Legend

I glare at him. He winces, but doesn’t apologize for his change in tone. This may be it for me.

“I didn’t do it,” I say.

Thomas looks unconvinced. “You didn’t do it,” he repeats back at me.

“What else can I tell you? Did they do at least another pass on the inventory check? Are you sure something’s missing?”

Thomas clears his throat. “Someone tampered with the security cams down here, so we have no footage.” He taps his gun. “It was quite a precise job. And when I think of precise, I think of one person. You.”

My heart starts beating faster.

“I don’t want to do this.” Thomas’s voice grows softer. “But I did find it strange that you spent so much time questioning Day. Do you feel sorry for him now? Did you set something up to—”

He never gets to finish that sentence.

Suddenly an explosion rocks the entire corridor, throwing us against the wall. Dust rains down from the ceiling, and sparks flicker through the air. (The Patriots. The electro-bomb. They’ve set it off in the square. They came after all, right on schedule, right before Day is to enter the firing squad yard. Which means all the guns in this building should be disabled for exactly two minutes. Thank you, Kaede.)

I shove Thomas hard against the wall before he can regain his balance. Then I yank the knife out from his belt, reach for the electric grid box, and pull it open. Behind me, Thomas reaches for his gun as if in slow motion.

“Stop her!”

I take the knife and slice through all the wires on the bottom of the electric grid.

A pop. A shower of sparks. The entire basement goes black.

I hear Thomas curse. (He’s discovered his gun is useless.) Soldiers stumble over each other. I quickly feel my way to the stairwell.

“June!” Thomas shouts from somewhere behind me. “You don’t get it—it’s for your own good!”

The words come spilling out of my mouth in a rage. “Yeah, is that what you told Metias?”

Not much time before backup power kicks in. I don’t wait around to hear Thomas’s reply. I reach the stairs and jump up three at a time, counting the seconds since the electro-bomb went off. (Eleven seconds so far. One hundred and nine seconds left before guns are functional again.)

I burst through the first-floor door into a sea of chaos. Soldiers rushing out to the square. Footsteps thundering everywhere. I make my way straight back toward the firing squad yard. Details zip around me like a highway of thoughts. (Ninety-seven seconds left. Thirty-three soldiers heading opposite me—twelve heading in my direction— some flat screens have gone dark—must be the power cut—others show pandemonium in the crowd outside— something’s falling from the sky into the square—money! The Patriots are raining money down from the roofs. Half the crowd’s fighting to get out of the square while the other half’s scrambling for the Notes.)

Seventy-two seconds. I reach the firing squad hall and take in the scene in an instant: three unconscious soldiers. John and Day (with a blindfold loose around his neck, which the guards must’ve put over his eyes right before the bomb went off) are fighting with a fourth. The others must’ve been called to help contain the square— but they won’t be long now. They’ll come back in no time. I run up behind them and kick the soldier’s feet out from under him. He tumbles to the ground. John punches him in the jaw. The soldier goes limp.

Sixty seconds. Day looks unsteady, as if he might pass out. A soldier must’ve hit him across the head, or maybe his leg is giving him trouble. John and I support him between us—I guide us into a narrower hall branching away from the firing squad corridors and we start making our way toward the exits. Commander Jameson’s voice blares out from the intercoms a second later. She sounds furious.

“Execute him! Kill him now! Make sure the square broadcasts it!”

“Damn it,” Day says under his breath. His head sways to one side—his bright blue eyes look dull and unfocused. I exchange a look with John and keep going. Soldiers will be on their way back now. Back to drag Day out into the yard.

Twenty-seven seconds.

We’re a good 250 feet from the exits. (We’re covering about 5 feet a second; 27 times 5 equals 135 feet. In 135 feet, guns will be reactivated. I can already hear soldiers’ boots in the corridors adjacent to ours, pounding on the floor. Probably searching for us. We need at least 23 more seconds to get to the doors before they catch us in this hall. They’ll shoot us dead long before we can get out.)

I hate my calculations.

John glances at me. “We’re not going to make it.” Between us, Day has faded into a semiconscious state. If the brothers continue on and I run back to fight the soldiers, I’ll probably only take down a few before they overwhelm me. They’ll still reach John and Day.

John stops walking, and I feel Day’s weight shift over to me. “What—” I begin to say, until I see John pull the blindfold off of Day’s neck. Then he turns around. My eyes widen. I know what he’s going to do. “No, stay with us!”

“You need more time,” John says. “They want an execution? They’ll get one.” He starts running away from us. Back down the hall.

Back toward the firing squad yard.

No. No, no, John. Where are you going! I waste a second looking back at him, torn in that instant, wondering if I should chase after him.

John’s going to do it.

Then Day’s head lolls against my shoulder. Six seconds. I have no choice. Even as I hear the shouts of soldiers