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It feels like an eternity (in actuality the trip takes a mere two minutes and twelve seconds), but we finally arrive at a nondescript building near the heart of downtown Denver, a thirty-story high-rise covered with crisscrossing support beams on all four of its sides. Dozens of city patrols are mixed in with crowds of civilians, organizing them into groups at the entrance. Our driver pulls the jeep up to the side of the building, where patrols let us through the door of a makeshift fence. Through the window, I see soldiers click their heels together in sharp salutes as we pass by. One of them is holding Ollie on a leash. I slump in relief at the sight of him. When the jeep halts, two of them promptly open the doors for us. Anden steps out—immediately he’s surrounded by four patrol captains, all feverishly updating him on how the evacuation is going. My dog pulls his soldier frantically to my side. I thank the soldier, take over the leash, and rub Ollie’s head. He’s panting in distress.
“This way, Ms. Iparis,” the soldier who opens my door says. Day follows behind me in a tense silence, his hand still clutched tightly around Eden’s. Lucy comes out last. I look over my shoulder to where Anden’s now deep in conversation with his captains—he pauses to exchange a quick look with me. His eyes dart to Eden. I know that the thought he has must be the same thought running through Day’s mind: Keep Eden safe. I nod, signaling to him that I understand, and then we move past a crowd of waiting evacuees and I lose sight of him.
Instead of dealing with the lineup of civilians at the entrance, soldiers escort us through a separate entrance and down a winding set of stairs, until we reach a dimly lit hallway that ends in a set of wide, steel double doors. The guards standing at the entrance shift their stance when they recognize me.
“This way, Ms. Iparis,” they say. One of them stiffens at the sight of Day, but looks quickly away when Day meets his stare. The doors swing open for us.
We’re greeted by a blast of warm, humid air and a scene of orderly chaos. The room we’ve stepped into seems like an enormous warehouse (half the size of a Trial stadium, three dozen fluorescents, and six rows of steel beams lining the ceiling), with a lone JumboTron on the left wall blasting instructions to the upper-class evacuees who mill all around us. Amongst them are a handful of poor-sector people (fourteen of them, to be exact), those who must have been the housekeepers and janitors of some of the gem-sector’s homes. To my disappointment, I see soldiers separating them out into a different line. Several upper-class people cast them sympathetic looks, while others glare in disdain.
Day sees them too. “Guess we’re all created equal,” he mutters. I say nothing.
A few smaller rooms line the right wall. At the far end of the room, the end of a parked subway train rests inside a tunnel, and crowds of both soldiers and civilians have gathered along both of its platforms. The soldiers are attempting to organize the crowds of bewildered, frightened people onto the subway. Where it will take them, I can only guess.
Beside me, Day watches the scene with silent, simmering eyes. His hand stays clamped on Eden’s. I wonder whether he’s taking note of the aristocratic clothing that most of these evacuees are wearing.
“Apologies for the mess,” a guard says to me as she escorts us toward one of the smaller rooms. She taps the edge of her cap politely. “We are in the early stages of evacuations, and as you can see, the first wave is still in progress. We can have you, as well as Day and his family, on the first wave as well, if you don’t mind resting for a moment in a private suite.”
Mariana and Serge might already be waiting in rooms of their own. “Thank you,” I reply. We walk past several doors, their long, rectangular windows revealing empty, blank rooms with portraits of Anden hanging on their walls. A couple look as if they have been reserved for high-ranking officials, while others appear to be holding people who must have caused trouble—detainees with sullen faces flanked by pairs of soldiers. One room that we pass by holds several people surrounded by guards.
It is this room that makes me pause. I recognize one of the people in there. Is it really her? “Wait,” I call out, stepping closer to the window. No doubt about it—I see a young girl with wide eyes and a blunt, messy bob of a haircut, sitting in a chair beside a gray-eyed boy and three others who look more ragged than I recall. I glance at our soldier. “What are they doing in there?”
Day follows my lead. When he sees what I see, he sucks in a sharp breath. “Get us in there,” he whispers to me. His voice takes on a desperate urgency. “Please.”
“These are prisoners, Ms. Iparis,” the soldier replies, puzzled by our interest. “I don’t recommend—”
I tighten my lips. “I want to see them,” I interrupt.
The soldier hesitates, glances around the room, and then nods reluctantly. “Of course,” she replies. She steps toward the door and opens it, then ushers us in. Lucy stays right outside with her hand tightly gripping Eden’s. The door closes behind us.
I find myself staring straight at Tess and a handful of Patriots.
WELL, DAMN. THE LAST TIME I SAW TESS, SHE WAS STANDING in the middle of the alley near where we were supposed to assassinate Anden, her fists clenched and her face a broken picture. She looks different now. Calmer. Older. She’s also gotten a good bit taller, and her once-round baby face has leaned out. Weird to see.
She and the others are all shackled to chairs. The sight doesn’t help my mood. I recognize one of her companions immediately—Pascao, the dark-skinned Runner with a head of short curls and those ridiculously pale gray eyes. He hasn’t changed much, although now that I’m close enough, I can see traces of a scar across his nose and another one near his right temple. He flashes me a brilliant white grin that drips sarcasm. “That you, Day?” he says, giving me a flirtatious wink. “Still as gorgeous as you’ve always been. Republic uniforms suit you.”
