A female attacker emerges through the vehicle’s door with her gun raised and pointed at Prince Kevon’s blindside.
My heart spasms. I scream, “Watch out!”
He twists, ducks, but the woman slams the butt of her rifle into the back of the prince’s head, making him fall into the first man. This time, even I shriek.
The woman slams her elbow into Prince Kevon’s back, shoving him forward, and the man punches the prince full in the face. Blood explodes from Prince Kevon’s nose, eliciting more screams from the girls.
My stomach tightens into knots, and my hands curl into fists. Fury surges through my veins, and without thinking, I shoot out of my seat.
Berta grabs my shoulder and shoves me down. “Don’t make yourself a target.”
A dazed, bleeding Prince Kevon sways on his feet, and the woman places a black sack over his head. She yanks on a cord around its base, and it tightens around his neck like a garrote.
The prince’s hands fly up to his neck, but she pulls harder. His choking sounds bring back the anguish of last night, and I clutch at my own throat.
“That’s enough from you.” She drags him across the front of the bus and out of its doors.
The man who electrocuted Lady Circi turns her over with his foot and slaps the cuffs on her wrists.
A siren wails in the distance. I twist around in my seat and glance out of the back window for signs of the reinforcements Berta mentioned earlier, but it’s a white ambulance. My pulse pounds within a throat already dry and hoarse from the horrors of the evening. Even if the medics are here to help, these hijackers will kill them like they killed the queen.
A pair of women board. They wear the same black armor and helmets as the men and point machine guns down the aisles. One of them shouts, “Remain in your seats, or we’ll shoot.”
Their accomplices drag out the bodies of Lady Circi, Queen Damascena, and their fallen comrades.
Berta leans her head against the window. “We’re dead.”
“Has anything like this ever happened before?” I whisper.
“Not in centuries,” she whispers back. “Amstraad had a choice on who to back in the last civil war, and they chose the Nobles.”
“Everybody, pay attention,” says one of the women up at the front. “You are now the hostages of the Freedom Army. Sit still, stay quiet, and no one else will get shot or electrocuted.”
I lean forward and study our captors. They’re both statuesque and move with the same grace and precision as the Amstraadi girls. The high collars that meld with the base of their helmets flash with the same kind of lights I saw on Mouse’s collar.
“Do you think they’re the girls from the trials?” I whisper.
“Does it matter?” mutters Berta.
She’s right. Identities don’t matter right now, and neither do the motives of our attackers. These people are resourceful, ruthless, and ready to use us as leverage to achieve their ends. But there’s a flaw in their plan. A flaw that fills my stomach with acid and burns the back of my throat.
King Arias will soon return to the Oasis with reinforcements, but I doubt he would negotiate for our safe return. Even if Prince Kevon pleaded with his father for our lives, his experience with Gemini proves how little sway he has over his parents’ decision-making.
“Where are you taking us?” asks a Noble with long ringlets sitting in the first row with Ingrid. I’m sure she’s Constance Spryte, who got the second-highest votes.
The woman on the left pokes Constance with the muzzle of her gun. “The next person who speaks or rises from her seat will get shot, is that understood?”
Nobody replies.
“Good.” The smirk in our captor’s voice makes me cringe.
Her companion lowers herself into the driver’s seat and fires up the engine. I lean forward, place my head on the backrest in front, and massage my pounding temples.
The vehicle speeds down the road toward our unknown destination, and I breathe harsh, ragged breaths. A worst-case scenario flashes before my eyes. All the girls filthy and hungry and huddled together in an underground bunker as our captors film footage of our misery.
Trepidation tingles up my spine and settles around my tightening throat. They might even execute a few of us on camera to prove that they are serious about their demands, but it won’t work. Maybe King Arias will make concessions for Ingrid, Constance, and the other Noble girls, but I doubt he will value the lives of the Harvesters.
Across the aisle, a pair of Nobles weep into their hands, and the corset around my bodice constricts my chest and steals my capacity to breathe. I force shallow breaths in and out of my lungs, but it’s not enough, and sweat gathers on my brow.
If the events of the ballroom were broadcasted live across Phangloria, Dad will know the Harvesters will be the first to get slaughtered. He’ll prepare himself for the worst, but Mom will remain optimistic until the end.
“We’re going to die,” I whisper.
“You’re only working that out now, genius?” Berta whispers back.
With a flash of annoyance, I twist around in my seat and scowl. “Will you shut up for a minute?”
Berta’s lips tighten. Red rims her eyes, and dark smudges of makeup mar her skin from having wiped them without care. Despite the sarcasm, Berta is just as frightened as Emmera, who won’t stop wailing at the back.
Leaning close, I whisper, “If we don’t do something, the underdog and bucking bronco will be the first to die.”
“That’s not how Amstraadi games work,” she whispers back.
I shake my head. We’re not safe. Mouse had given me a cryptic warning that something was going to happen. He might have been serious earlier about wanting to protect me, or he might be watching us from a camera somewhere and laughing that I didn’t take up his offer. He was a creep, and I don’t care.
Besides, Berta never heard
