COMMANDER JAMESON’S GOING TO SHOOT HIM—THE direction she’s aiming her gun is unmistakable.
Day’s sprinting through the dust that blankets the street. Day, what are you doing? He stumbles in his dash, and even from the roofs I can tell that he’s struggling to make his body move, that every last inch of him is screaming from exhaustion. He’s going to push himself too far. I glance in the direction he’s going, searching out what has drawn his attention.
Eden. Of course. The nurse holding Eden trips and falls in the midst of all the billowing smoke, and when she gets up, fear gets the best of her because she just starts running away. Fury rises up inside me. Left behind is Eden, slowly stirring and completely vulnerable in the open street, blind, separated from the group, and coughing uncontrollably from the smoke.
I jump to my feet. With the way Day’s running opposite of everyone else, he’ll soon be in an area where he’s an open target.
My hand flies to my waist—and then I remember that my own gun is out of bullets. I sprint back across the rooftop toward my last target, where I hadn’t yet dropped his gun off the roof. When I glance toward Commander Jameson again, I see her tense and aim. No. No! She fires a shot.
The bullet misses Day by a couple of feet. He stumbles in his rush, throwing an arm briefly over his head out of instinct, but picks himself up and continues doggedly on. My heart thuds frantically against my chest. Faster. I take a flying leap from one roof to the next. Down below, I see Day nearing Eden. Then he’s there, he’s reached him, he’s skidding to a halt next to Eden and throwing his arms protectively around his little brother. The dust around them makes them hard to focus on, as if they’re both ghosts in faded colors. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I draw closer to the fallen soldiers. I hope the dust is throwing Commander Jameson’s aim off.
I reach the downed soldier. I grab his gun. One bullet left.
Below, Day picks up Eden, puts one hand protectively against the back of his brother’s head, and then starts staggering back toward the shelter as fast as his broken body will allow him. Commander Jameson takes aim again—I scream in my head and push myself to go faster. All of my adrenaline, every fiber of my attention and concentration, is now focused like an arrow on her. She fires. This time the bullet misses the brothers, but it sparks barely a foot away from Day. He doesn’t even bother to look up. He only clutches Eden tighter, then stumbles onward.
I finally near the roof where she is. I leap onto it, landing on its flat concrete surface. From here, I can see both the roof I’m on and the street below. Three dozen yards ahead of me, partially obscured by chimneys and vents, Commander Jameson crouches with her back turned to me, her focus on the streets.
She fires again. Down below, I hear a hoarse shriek of pain from a voice I know all too well. All my breath escapes me. I glance quickly to the street to see Day fall to his knees, dropping Eden for a moment. The sounds around me dull.
He’s been shot.
He shudders, then picks himself up again. Hoists Eden into his arms again. Staggers onward. Commander Jameson fires one more time. The bullet makes impact. I hoist the gun in my hands, then point it straight at her. I’m close enough now, close enough to see the ridges of her bulletproof vest lining her back. My hands shake. I have a perfect vantage, a straight shot right at Commander Jameson’s head. She’s getting ready to fire again.
I aim.
As if the world has suddenly slowed to a million frames a second, Commander Jameson spins around. She senses my presence. Her eyes narrow—and then she swivels her gun toward me, taking her focus off Day. Thoughts flash through my mind at the speed of light. I pull my gun’s trigger, firing my last bullet straight at her head.
And I miss.
I never miss.
No time to dwell on this—Commander Jameson has her gun pointed at me, and as my bullet whizzes past her face, I see her smile and fire. I throw myself to the ground, then roll. Something sparks barely an inch from my arm. I dart behind a nearby chimney and press myself as tightly against the wall as I can. Somewhere behind me, the sound of heavy boots approaches. Breathe. Breathe. Our last confrontation flashes through my mind. Why can I face everything in the world except Commander Jameson?
“Come out and play, Little Iparis,” she calls out. When I stay silent, she laughs. “Come out, so you can see your pretty boy bleeding to death on the street.”
She knows exactly how to slice right into my heart. But I grit my teeth and force the image of a bleeding, dying Day out of my head. I don’t have time for this bullshit. What I need to do is disarm her—and at that thought, I look down at my useless gun. Time to play a game of pretend.
She’s silent now. All I can hear is the soft tap of approaching boots, the steady nearing of my brother’s killer. My hands tighten on my gun.
She’s close enough. I shut my eyes for an instant, mutter a quick whisper for good luck—and then whirl out from my hiding place. I point my gun up at Commander Jameson as if I’m about to fire. She does what I hope—she flinches to the side, but this time I’m ready, and I lunge straight for her. I jump, then kick her face as hard as I can. My boots make a satisfying sound on impact. Her head snaps backward. Her grip on her gun loosens, and I take the opportunity to kick it right out of her hands. She collapses onto the roof with a thud—her gun flies off to one side, then falls right off the roof and to the smoke-filled streets below.
I don’t dare stop my momentum. While she’s still down, I swing my elbow at her face in an effort to knock her unconscious. My first blow hits—but my second one doesn’t. Commander Jameson grabs my elbow, snaps her other hand on my wrist like a shackle, and then twists. I flip with it. Pain shoots up my arm as it bends in her grasp. Before she can break it, I twist around and stomp on her arm with the sharp heel of my boot. She winces, but doesn’t let go. I stomp again, harder.
Her grip loosens by a hair, and I finally manage to slip out of her grasp.
She hops to her feet right as I put some distance between us and turn again to face her. We start to circle each other, both of us breathing heavily, my arm still screaming in pain and her face marred by a trickle of blood coming from her temple. I already know I can’t win against her in an all-out brawl. She’s taller and stronger, equipped with years of training that my talents can’t match. My only hope is to catch her by surprise again, to find a way to turn her own force against her. As I continue to circle, waiting and watching for an opening, the world around us fades away. I draw on all my anger, letting it replace my fear and give me strength.
It’s just you and me now. This is the way it was always meant to be, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since it all began. We’ll face each other at the very end with our bare hands.
Commander Jameson strikes first. Her speed terrifies me. One second she’s before me, and the next she’s at my side, her fist flying toward my face. I don’t have time to dodge. All I manage to do is jerk my shoulder up at the last second, and her fist hits me instead as a glancing blow. Stars explode across my eyes. I stumble backward. I manage to dodge her next blow—barely. I roll away from her, fighting to clear my vision, and pop back onto my feet. When she lunges again, I jump up and kick at her head. It catches her, but she’s too fast for it to be head-on. I dart away again. This time I back up slowly toward the edge of the roof, my eyes terrified to leave her. Good, I remind myself. Look as frightened as you can. Finally, the back of my boot hits the roof’s ledge. I glance down, then back up at Commander Jameson. Despite a slight unsteadiness, she looks undaunted. It isn’t hard for me to fake the fear in my wide eyes.
She stalks toward me like a predator. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to—everything she’s ever wanted to tell me has already been said before. It runs through my head like a poison. Little Iparis, how much you remind me of myself at your age. Adorable. Someday, you’ll learn that life isn’t always what you want it to be. That you won’t always get what you want. And that there are forces out of your control that will shape you into who you are. Too bad your time ends here. It would’ve been fun to see what you grow up to become.
Her eyes hypnotize me. In this moment, I can imagine no worse sight.
She lunges forward.
I have only one chance. I duck, grab her arm, and flip her right over my head. Her momentum sends her sailing over the edge of the roof.
But her hand clamps down on my arm. I’m yanked halfway over the ledge—my left shoulder pops out of its socket. I scream. My heels dig in against the ledge, fighting to keep me from falling over. Commander Jameson flattens herself against the side of the building, grappling for footholds. Her nails dig so deep into my flesh that I can feel my skin ripping. Tears spring to my eyes. Down below, Republic soldiers are still herding evacuees, firing on enemy soldiers on other roofs, shouting orders into their mikes.
I scream at them with everything I have left. “Shoot her!” I shout. “Shoot her! ”
Two Republic soldiers snap their heads in my direction. They recognize me. As they lift their guns in my direction, Commander Jameson looks up into my eyes and grins. “I knew you couldn’t do it yourself.”
Then the soldiers open fire, Commander Jameson’s body convulses, her grip suddenly loosens, and she plummets like a wounded bird to the street. I turn away so I don’t have to look, but I still hear the sickening sound of her body against pavement. She’s gone. Just like that. I’m left with her words and my own ringing through my ears.
Shoot her. Shoot her.
Metias’s words flash through my mind. Few people ever kill for the right reasons.
I hurriedly wipe the tears from my face. What did I just do? Her blood stains my hands—I rub my good hand against my clothes, but I can’t get it off. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. “This is the right reason,” I whisper repeatedly.
Perhaps she destroyed herself, and I only helped. But even this thought seems hollow.
The agony of my dislocated shoulder makes me light-headed. I lift my right arm, grip my wounded left arm, grit my teeth, and push hard. I scream again. The bone resists for an instant—and then I feel my shoulder pop back into place. Fresh tears course down my face. My hands tremble uncontrollably, and my ears ring, blocking out any sound around me except the beating of my heart.
How long has it been? Hours? A few seconds?
The pulsing light of logic seeps into my mind, cutting through the pain. As always, it saves me. Day needs your help, it whispers. Go to him.
I search for Day. He has reached the other side of the street and the safer areas around the shelter, where Republic soldiers have set up their barricades . . . but even as I start rushing to the edge of the roof, I notice that others have pulled Eden’s unconscious form away from Day and are taking him to safety. A few hover over Day as he lies on the ground, momentarily obscuring him from my view. I scramble down the building as fast as I can, until I reach a fire escape and rush down the metal steps. Fear and adrenaline numb my injuries.
Please, I beg silently. Please let him be okay.