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 over 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.

Chapter 11

Serenity

I stand in front of the jet’s staircase. The engines are still slowing down, and the pilot won’t let me exit the aircraft until they come to a complete stop. It’s a comical precaution in light of all I’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours.

Outside I can hear the crowd of WUN citizens waiting. Whereas my send off had been rushed and private, my arrival looks to be a bit more public and celebratory. The crowd sounds excited, but it’s unclear what they know. Do they think a peace agreement has been reached? Do they know one was never signed? Do they know my father is dead?

I glance down at my blood-soaked body. The men I was with wouldn’t let me and the other soldiers change or wash off. The world would need proof of what occurred in Geneva for the story to be as believable as possible.

And what then? Even if the image of me covered in blood sparked one last great push to fight against the king, we are doomed to lose the war.

The pilot’s attendant shoos me away from the door so she can lower the staircase. My heart pounds in my chest. I know I’m about to cause a riot, and I’ll be expected to talk. After all, I am now the WUN’s emissary. The thought has me choking back a sob.

The attendant clears her throat to get my attention. I can tell she doesn’t want to touch me—not that I blame her. “Whenever you’re ready, you can go.”

I look behind me at the three WUN soldiers, all that’s left of our original entourage. Just like me, they are still covered with gore.

The soldier who comforted me hours ago now nods to me. I take a breath and walk out of the jet.

I screamed and cried my last tears several hours ago. I’ve got a good hour or two of respite before the grief swallows me up all over again.

Now is not the time for weakness. Now is the time to show my strength. So I square my shoulders; I need to send the message that I am not scared. If the king is my country’s worst nightmare, I’ll be his.

I step into the doorway and stare out at the crowd that waits. Once people catch a glimpse of me, they go quiet. The posters some hold wilt in their hands. Whatever their expectations were, it’s clear that this is not it.