“Where do you think they’ll go?”
Berta winces. “They might be taking us to the aerodrome, which is a mile outside the Great Wall.”
“That’s even worse,” I twist around and glance further down the vehicle. A few rows back, the Guardian girls sit in their seats with ashen faces, looking like they’ve already guessed our fate.
My mind brings up Ambassador Pascal’s rant about having to travel through hoards of wild men to get to Phangloria. I don’t know which is worse—facing what’s out there or being flown on an airship across the continent to the Amstraad Republic.
Shaking off those thoughts, I reach down to the little refrigerator between the seats in front and pull out a bottle of water. My hands are so clammy, they slip over its cap, so I place the lid between my teeth and twist.
Berta gives me an approving nod. I drink half the contents of the bottle, letting the cold liquid slide down my throat. It cools my nerves and leaves me calm as a cornfield on a still day.
My heartbeat slows, and all traces of panic evaporate into the ether. I snatch the bottle from my lips and read a label that says CALM.
A laugh huffs from my throat. When will I ever learn that water is seldom ever water? But this time, I don’t mind. This time, I need all the help I can get.
The second woman rises from her seat and walks down the aisle. It’s hard to see her features through the visor of her helmet, but I’m sure this is the dark-skinned Amstraadi girl who was first to emerge at the beginning of this interim round.
She turns her head from side to side, seeming to watch our faces, but there’s probably a camera somewhere in the visor that’s recording our every expression. When she reaches the back seat, where Emmera still cowers on Vitelotte’s lap, I fill my mouth with water and wait.
My heart pounds as hard as the pulse booming through my eardrums, but at least it’s slowing.
My fingers tremble over the metal box I hide in the folds of my voluminous skirt.
My throat spasms in time with the woman’s approaching footsteps.
As she passes, I leap out of my seat, spit a mouthful of water on her flashing lights, and stick the wires into her collar. With a loud snap, sparks fly from the device, sending a stinging jolt through my fingers and down my arm.
“Ow!” I snatch my hand away and step back, but the woman twists and elbows me on the side of my face. Pain explodes across my cheekbone, and I fall onto my back.
Smoke billows out from the woman’s collar. She turns around and points her gun in my face. I kick her feet, but Berta rears up and rams her shoulder against the woman’s middle.
“Get down, girls,” Berta yells.
Everybody screams. The woman stumbles back, but it’s not enough to make her fall. She points her gun in the air and sprays the ceiling with bullets as Berta pummels her with massive fists.
“Stop!” The driver slams on the brakes, and the gunwoman staggers several steps down the aisle, now with enough space to shoot Berta.
The woman’s entire collar is on fire, and black smoke streams toward the ceiling. She screams even louder than the girls and tries to douse the flames with the hand not holding the gun. Berta ducks behind the seats, leaving the woman and me alone on the aisle.
I scramble onto my hands and knees, and hot smoke sears the scent of melting plastic and burned flesh into my nostrils. Gagging on the thick air that dries my throat, I wrap my hands around the burning woman’s arm and point her gun at the driver. She struggles, but I’m not the one being asphyxiated with a helmet full of smoke.
Flames spread down her back as we wrestle over control of the gun. The side of my face heats and pieces of molten plastic drop onto my arm. She shoulders me in the throat with the arm holding the weapon, and I fall back onto the side of the seat. Someone kicks me in the side—one of the ungrateful Nobles, probably—and I use the momentum to shove the woman onto her knees.
The gun falls to the floor. I snatch the weapon, point it at the driver, and shoot.
Ryce lets us practice with guns during Red Runner training sessions, but never with live ammunition. He says we can’t risk the sound of gunfire attracting informers or guards. Until today, I had no idea if I was an accurate shooter or if it was just like using a blowdart. I also never fully understood what it meant to shoot a bullet into a living person.
Sparks burst from the driver’s throat, and she falls with a thud. Behind me, Berta stamps on the burning woman, dousing her flames.
Ingrid shoots out of her seat. “What did you do that for? She’s dead.”
“Are you working with them?” I point my gun at Ingrid.
She flinches. “No, but I’m beginning to think that you are.”
“What?”
“How does a tomato-picker know so much hand-to-hand combat?” She glances from left to right at the other Noble girls. “Or know how to shoot a gun with pin-point accuracy?”
Another Noble girl stands. I’ve never spoken to her before, but her eyes burn with loathing. “Why would a girl from a community of people who cover themselves from neck to ankle parade herself naked in front of the prince?”
“That footage was faked!” I shout.
“No.” Ingrid ducks beneath her seat and emerges with Prince Kevon’s gun. “Everything about your joining the Princess Trials was suspicious, starting from your juvenile record.”
“What about her friendship with the Amstraad ambassador?” shouts someone in the middle of the vehicle I’m convinced is one of the Guardians. “They would have sent her back to the Barrens if it wasn’t for
