June would never do that. Not after what the Republic did to her brother.
Maybe June wants to stop the assassination because she’s falling for the Elector. I shut my eyes as the image of them kissing flares up in my mind. No way. Would the June I know be that sentimental?
All the Patriots are in position—Runners on the roofs, poised with explosives; Hackers one building away from the tunnel entrance, ready to record and broadcast the Elector’s assassination; fighters positioned along the street below us in soldier or civilian garb, prepared to take the Elector’s guards down. Tess and a couple of Medics are scattered, ready to bring the injured into the tunnel. Tess specifically is hiding in the narrow street bordering the left side of my building. After the assassination, we’ll need to be ready to escape, and she’ll be the first one I’ll get.
And then there’s me. According to the plan, June’s supposed to steer the Elector away from the protection of his guards. When we see his jeep speed by alone, the Runners will cut off his escape routes with explosions. Then I head down to the street. After the Patriots have dragged Anden out of his car, I’m going to shoot him.
It’s the middle of the afternoon, but clouds keep the world around me a cold, ominous gray. I check my watch. It’s set on a timer for when the Elector’s jeeps are expected to come whizzing around the corner.
Fifteen minutes until showtime.
I’m shaking. Is the Elector really going to be dead in fifteen minutes—by my hand? Is this plan really going to work? After it’s all over, when are the Patriots going to help me find and rescue Eden? When I’d told Razor about seeing that boy on board the train, he’d given me a sympathetic response and said that he’s already started working to track Eden down. All I can do is believe him. I try to picture the Republic thrown into complete chaos, with the Elector’s assassination publicly broadcast on every JumboTron in the nation. If the people are already rioting, I can only imagine how they’ll react when they see me shoot the Elector. What then? Will the Colonies take advantage of the situation and surge right into the Republic, breaking past the warfront that’s held the two sides apart for so long?
A new government. A new order. I shiver with pent-up energy.
Of course, this doesn’t factor in June’s signal. I try to flex my fingers—my hands are clammy with cold sweat. Hell if I know what’s really going to happen today.
Static buzzes in my earpiece, and I pick up a few broken words from Pascao. “—Orange and Echo streets—clear—” His voice sharpens. “Day?”
“I’m here.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Quick review. Jordan’s setting off the first explosion. When the Elector’s jeep caravan reaches her street, she’ll toss her grenade. June will separate the Elector’s car from the others. I toss my grenade, then they’ll turn right down your street. You toss yours down when you see the caravan. Corner that jeep in—and then head down to the ground. Got it?”
“Yeah. Got it,” I reply. “Just hurry the hell up and get into your own position.”
Waiting here gives me a sick feeling in my stomach, taking me back to that evening when I’d waited for the plague patrols to show up at my mother’s door. Even that night seems better than today. My family was alive back then, and Tess and I were still on good terms. I practice taking several deep breaths and slowly letting them back out. In less than fifteen minutes, I’m going to see the Elector’s caravan—and June—come down this street. My fingers run along the edges of the grenades at my belt.
One minute passes, then another.
Three minutes. Four minutes. Five minutes. Each one drags by slower than the last. My breaths quicken. What will June do? Is she right? What if she’s wrong? I think I’m ready to kill the Elector—I’ve been talking myself into this over the last few days, even getting excited over it. Am I ready to save his life, someone I can’t think about without feeling enraged? Am I ready to have his blood on my hands? What does June know that I don’t? What does she know that makes him so worth saving?
Eight minutes.
Then, suddenly, Pascao comes back on. “Stand by. We’ve got a delay.”
I tense up. “Why?”
There’s a long pause. “Something’s wrong with June,” Pascao says in a hushed whisper. “She fainted while leaving the courthouse. But don’t freak out—Razor says she’s fine. We’re resetting the clocks for a two-minute delay. Got it?”
I rise a little from my crouch. She’s making her move. I know this instantly. Something tingles at the back of my mind, a sixth sense, warning me that whatever I’d planned to do to the Elector will shift depending on what June does next. “Why did she collapse?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Scouts say it looks like she got dizzy or something.”
“So she’s back on track now?”
“Sounds like we’re still moving forward.”
Still moving forward? Was June’s plan foiled? I get up, pace for a few steps, and then return to my crouch. Something’s not right about this scenario. If we’re going ahead with the plan, will I still see her come by in the same jeep as expected—and against her will? Are the Patriots going to know she tried to deviate? The bad feeling refuses to go away, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. Something’s really off.
Two agonizing minutes pass. In my anxiety, I’ve chipped away a large chunk of paint from the hilt of my knife. My thumb’s covered in black flakes.