by Marie Lu
One minute passes, then another.
Three minutes. Four minutes. Five minutes. Each one drags by slower than the last. My breaths quicken. What will June do? Is she right? What if she’s wrong? I think I’m ready to kill the Elector—I’ve been talking myself into this over the last few days, even getting excited over it. Am I ready to save his life, someone I can’t think about without feeling enraged? Am I ready to have his blood on my hands? What does June know that I don’t? What does she know that makes him so worth saving?
Eight minutes.
Then, suddenly, Pascao comes back on. “Stand by. We’ve got a delay.”
I tense up. “Why?”
There’s a long pause. “Something’s wrong with June,” Pascao says in a hushed whisper. “She fainted while leaving the courthouse. But don’t freak out—Razor says she’s fine. We’re resetting the clocks for a two-minute delay. Got it?”
I rise a little from my crouch. She’s making her move. I know this instantly. Something tingles at the back of my mind, a sixth sense, warning me that whatever I’d planned to do to the Elector will shift depending on what June does next. “Why did she collapse?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Scouts say it looks like she got dizzy or something.”
“So she’s back on track now?”
“Sounds like we’re still moving forward.”
Still moving forward? Was June’s plan foiled? I get up, pace for a few steps, and then return to my crouch. Something’s not right about this scenario. If we’re going ahead with the plan, will I still see her come by in the same jeep as expected—and against her will? Are the Patriots going to know she tried to deviate? The bad feeling refuses to go away, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. Something’s really off.
Two agonizing minutes pass. In my anxiety, I’ve chipped away a large chunk of paint from the hilt of my knife. My thumb’s covered in black flakes.
Several streets away, the first grenade explodes. The ground trembles, the building shudders, and a cloud of dust rains down from the ceiling. The Elector’s jeeps must’ve made an appearance.
I leave my vantage point at the windowsill, then head into the stairwell up to the roof. I keep low, careful to stay out of sight. From here, I get a better view of where smoke from the first explosion is rising, and I can hear the startled shouts of soldiers near it. They’re about three blocks away. I flatten myself onto the broken tiles of the roof as several guards come dashing down the street. They’re yelling something incomprehensible—I’m willing to bet they’re bringing reinforcements over to the bombing area. Too late. By the time they get there, the Elector’s jeep will have turned the corner that we wanted it to turn.
I take out one of my grenades and hold it gingerly in my hand, reminding myself how it works, reminding myself that if I throw it on time, I’ll be going against June’s warning. “It’s an impact grenade,” Pascao had said. “Blows the second it hits. Depress the strike lever. Pull the pin. Throw, and brace yourself.” Off in the distance, another explosion rocks the streets and an accompanying cloud rises. Baxter was in charge of that one—now he’s somewhere on ground level over there, hiding in an alley.
Two blocks away. The Elector is getting closer.
A third explosion goes off. This one’s much closer—the jeep must only be a block away. I steady myself as the ground shakes from the impact. My turn’s coming up. June, I think. Where are you? If she makes a sudden move, what will I do? Over my earpiece, Pascao sounds urgent. “Steady,” he says.
And then I see something that makes me forget everything I’ve promised to do for the Patriots. The door on the second jeep flies open, and out rolls a girl with a long dark ponytail. She tumbles a few times, then struggles to her feet. She looks up to the rooftops and waves her hands frantically in the air.
It’s June. She’s here. And there’s no doubt now that she does not want me to separate the Elector from his guards.
Pascao’s voice comes on again. “Stay the course,” he hisses. “Ignore June—stay the course, do you hear me?”
I don’t know what comes over me—an electric shudder runs down my spine. No—June, you can’t stop now, a part of me says. I want the Elector dead. I want to get Eden back.
But then there’s June, waving her arms in the middle of a street full of danger, risking her life to raise the alarm for me. Whatever her reason, it must be good. It must be. What do I do? Trust her, something deep inside of me says. I squeeze my eyes shut and bow my head.
Each second that ticks by now is a bridge between life and death.
Trust her.
Suddenly I jump up and run across the roof. Pascao shouts something angry at me over the earpiece. I ignore him. As the vehicles pass next to the building I’m on, I pull the pin from my grenade and throw it as far as I can down the block. Right in front of where the Patriots want them to go.
“Day!” Pascao’s frantic voice. “No—what are you—!”
The grenade hits the street. I cover my ears and am instantly thrown off my feet as a blast shakes the earth. The jeeps screech to a halt right in front of the explosion—the Elector’s jeep tries to swerve around the rubble, but one of its tires bursts and forces it to a stop. I’ve completely blocked off the street they were supposed to go down, where the Patriots are waiting for the Elector. And the rest of the Elector’s jeeps are still there, the entire caravan of them.
Now June’s sprinting toward the Elector’s vehicle. If she’s trying to save him, then I have no time to waste. I hop back to my feet, swing over the side of the roof, and grab on to the gutter at the edge of the building. Then I slide down. The gutter pipe pops off the building, throwing me off balance, but I fling myself off it and grab the edge of a nearby windowsill. My feet land on the second floor’s ledge. I hop down to the first floor and roll.
The street’s absolute chaos. Through the shouts and smoke, I can see Republic soldiers running toward the jeeps while the soldiers in the other jeeps rush out to get to the Elector. Some of the Patriots in disguise are hesitating, confused over my mistimed blast. It’s too late to separate the Elector’s jeep from the others now—there are simply too many soldiers. Swarms of them are coming down the street. I feel numb, in some ways as bewildered as they are, still unsure of why I’m going against everything I planned to do.
“Tess!” I shout. She’s right where she’s supposed to be, frozen against the shadows of my building. I reach her and grab her shoulders.
“What’s going on?” she shouts back, but I just whirl her around.
“Tunnel entrance, okay? Don’t ask!” I point her in the direction of the Patriots’ bunker. Where we were supposed to hide after the assassination. Tess’s mouth is open in naked fear, but she does what I say, darting into the security of the building’s shadows and disappearing from view.
Another explosion rocks the street behind me. The grenade must have come from one of the other Runners. Even though they won’t get the Elector to their planned location, they’re trying to block in the jeeps to make an attempt. Patriots must be running around everywhere. They’re literally going to kill me for what I did. Me and Tess have to reach the tunnel before they find us.
I run up to June right as she reaches the Elector’s jeep. There’s a man inside with dark, wavy hair, and she’s shouting at him as she presses her hands against his window. Another explosion goes off somewhere, forcing June to her knees. I throw myself over her as debris and rubble rain down on us from every direction. A block of cement hits my shoulder, making me shudder in pain. The Patriots are definitely trying to make up for lost time, but the delay has already cost them dearly. If they get desperate, I know they’ll just forget about broadcasting an actual kill and blow up the Elector’s jeep instead. Republic soldiers are pouring into the street. I’m sure they’ve seen me by now too. I hope Tess is safe in the hideout.
“June!” She looks dazed and bewildered, but then she recognizes me. No time for greetings now.
A bullet zi
ps overhead. I duck and shield June again; one of the soldiers near us gets shot in the leg. Please, for the love of— Please let Tess make it safely to the tunnel entrance. I whirl around and meet the Elector’s wide eyes through the window. So, this is the guy who kissed June—he’s tall and good-looking and rich, and he’s going to uphold all of his father’s laws. He’s the boy king who symbolizes everything the Republic is; the war with the Colonies that led to Eden’s illness, the laws that put my family in the slums and led to their deaths, the laws that sent me off to be executed because I’d failed some stupid goddy test when I was ten. This guy is the Republic. I should kill him right now.
But then I think of June. If June knows a reason we should protect him from the Patriots, and believes it enough to risk her life—and mine—then I’m going to trust her. If I refused, I’d be breaking ties with her forever. Can I live with that? The thought of that chills me to the bone. I point down the street toward the explosion and do something I never thought I’d do in my whole life. I yell as loud as I can for the soldiers. “Back up the jeeps! Barricade the street! Protect the Elector!” Then, as other soldiers reach the Elector, I shout frantically at them, “Get the Elector out of this car! Get him away from here—they’re going to blow it up!”
June yanks us down as another bullet hits the ground near us. “Come on,” I shout. She follows me. Behind us, dozens of Republic soldiers have arrived on the scene. We catch a quick glimpse of the Elector getting out of his jeep, then being hurried away behind the protection of his soldiers. Bullets fly. Did I just see one hit the Elector in the chest? No—just his upper arm. Then he disappears, lost behind a sea of soldiers.
He’s saved. He’s going to make it. I can hardly breathe at the thought—I don’t know if I should be happy or furious. After all that buildup, the Elector’s assassination has failed because of me and June.
What have I done?
“That’s Day!” someone calls out. “He’s alive!” But I don’t dare turn around again. I squeeze June’s hand tighter and we dart around the rubble and smoke.
We bump into our first Patriot. Baxter. He stops short for a second when he sees us, then seizes June’s arm. “You!” he spits out. She’s too quick for him, though. Before I can draw the gun at my waist, June’s slipped right out of his grasp. He grabs for us again—but someone else knocks him flat on his face before we can make another move. I meet Kaede’s burning eyes.
She waves her hands furiously at us. “Get to safety!” she yells. “Before the others find you!” There’s deep shock on her face—is she stunned that the plan fell apart? Does she know we had anything to do with it? She must know. Why is she turning on the Patriots too? Then she runs away. I let my eyes follow her for an instant. Sure enough, Anden is nowhere to be seen and Republic soldiers have started firing back up at the roofs.
Anden is nowhere to be seen, I think again. Has the assassination attempt officially failed?
We keep running until we’re on the other side of the explosion. Suddenly there are Patriots everywhere; some are running toward the soldiers and looking for a way to shoot the Elector, and others are fleeing for the tunnel. Running after us.
Another explosion shakes the street—someone has tried in vain to stop the Elector with another grenade. Maybe they finally managed to blow up his jeep. Where’s Razor? Is he out for our blood now? I picture his calm, fatherly face alight with rage.
We finally reach the narrow alley that leads to the tunnel, barely ahead of the Patriots hot on our tail.
Tess is there, huddled in the shadows against the wall. I want to scream. Why didn’t she jump down into the tunnel and head for the hideout? “Inside, now,” I say. “You weren’t supposed to wait for me.”
But she doesn’t move. Instead she stands in front of us with her fists clenched, her eyes flickering back and forth between me and June. I rush over and grab her hand, then pull her along with us to one of the small metal gratings that line where the alley’s walls meet the ground. I can hear the first signs of Patriots behind us. Please, I beg silently. Please let us be the first ones to reach the hideout.
“They’re coming,” June says, her eyes fixed on a spot down the alley.
“Let them try to catch us.” I run my hands frantically across the metal grating, then pry it open.
The Patriots are getting closer. Too close.
I stand up. “Get out of the way,” I say to Tess and June. Then I pull a second grenade from my belt, yank out the pin, and toss it toward the alleyway’s opening. We throw ourselves to the ground and cover our heads with our hands.
Boom! A deafening blast. It should slow the Patriots down some, but I can already see silhouettes coming through the debris and toward us.
June runs to the open tunnel entrance by my side. I let her jump in first, then turn to Tess and extend my hand. “Come on, Tess,” I say. “We don’t have much time.”
Tess looks at my open hand and takes a step back. In that instant, the world around us seems to freeze. She’s not going to come with us. There’s anger and shock and guilt and sadness all wrapped up in her thin little face.
I try again. “Come on!” I shout. “Please, Tess—I can’t leave you here.”
Tess’s eyes rip through me. “I’m sorry, Day,” she gasps. “But I can take care of myself. So don’t try to come after me.” Then she tears her eyes away from me and runs back toward the Patriots. She’s rejoining them? I watch her go, stunned into silence, my hand still outstretched. The Patriots are so close now.
Baxter’s words. He’d warned Tess this whole time that I would betray them. And I did. I did exactly what Baxter said I’d do, and now Tess has to live with it. I’ve let her down so bad.
June’s the one who saves me. “Day, jump!” she yells up at me, snapping me out of the moment.
I force myself to turn away from Tess and jump into the hole. My boots splash into shallow, icy water right as I hear the first Patriot reach us. June grabs my hand. “Go!” she hisses.
We sprint down the black tunnel. Behind us I hear someone else drop down and start running after us. Then another. They’re all coming.
“Got any more grenades?” June shouts as we run.
I reach down to my belt. “One.” I pull the last grenade out, then toss the pin. If we use this, there’s no going back. We could be stuck down here forever—but there’s no other choice, and June knows it.
I shout a warning behind us, and throw the grenade. The closest Patriot sees me do it and scrambles to a stop. Then he starts yelling at the others to get back. We keep sprinting.
The blast lifts us clear off our feet and sends us flying. I hit the ground hard, skidding through icy water and slush for several seconds before coming to a stop. My head rings—I press my palms hard against my temples in an attempt to stop it. No luck, though. A headache bursts my mind wide open, drowning out all of my thoughts, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the blinding pain. One, two, three . . .
Long seconds drag by. My head throbs with the impact of a thousand hammers. I struggle to breathe.
Then, mercifully, it starts to fade. I open my eyes in the darkness—the ground has settled again, and even though I can still hear people talking behind us, they’re muffled, as if coming from the other side of a thick door. Gingerly I pull myself up into a sitting position. June’s leaning against the side of the tunnel, rubbing her arm. We’re both facing the space we’d come from.
A hollow tunnel stood there just seconds ago, but now a pile of concrete and rubble have completely sealed off the entrance.
We’ve made it. But all I feel is emptiness.
WHEN I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD, METIAS TOOK ME TO SEE OUR parents’ graves. It was the first time he’d been to the site since the actual funeral. I don’t think he could stand being reminded of what had happened. Most of Los Angeles’s civilians—even a good number of the upper class—are assigned a one-square-foot slot in their local cemetery high-rise and a single opaque glass box in which to store a lov
ed one’s ashes. But Metias paid off the cemetery officials and got a four-square-foot slot for Mom and Dad, along with engraved crystal headstones. We stood there in front of the headstones with our white clothes and white flowers. I spent the whole time staring at Metias. I can still remember his tight jaw, his neatly brushed hair, his cheeks damp and glistening. Most of all I remember his eyes, heavy with sadness, too old for a seventeen-year-old boy.
Day looked that way when he learned about his brother John’s death. And now, as we make our way along the underground tunnel and out of Pierra, he has those eyes again.
* * *
We spend fifty-two minutes (or fifty-one? I’m not sure. My head feels feverish and light) jogging through the dark wetness of the tunnel. For a while we’d heard angry shouts coming from the other side of the mountain of twisted concrete that separates us from the Patriots and the Republic’s soldiers. But eventually those sounds faded to silence as we rushed deeper and deeper into the tunnel. The Patriots probably had to flee from the oncoming troops. Maybe the soldiers are trying to excavate the rubble out of the tunnel. We have no idea, so we keep going.
It’s quiet now. The only sounds are our ragged breathing, our boots splashing into shallow, slushy puddles, and the drip, drip, drip of ice-cold water from the ceiling that runs down our necks. Day grips my hand tightly as we run. His fingers are cold and rubbery with wetness, but I still cling to them. It’s so dark down here that I can barely see Day’s outline in front of me.
Did Anden survive the assault? I wonder. Or did the Patriots manage to assassinate him? The thought makes the blood rush in my ears. The last time I played the role of double agent, I’d gotten someone killed. Anden had put his faith in me, and because of that, he could’ve died today—maybe he did die. The price people seem to pay for crossing my path.