The sickness never fully went away.
The next morning, I watch my father leave the room, worry creasing my brows. I hardly slept last night, I was so worried about what today’s outcome would be. I half waited for the knock of the king; I’d assumed that he’d change his mind and collect on my side of the deal before he approached my father today.
But the knock never comes. Strange enough, my worries morph from what the king will do with me once the treaty’s signed to what will happen if the king decides that whatever I have to offer isn’t good enough.
The WUN soldiers watch me as I pace. When their stares become too disconcerting, I move to my bedroom and begin to organize my dresses by color, then make my bed. It takes twenty minutes in all, and it does nothing to calm my nerves, so I stretch and do several sets of pushups and sit-ups.
Once I have a nice sheen of sweat along my body, I hop into the shower, letting the water calm me. But even that can’t relax me, not when I start to feel guilty about wasting clean water while my friends in the bunker share a dismal basin’s worth each day.
I dry off and change, pulling on one of the more bearable dresses I’ve been packed. Today I was supposed to board a flight with my father. Now, in between fretting over what waits me after the sun sets, I wonder how I will possibly let the man who raised me go.
I’ve just finished applying mascara when the door to our suite is thrown open and my father storms in. “Grab your things, Serenity.”
“What?”
“We need to go, now.”
I switch to soldier mode. “What do I need?”
“Shoes you can run in and anything you can’t live without. You have three minutes.”
I don’t waste another second. I grab the gun my father gave me long ago and load it before turning the safety on and shoving it down the bodice of my dress. It’s not the safest place to carry a loaded gun, but my guess is that being unarmed in the king’s palace at the moment is even less safe.
I pull on my combat boots, wondering just what words were exchanged between my father and the king. Clearly, the king hadn’t made good on his promise to be honorable. Otherwise, my father wouldn’t be acting this way.
I don’t have time to change out of the ridiculous dress I’m wearing, but I rip off most of the skirt so that I can run better. The sound of tearing fabric is unbelievably satisfying.
As I finish getting ready, I can hear the WUN soldiers gearing up around me. There’s a buzzing excitement in the air, the thrill that comes before battle.
“We’re going out the rear windows,” my father says, “and then we’re going to cross the gardens and exit through the back of the estate, where a car will be waiting to take us to our jet.”
My eyes widen. I hope I’m one day half as good as my father at these things. He’s had our escape plan prepared way ahead of time.
My father glances at his watch. “Okay soldiers, your three minutes are up. Let’s move to the back of the room.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when there’s a pounding on the door. I glance at my father.
“Don’t answer that,” he says, his voice deadly serious.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
The pounding gets louder, and then I hear a key inserted into the lock. My eyes go wide as I look at my father. The soldiers fan out around us, covering us just as the door opens and Marco comes in with a dozen palace guards.
What could’ve possibly gone on during negotiations?
“Ambassador Freeman,” Marco says, “the king has ordered me to retrieve your daughter.”
My heart pounds at the mention of my name.
“I did not agree to the terms of the revised peace treaty, so he does not have that kind of authority over her,” my father says.
I glance between Marco and my father. He didn’t agree to the king’s proposal. Why?
“You can agree to the peace treaty or not,” Marco says. “Either way, the king is not going to let Serenity leave here.”
I hone my attention on Marco. The king thinks he can keep me around despite the negotiations. Of course, this is his back up strategy to make sure he gets what he wants.
“Dad, what were the terms of the peace agreement?” This is the question I’ve been dying to know.
My father doesn’t answer, but Marco does. “Money, medical relief, a series of programs to revitalize your hemisphere’s shithole economy.” I hear the acid in Marco’s voice. I always had the feeling that below Marco’s smooth exterior there was a dick of epic proportions. Now I’m finally meeting him. “The king would freely give all of this so long as you stayed here with him.”
My gaze moves from Marco to my father. “Is that true?” I ask.
My father’s focus is on Marco, but he nods in answer.
“Dad, if it’s true, then why didn’t you agree to the king’s terms?”
Now my father looks at me. “I won’t sign away your life, Serenity. I’ve already made too many personal sacrifices; I will not make this one.”
What my father says brings tears to my eyes. He’s choosing me over a nation—over an entire hemisphere. It’s the most foolish decision he’s ever made, but it’s also the moment I feel the sheer force of my father’s love for me. He won’t let the boogeyman touch me.
“That’s your official decision?” Marco asks.
“It is.”
“We have to take Serenity,” Marco says. “And we will use force.” At his words, the WUN soldiers cluster around my father and me, but it doesn’t make me feel safe. The king’s soldiers outnumber ours, and they’re better equipped. Not to mention that I no longer have a clean shot with them blocking me.
My father grabs my hand and pulls me behind him. Unlike me, my father’s tall stature doesn’t shield him from our enemies. Not completely.
“Dad—” I whisper.
“You’re going to have to go through me,” my father says to Marco, ignoring me.
My hand twitches and I barely breathe. Something’s about to happen, and now I can’t see anything beyond the cocoon of bodies surrounding me. Around us WUN soldiers are casting my father sideways glances. Right now he’s the commanding officer, and they’re waiting for him to make the call. I already know he won’t be the first one to spill blood.
“So be it,” Marco says.
Before I can so much as grab for my gun, someone fires a shot, and then another. Blood and bone spray down on me, and then my father is falling, my father who’s now missing the back of his head.
I can’t hear anything, the shots are still ringing in my ears. But I know I’m screaming, and now I’ve crumpled to the ground, holding my father’s broken body to me.
My father, who taught me how to ride a bike, how to shoot a gun, how to be a diplomat and a decent human being. My father, my last remaining family.
My father.
My father. Murdered in front of my eyes.
Around me, I can sense movement, and I hear more gunshots go off. I stand, letting my father’s slick body slide off my arms.
I’ve heard stories before about how grief can turn into bloodlust, but I’ve never experienced it before. Not until this moment. It builds like poison in my veins, converting my expanding grief into something violent.
Now I am a force of nature; I am the embodiment of rage. Enemy soldiers are coming at me, and I force my elbow into the neck of one and the solar plexus of another. I grab the gun from my bodice, and I begin shooting the enemy alongside my guards. Headshots. All of them.
I’m still screaming, and I can feel blood and tears dripping down my face. I know I look ferocious, and this gives me pleasure. Their fear and their pain give me pleasure.
I keep firing, even as more guards rush in. Amidst the chaos I see Marco run for the door.
/>
I lift my gun, aim, and fire at him. The bullet grazes his arm, and then he’s gone. I’ve missed my opportunity.
The king’s soldiers, who are streaming into the suite, aren’t shooting at me. They should be. They’re not going to take me alive. I’m leaving this place one way or another. If it’s in a casket, so be it.
“Soldiers!” I yell to what’s left of my men. Five are still standing. That’s all that’s left. “Get to the window. We’re getting out of here!” I can barely hear my own voice from all the gunfire. I signal to the back of the room just in case their hearing is as bad as mine.
The WUN soldiers move to the window, and I’m taking out the king’s men one at a time. I back up to the rear of the room, shoving my now-empty gun back into my bodice and snagging another two from the bodies at my feet.
I throw a leg over the open window. I’m the last one out. We’re on the second story, so I have to jump. I glance down and see one of the WUN soldiers waiting to catch me, the other four guarding the soldier’s back. Beyond them I can see to the end of the king’s property and the road beyond. That’s where the car my father spoke of should be waiting.
A hand wraps around my arm. I don’t think; I bring my arm up and shoot to kill. The king’s soldier falls away, but more come after me. They’ll shoot my guards if I don’t do something first.
I aim and fire. One, two, three, four go down before the gun clicks. I drop it and grab another from the carnage. I shoot three more men and drop the weapon. I pick up two more guns before I’m able to focus on jumping down. This is all the ammunition I’ll have between here and scheduled pick up, so I’ll have to restrain myself from shooting anything that moves.
I make eye contact with the soldier waiting for me below, and then I jump, my arms pointing to the sky since I’m carrying two loaded weapons. He catches me, easing my impact.
“Let’s go!” I shout.
The soldiers surround me, and we sprint through the king’s stupid gardens. I pass the alcove he pushed me into, and I have to suppress the desire to shoot the balls off the marble statue that rests within it.
The quiet is eerie, and I know not to be deceived by it. The king’s guards are regrouping, setting something up. I pray to any god willing to listen that our ride will still be waiting for us, that we’ll get past the king’s people, and that we can get the hell off this godforsaken land.
The gardens taper off, and beyond them is open grass. The trees and hedges have hidden us from view until now, but that’s about to change.
I don’t need to tell the soldiers this; they’ve noticed. Our collective speed picks up. We exit the gardens, and I spot the wrought iron fence running along the back of the king’s estate.
A shot rings out and blood sprays as a soldier ahead of me takes a bullet to the head. What remains of his body collapses, and I have to jump over him to keep from tripping. There’s nothing we can do for him at this point.
“Sniper!” I shout. The remaining soldiers and I scatter, running wildly left and right. I’ve trained with these people; we work soundlessly as a unit. Only now I’m their commander. Because my father …
My eyes move over the fence, until I spot a car waiting about a hundred yards down to my left. I whistle and point to my men. Their movements are still wild, but they’re moving towards it. I hear the sound of another gunshot, and the soldier running ahead of me falls.
I snarl and glance over at the mansion. It’s impossible to see a sniper from here, so I can’t do anything about it. But someone does catch my eye.
The king, standing on his back balcony. He’s too far away to shoot as well, otherwise I would. He’s also too far away for me to make out his expression. I hope he’s hurting, I hope he knows I slaughtered his men, and I hope today causes him unending grief, like it will for me.
I know it won’t.
I turn away from him and focus on the fence and the car, some heavy SUV with tinted windows. Another shot rings out, and I hear it ping against the car’s armor. At this point, I can only hope it didn’t destroy anything vital, or else we’re out of an escape.
Ahead of me, someone—probably our ride—has cut away two of the wrought iron fence posts, leaving an opening wide enough for a person to slip through. The soldiers exit through it and jump into the car.
I’m the last out, and I follow my soldiers into the back of the SUV.
Our driver, a burly, bearded man, guns the engine and peels down the road, constantly checking his rearview and side view mirrors.
We skid around the corner, the car fishtailing, then we’re accelerating until my surroundings blur. Three official-looking cars pull onto the road behind us. I glance at our driver. He doesn’t look nervous. No, he smiles when he notices the vehicles. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s just as bloodthirsty as I am.
I hear a distant, high-pitched whine, and then the first car behind us explodes in a burst of flame. The sound of crumbling metal follows a second later, presumably as the two cars following the first crash into it. Someone laid in wait for those cars. And someone shot them with a grenade launcher.
Our driver whoops and slams his palm triumphantly on the driving wheel. “That’s how it’s fucking done!”
Rather than join in, I feel myself weaken as I release the last of my adrenaline. I lean back in my seat. “Who are you?” I ask.
The man pauses a beat. “I am a part of the Resistance.”
He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “And judging by the fact that you have more blood on you than a butcher, I’m guessing that you aren’t as traitorous as everyone’s making you out to be.”
I look out the window. My hands are shaking. Soon the rest of my body will follow suit, and then I’ll have to truly feel again. Once that happens I’m going to wish I were dead. As it is, my head pounds as it tries to disassociate itself from all that just happened.
My father’s dead.
His body lies in enemy territory.
I bury the emotion that’s rising. Just because I’m not running and shooting at the moment doesn’t mean I’m safe. I can’t allow myself to fall apart now, not when I have three WUN soldiers whose lives I can still save.
I digest this. “Thank you,” I finally say, “for risking your life to get us out of there.”
The man grunts in response. “Did you kill him?”
I don’t need any clarification to know whom he’s asking about. “No,” I say darkly.
Silence falls over the car, and for several minutes there’s a strange kind of calm. It’s not real, not when the blood of a dozen different men drips down my body and I tightly clench two guns in my hands, safeties off. Not when the car we’re in is careening through the city of Geneva, zipping around other vehicles and pedestrians.
The sound of blades slicing the air catches our attention, and our driver swears. “That was faster than I expected,” he says, looking up at the sky. I follow his gaze, and I see a helicopter heading our way.
Our driver makes another quick turn. “I’m going to pull into a garage in about thirty seconds. Once I do, get ready to jump out. You’ll be entering a nondescript blue car, which I’ll pull up next to. Got it?”
“Yes,” I say. The men next to me grunt. They’re even quieter than me.
The SUV fishtails as our driver takes a turn at breakneck speeds. The chopper makes a beeline for our car.
“You must’ve been some kisser,” our driver mutters under his breath.
The wheels of our car squeal as our driver makes the tight turn into the parking garage to our left. As soon as we enter, the car accelerates to the other end of the structure, where a beat-up blue car idles.
Our driver slams on the brakes once we’re almost upon it, and the WUN soldiers and I pile out of the vehicle.
“Thank you,” I say ov
er my shoulder, my voice hoarse. I push down the emotions. I need to hold out just a little longer.
Our driver nods. “Stay safe.”
The helicopter doesn’t notice the dingy blue car that leaves the garage. Instead its attention is focused on the black SUV we were in a minute ago.
I swallow down my worry for our previous driver as I watch his car careen down in the opposite direction, drawing attention away from us. As soon as the king’s men realize I’m not in the car, his life will be in danger.
The rest of our drive is quiet, and the trip stretches on and on. I have no idea where we’re going or what we’ll find when we finally stop. To be honest, I don’t really care at this point.
We move out of the city and pass through several more. As I stare out at the foreign landscape, a hand lands on my shoulder and then one of the soldiers pulls me into his arms and squeezes me tight. Only then do I realize I’m crying. I press my face into his chest, and heave great sobs.
So many people died today—some at the hands of the king’s men, some at the hands of me and mine. So much death. The emotions are welling up; I can hear the keening sound work its way up my throat.
The soldier rubs my back. He’s older—closer to my father’s age than my own—which only makes the ache inside me hurt more acutely. His actions are so much worse than the usual tough guy act soldiers love to play, because at least aloofness separates us from the pain. This is the exact opposite. I can’t avoid, can’t suppress, can’t hide from it anymore.
I sob harder into the soldier’s chest as the events replay over and over through my mind. I feel anger, pain, regret, and pity. Gruesome images play alongside sweet memories. I’m being torn apart and restitched into something awful.
“Shhh, it’s going to be alright,” he says.
But it won’t be. Not ever.