The soldiers begin escorting our party back to the front of the conference hall and toward our respective rides. I take each step deliberately, trying hard to maintain my focus. Now is not the moment to fail because of illness. I keep my eyes on the hall’s entrance. Since our last train ride, this is the one idea I’ve settled on that just might work. Something to throw off all the Patriots’ timing—something I can do to prevent us from heading back toward Pierra’s main military hall.
I hope this works. I don’t think I can afford any mistakes.
With ten feet to the doors, I stumble. Instantly, I right myself again and continue walking, but then stumble again. Murmurs from the Senators rise up behind me. One of them snaps, “What is it?”
Then Anden is there, his face hovering above me. Two of his guards jump in front of him. “Elector, sir,” one says. “Please stay back. We’ll take care of this.”
“What happened?” Anden asks, first to the soldiers, then to me. “Are you injured?”
It’s not too hard to pretend I’m about to faint. The world around me fades, then sharpens again. My head hurts. I raise my head and make eye contact with Anden. Then I let myself collapse to the ground.
Startled exclamations buzz around me. Then my ears perk up when I hear Anden above them all, saying exactly what I’d hoped he would say: “Take her to the hospital. Immediately. ” He remembers my last piece of advice to him, what I’d said to him on the train.
“But, Elector—” protests the same guard who had barred him earlier.
Anden takes on a steely tone. “Are you questioning me, soldier?”
Strong hands help me back to my feet. We go through the doors and back out into the light of an overcast morning. I squint at the surroundings, still searching for suspicious faces. Are the guards holding me up potentially Patriots in disguise? I cast glances at them, but their expressions are completely blank. Adrenaline is rushing through me—I’ve made my move. The Patriots know I’ve deviated from the plan, but they don’t know if I did it intentionally. The important thing is that the hospital is on a route opposite the one leading to the Pierra base, where the Patriots are ready and waiting. Anden’s going to follow me. The Patriots won’t have time to readjust their positions.
And if the other Patriots hear about this, so should Day. I close my eyes and hope that he can follow through. I try sending a silent message to him. Run away. When you hear that I’ve deviated from the plan, run away as fast as you can.
A guard hoists me up into the backseat of one of the waiting jeeps. Anden and his soldiers get into the jeep in front of us. The Senators, bewildered and indignant, go to their regular cars. I have to force a smile off my face as I sit limply in my seat, peering out the windows. The jeep roars to life and pulls forward. Through the windshield, I see Anden’s jeep leading us away from the conference hall.
Then, just as I’m congratulating myself for such a stellar plan, I realize that our jeeps are still headed for the base. They’re not going toward the hospital at all. My momentary joy vanishes. Fear replaces it.
One of my guards notices too. “Hey, chauffeur,” he snaps at the soldier who’s driving. “Wrong way. Hospital’s on the left side of town.” He sighs. “Somebody get the Elector’s driver on his mike. We’re—”
The driver waves him off, presses one thick, gnarly hand against his ear in concentration, then glances back at us with a frown. “Negative. We just got orders to stay on our original course,” he replies. “Commander DeSoto says the Elector wants Ms. Iparis taken to the hospital afterward, instead.”
I freeze. Razor must be lying to Anden’s driver—I seriously doubt that Anden would have let him give the drivers such an order. Razor’s going ahead with the plan; he’s going to force us to take the intended route in any way that he can.
It doesn’t matter what the reason is. We’re still heading straight toward the Pierra base . . . straight into the Patriots’ waiting arms.
THE DAY OF THE ELECTOR’S ASSASSINATION IS finally here. It arrives like a looming hurricane of change, promising everything I’m anticipating and dreading. Anticipating: the Elector’s death. Dreading: June’s signal.
Or maybe it’s the other way around.
I still don’t know what to make of it. It leaves me on edge when I would otherwise feel nothing but a rising sense of enthusiasm. I tap restlessly on the hilt of my knife. Be careful, June. That’s the only certain thought running through my head. Be careful—for your sake, and for ours.
I’m perched precariously at the edge of a crumbling windowsill in an old shell of a building, four stories up and hidden from the street, with two grenades and a gun tucked securely at my belt. Like the rest of the Patriots, I’m dressed in a black Republic coat, so from a distance I look like a Republic soldier. A black stripe runs across my eyes again. The only thing distinguishing us is a white band on our left (instead of right) arms. From here, I can see the railroad tracks that run right along a neighboring street, slicing Pierra in half. Off to my right, in a small alley three buildings down, lies the entrance to the Patriots’ Pierra tunnel. Its underground bunker is empty now. I’m alone in this abandoned building, although I’m pretty sure Pascao can see me from his vantage point on a roof across the street. The thud of my heart against my ribs can probably be heard for miles.
I start thinking, for the hundredth time, about why June wants to stop the assassination. Did she uncover something the Patriots are keeping a secret from me? Or did she do what Tess had guessed she might do—did she betray us? I shake the thought stubbornly away.