Forged(64)

“Knowing Clipper, I doubt he’s still angry with you,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

She nods repeatedly, but I feel like she’s struggling to convince herself it’s true.

Elijah left sometime during the night to set up his post, but his cousin sees us off. He gives us extra scarves and hats to keep our faces shielded, and we head out as civilians file to the Rally downtown. We make it to the sewers without incident, and ditch our extra layers in the safety of the tunnels. Sammy breaks off first. Another block underground, and it’s Bree’s turn. My hand finds her wrist as she turns to leave.

“Are you okay? How’s your cheek?”

“Stitches itch, but I’m fine,” she says.

“Bree, I want you to know that—”

“No good-byes,” she demands. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She kisses my cheek and is gone, her boots slapping against the water and waste. I watch her climb the ladder to the street. She doesn’t look back, not even as she pulls herself aboveground and out of sight.

It all feels too familiar, this sort of parting before the impossible. Last time she kissed my cheek and ran into Taem’s belly we left the city with her in my arms, unconscious and bleeding from a bullet wound to the shoulder. I put a fist to my forehead.

Nerves. Damn nerves.

When I was young, I was daring and bold and stupid. I jumped from high tree limbs. I loosened arrows too close to town. I wholeheartedly believed that I was invincible. But I see the truth now: I’m human. Frighteningly, fleetingly human. Like Blaine who is gone because of a bit of metal no larger than my pinky.

I count to ten and then make myself move. At the next junction, I hang a left. Exactly as planned, a ladder waits.

I grab a rung and climb.


My post is a top-floor office overlooking Taem’s public square from the southeast corner. Through the window, I can see the crowds beginning to gather, citizens and Order members alike. The raised platform I stood on last fall has been reconstructed since the fire, and its new beams look smooth as ice compared to the aged building at its rear.

I’ll have a decent shot. Maybe. It all depends on where Frank ends up standing. Stupid Rally security. If Order members weren’t posted on the roofs, in addition to the streets, this would all be a lot easier.

I lock the door even though the building is empty and climb onto the desk. I push away the ceiling panel directly above the computer. Reaching blindly, my fingers find the rifle Bree and Sammy planted when they arrived in Taem a few days earlier. Long barrel, attached scope, one magazine. A year ago I’d never heard of a gun, and now, while I still tend to mix up model names, I can list off basic anatomy. It’s a skill I’m not sure I’m glad to have acquired.

I crouch alongside the window and peer through the slats of the blinds. The wall behind the platform is alive with visuals of other domed cities. Similar squares. Steadily growing crowds. A group of Order members struggle to raise a canopy-like tent over Taem’s platform. Just what I need. Another obstacle to fire around.

I open the window, set up my shot in accordance with where I think Frank will sit onstage. Then comes the waiting.

I wish we were wired—me and Sammy and Bree. The silence gives me too much time to think about all the things that can go wrong. Did Clipper make the drop? Has Harvey uploaded the virus to override the alarm system? How many of the people filing into the square are on our side? When they burst into action, will others join, or will the Order silence them in a flash? And what about Emma? Emma, Emma, Emma.

Sometime around midday, the official festivities begin. The stage swarms to life, filling with high-ranking Order members and political officials. And of course, Frank.

I peer through the scope and mutter a curse.

Harvey is shielding Frank like a bodyguard. From the northwest corner of the square, Sammy won’t have a shot at all, not with the video-illuminated wall at the back of the stage and the canopy raised overhead. And Bree—at the other southern corner of the square—likely has the same shot I do: one that requires shooting through Harvey to get to Frank.

I can almost picture her reaching for the trigger anyway. Two in one, she’d say.

But what if he hasn’t gotten to upload the virus yet? I wait, breath held.

A shot is never fired.

Good, she’s thinking the same as me.

We’ll just have to be patient. Harvey will move eventually. He knows we’re here waiting, and he’ll drop his act at the right moment.

A series of speeches are made, some given by Frank’s officials on the stage, others broadcasted onto the wall behind the platform as the Order speaks from various domed cities. The war is recounted, the freedom won from the raging West, the need to keep the figurative walls between the two countries strong and high. Claims that AmEast has never been stronger, that the Order has secured a new future for its people. Out of ash and destruction, Frank made it possible to once again feel safe.

There are no executions. Frank would never admit it, but I bet he opted for motivational speeches over executions because of the growing tensions beneath his dome. He doesn’t need more martyrs.

When he finally stands and approaches the microphone, the crowd falls eerily silent. Harvey still shadows him on one side, a second advisor on the other. I wish I were on the roof, wish I could just get up and relocate to a position where I’d have a clear shot. This damn window and its limited width.