The glass shatters, and we hear a surprised shout. Then—

BOOM!

The explosion unfurls out the window, and I can only imagine what it’s doing inside.

Montes already has another grenade in his hand, and he drives this one towards a downstairs room.

The screams start soon after that.

I train my gun on the house’s main entrance. At some point, someone’s going to run out of that front door that might not be evil like the rest of us. My heart and my soul weep for them. All soldiers that have seen considerable action can tell you that there are always these situations—the questionable ones. And often the innocents get caught in the crossfire.

I hope that doesn’t happen today. I hope the people that have nothing to do with Estes’s power plays are far away from here by the time Montes and I level this building. Because we will level the building, and we aren’t taking any prisoners.

I draw in a steadying breath when the front door opens, and then I shoot.

Two guards and a woman I recognize from the meetings. No innocents so far.

I periodically flick my gaze to the windows and the sides of the house. That’s where counterattacks will come from.

Montes throws a third grenade, then a fourth. The screams are beginning to harmonize, and the house is catching fire.

Now people are pouring out of the building, some on fire. I shoot those ones first; it’s one thing to kill, another to watch a human being suffer, and even after all I’ve seen and done, I don’t have the stomach for it.

“I surrender! I surrender!” Over the roar of the fire, it’s hard to hear Estes’s voice. It comes from just inside the front door. “Don’t shoot!”

Like all good vermin, the rat managed to survive the explosions.

“Come out with your hands up!” I yell.

I cradle my trigger lovingly. I’d love nothing more than to pump this man full of bullets.

Through the smoke drifting out of the front door, I make out Estes’s form. Hands in the air, he leaves the shelter of his house. Too late I see the small gun he clutches.

His gun arm drops and he fires off a shot a split second before I fire at him.

I hear Montes shout. Next to me, he stumbles, then pitches forward into the seatbacks, clutching his hip.

I can’t breathe. This is my father all over again. The bullet, the blood, the emotion expanding, expanding, expanding inside of me. It’s too large to contain.

Loss, agony, it’s roaring, ripping through me, and I can no longer passively kill.

I lunge for Montes just as the South American dictator falls. I grab my husband, and there’s blood everywhere.

Not again, please God, not again.

But Montes is breathing. It’s shallow, and with every second that passes more blood slides out of him. I don’t know where he’s hit—whether it’s his thigh or his torso; muscle, artery, or organ.

I’m scared.

I don’t know when that happened—when this terrible man went from being someone I feared to someone I feared for.

Montes shakes his head as I try to help him. “Finish this,” he grits out.

I don’t want to. He could still die; every fiber inside me is warring with itself. My training demands that I stand and shoot, my heart is telling me to keep my husband alive.

Vengeance is a poison, and it slithers through my veins.

Estes tried to kill my husband. My monster. Father of my child.

Something cold and resolute settles on my shoulders. Montes will survive, and I will end this.

I lift my gun. The screams have turned into moans. I shoot at two more people who’ve caught flame. Everyone else is laying in pools of their own blood. Almost all are dead, and those that aren’t will soon be.

I train my weapon on Estes and approach him cautiously.

He’s been inching his way towards his gun, which rests several feet away from him. It must’ve slipped from his hand when he fell.

I reach his gun before he does, and I kick it away, keeping my aim trained on his heart.

The dictator watches me with angry eyes. “You won’t get out of here alive,” he says.

“We’ll see.”

I don’t shoot. Even though he tried to kill me and Montes, I don’t pull the trigger. Not yet.

For all his depravity, Estes is just one more WUN citizen who shares a past like my own.

“What?” he challenges when I don’t shoot. “Do you want to know why I did it?”

“No.”

I already know why. It’s the same reason behind my mother’s death, and my father’s, and my land’s. Power is the worst sort of drug. You can never have enough of it, and you’ll give up every last good thing for more.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

It’s a good question. I want him to redeem himself. I want proof that a soul as far gone as his—or mine, or the king’s—can repent.

But he’s not going to understand, and it’s not going to happen.

“Who are you working with?” I ask.

He tries to laugh but ends up grimacing instead. “You and I both know I won’t tell you.” He’s beginning to sweat. A gut wound is a painful way to go.

Estes has about seven minutes of life left in him. I won’t get answers from him willingly or unwillingly. We both know it.

“Did you really think you could ever do what I do?” he says. “You have no idea. You’re just a savage with a sad story. And the king wants you to rule the world? I won’t be the last—”