.
When the door chinks closed behind them, I crumble onto the cold stone floor and weep for everything I’ve lost and everything I’m about to lose.
37
SIENNA
The day of my execution, I feel a calmness I don’t expect. I’ve spent the past two days reflecting on my life thus far, beating myself up over my decisions, and wondering how my mother and sister will handle my death. But today, I push all of that out of my mind. I will go down with dignity. Well, somewhat.
Holding my breath, I scoop out some of the feces from the metal chamber pot and smear it over my arms and legs, even up my neck. When I do inhale, I end up gagging from the stench. After a few minutes, and a few tepid breaths, I’m somewhat used to it and can breathe again through my nose. When I’m significantly covered, and the poop is nice and crusty on my arms, I sit on my bed and wait for them to come get me. I want to make this as painful as possible for them.
As I wait, my mind wanders. I wish I knew what was happening with Curly and Trina. Did they receive a reprieve? A lighter sentence? Will they rot their life away in this prison hell? I think I’d almost prefer death to staying in this never-ending repeat of concrete, stench, and loneliness.
When they come for me, I hold my head high. I have to suppress a grin when they enter the room and begin gagging.
“What the hell? Is that shit?” the pervert guard asks, eyeing me with a hand over his nose and mouth.
“It sure smells like it,” his greasy companion says.
Without saying a word, I rise from the bed and walk toward them. They want to treat me like a rabid animal, I can tell, yet they unwillingly latch onto my arms and cuff them.
“Ugh, this is disgusting,” the perv says, wrinkling his nose.
I shrug and wait for them to lead me out of my cell.
The pervert guard gingerly grips my arm and then turns away, dry heaving. “I can’t do it, man. It’s too gross.”
The other guard steps up and snatches my arm out of his grasp. “Let me handle this.” His hands are rough, digging into my arm until I wince in pain. “I’ll be glad when we’re rid of her.”
I bite my lip to keep tears from welling as he leads me out of the cell and down the long corridor. We pass through several cell blocks before we reach the threshold to the outside.
“Madame Neiman wanted you to come out early so you could watch the execution of your friends.”
My heart stops in my chest. “Execution?”
Before he can answer, the doors are pushed open, and there’s a blinding light. I squint into the sun, my eyeballs searing in pain after being locked up in that room for who knows how long. As my eyes adjust, I see Curly and Trina, already outside, their hands bound behind their backs. Curly is standing on a raised platform, and he gives me a half-smile when he sees me. A thick noose hangs above his head.
Hanging. Death by hanging. The very thought sends a shiver through me.
Madame Neiman stands off to the side, monitoring the executions. Does she do this for all the convicts or only the high-profile ones? Seems like she would have better things to do with her time than watch people die.
This. It all comes down to this moment. Curly pretending not to care about his imminent death, Trina sobbing quietly on her platform, and me, head high as I death march to my own center platform and climb the steps.
The two guards begin adjusting the noose.
“Any final requests?” Madame Neiman calls out.
“Yes,” I say. “Let me say good-bye.”
Neiman hesitates before nodding her assent.
The guards lead me down the steps and over to Trina’s platform first. “Can I give her a hug?” I ask the pervert guard.
The guard looks over at Madame Neiman. “Prisoner one-four-oh-t
wo requests physical contact with prisoner nine-eight-one-seven.”
Neiman nods. “Permission granted. But be aware.”
I hear the click of guns as one of the guards removes my cuffs. As soon as my arms are free, I fling them around Trina. She winces and takes a step back.
“What the hell is that smell?”
When I pull away, I say, “My crap.”
Tears seep from Trina’s eyes as she looks at me and smiles. “There’s no one else I’d rather die beside.”
I begin to openly sob now. For all my pretenses at being brave, seeing Trina and Curly has gouged out a deep hole in my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I say through my tears. “This is my fault.”
“It’s okay,” Trina says, her tears collecting on her chin and falling onto her chest. “I chose this.”
“Time’s up,” Neiman calls out.
Rough hands pull me away from Trina, and all I can think is that I’ll never see her again. My mind flashes through our time together in the Compound—when she showed me the hidden entrance to the outside and trusted me not to tell anyone, when she helped break into the underground government bunker using only her “assets” and the triumphant look on her face, when she taught me how to can tomatoes and we shared secrets and swapped stories. Our days in the Compound seem like a lifetime away.
They drag me to Curly next, passing Madame Neiman, who watches us with eager eyes. Her expression says it all. This is as much for her entertainment as it is for me to say good-bye. Anger batters my insides, and all I want to do is get a hold of her face and smash it into the dirt until she can’t breathe.
I don’t ask if I can embrace Curly, I just do. When I pull away, Curly is grinning at me. “I like the poop. Definitely makes a statement. The whole, I don’t give a crap what you do to me. Very badass of you.”
I smile at him through my tears. “I’m sorry, Curly.”
“Don’t be sorry. You let me ride your Harley, remember? Totally worth it.” His smile falters a little. “It was one helluva ride, wasn’t it?”
I know instantly that he’s not talking about my bike anymore. “Yeah,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “It was.”
“Time’s up,” the she-devil calls.
I shake my head and reach for him. “No. Not yet.”
The guard’s hands pull me away, and even though I try to struggle, I’m too weak to fight.
As two guards fit the noose around his neck and tighten it, Curly says to me, “See you on the other side.”
The guards drag me down the steps and back toward my own platform. Tears stream down my face as I twist my head, trying to see Curly in his last moments. His eyes follow me, sending me a million words with one look.
This can’t be happening. Please, God, let me wake from this nightmare.
Curly closes his eyes as a single tear slips down his cheek. Madame Neiman raises her arm above her head, and then quickly lowers it. It’s over before I realize what’s happening.
The platform drops from beneath Curly’s bare feet and then he’s dangling there, his body twitching, his face expressionless, all except for that single tear, leaving a silver trail down his cheek. Even in death, with his dark curls flopping around his face, he’s beautiful.
I fall to my knees as sobs rack my body. “No,” I scream. “No!” My fingers claw at the dirt until my nails bleed.
The guards drag me to my feet, back to my platform where my same fate awaits. I stumble, not caring. I can’t watch my best friends die. Their blood is on my hands. That thought alone produces a guilt that burrows deep beneath my ribs, making it painful to breathe.
Kill me now, please.
But they’re not done with Curly. Madame Neiman crosses the expanse of the prison yard, kicking up dust as she goes. In her hand is a knife. My stomach turns over on itself when she slits Curly’s throat and then cuts him down, his body flopping to the platform with a thud. Two guards rush over and lift his body between them. The platform is already stained red.
“No,” I murmur. “No, no, no.” I watch as two guards walk past the barbed-wire fence and to the edge of the cliff. With a heave, they throw Curly’s body over to the churning, angry ocean below. It tumbles away like a beautiful, broken doll.
I can’t look at Trina. I hear her sobbing, but I can’t look at her. I try to remove myself from this horror by pretending this is all a dream. When I wake, I’ll be at home in my trailer and Emily will be crawling into bed beside me, asking me to make her chocolate oatmeal. I squeeze my eyes closed, willing it to be true, wishing there was a way out of this nightmare.
When I open my eyes, I see Trina with her head bowed, saying a silent prayer. The noose is tight around her neck. I watch as Madame Neiman raises her arm—
“No!” I scream.
And then a gunshot rings out.
38
SIENNA
It all happens so fast. One minute, Trina is gearing up for her own death, and the next, she’s jumping off her platform, her hands still bound behind her back. Smoke engulfs the prison yard as more bullets whiz past.
“Get down,” she shouts at me.
The two guards who were tying the noose around my neck are now on the ground, blood oozing from their gunshot wounds.
I’m frantically trying to work my neck free—it’s hard with no hands—when the entire rope crumbles around me. It still encircles my neck, but it’s not attached to the wooden beam above me anymore. I see the frayed edges where a bullet sliced clean through.
“Come on,” Trina yells.
I see her hovering behind her platform and I run, bent over at the waist, toward her. I dive behind the platform as a bullet whizzes by my head. The dirt and dust I kicked up settles in my lungs as I breathe deeply, my chest heaving. Trina’s eyes scan the smoky yard like she’s mentally calculating our best chance for escape.
“Stay low and follow me,” she says, speaking close to my ear.
And then we’re up and running, heads bent, legs slicing through the air. There’s so much smoke and dust it’s hard to know where we’re going or if we’re headed straight toward a crowd of guards. I hear shouts and more gunfire, and I’m waiting for my body to be pelted with bullets, for my fight to be over. But still we run until I realize that she’s leading me straight toward the edge of the cliff. I try to dig my heels in, but Trina won’t let me stop.
“This is suicide!” I scream, an image of Curly’s body being tossed into the sea seared into my mind. By now, the sharks have surely come.
“It’s the only way,” she hollers back.
I hesitate for only a second before I nod. If my body ends up broken and battered on the rocks under this cliff, or if I’m consumed by the waiting sharks, at least I won’t be alone.
But then, there’s a sound that makes my heart stop.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” Somehow, miraculously, Madame Neiman is still alive and pointing a gun at us. She’s at least ten feet away, but by the look on her face, I can tell she’s itching to pull the trigger.
Trina looks at me and I at her, and without saying anything, our eyes communicating everything, we heave ourselves over the cliff.
39
SIENNA
There’s that moment when you’re first in the air that you feel like you’re flying. But then you quickly realize you’re not flying at all, but falling. Down, down, down to a sea that will swallow you up, toward rocks that will break you, toward your own end.
Right after we’ve propelled ourselves over the cliff, a gunshot rings out and a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder.
I’ve been hit.
Before I can contemplate what that means, my body slams into the water, my legs scraping against submerged rocks. I start to sink like a concrete brick, the water pulling and tugging me down to its depths.
I try to kick to the surface, but without the use of my arms and a noose still tied around my neck, it seems fruitless. The further I sink, the more desperate I become.
You can do this, Sienna.
My lungs burn, but I refuse to die at the hands of this wild, untamed ocean, this living, breathing thing that has consumed every prisoner who has tried to escape. I try to tell myself that I am different. I am stronger than all of those others combined.
With determination that comes from beyond me, I kick toward the surface, a frog-like kick. With my chin tilted up, my eyes open wide and focused on that spot where life-giving air waits, I move toward it. My lungs ache and burn, the raging fire causing black spots to swim in front of my vision.
No, not yet. I can’t pass out yet.
Still, I kick upward until that moment when I can’t hold my breath a second longer, and my head bursts through the surface. I gulp huge amounts of air, coughing and sputtering as a wave hits me in the face. The briny smell of seaweed fills my nostrils and the salty taste of the seawater burns my raw throat.
I search the water for Trina. Somewhere between flying and falling, I lost her. And now, she’s nowhere in sight.
A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, and it’s then I remember I was shot. When I glance down, there’s dark red blood pooling around my body. My stomach goes weak.
Kicking as hard as I can, I move away from that spot, searching the horizon for some indication that help is on the way. Someone stayed our execution. Someone came to our rescue, but where are they now?
“Sienna!”
It’s Trina. As I turn, searching for her among the gray ocean waves, I spot her, bobbing twenty feet away. I’m not sure how she got so far from me, but she’s a beautiful sight.
I kick toward her as she does the same to me, her eyes widening in horror when she sees the trail of blood following me.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
The pain has turned into an aching throb, and I’m suddenly weak, my legs screaming at me from trying to stay afloat. It takes all my effort to keep my head above water.
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