The Queen of All that Lives
Page 53
I swivel just as my guards fall to their knees, one clutching her neck.
Beyond them, three men wait for me, two holding bloody knives, and one with his gun leveled on my chest.
He adjusts his aim, then he pulls the trigger.
I hear a grunt at my side as the guard next to me takes a bullet to the chest. He staggers in front of me, covering my body even as he chokes for breath. The shooter’s gun goes off several more times, and the other soldier flanking me goes down.
In the distance I hear shouts, but they’re too far away.
I reach for my gun as they come at me.
I unholster my weapon just as the three reach me. One of my attackers jerks my arm up. I use the motion to align the barrel with the bottom of his chin.
I fire.
The back of his head blows away. Whatever pretty beliefs he had, whatever life he’d made from himself, it’s gone within an instant.
As quick as I am, I’m still outnumbered two to one. One of the men forces my hands behind my back while the other covers my mouth with a damp cloth.
Now I’m having flashbacks to when the king pulled the same stunt.
That will never happen again.
They are still grappling for my weapon, and now I begin firing, hoping that I can hit some piece of enemy flesh. Blood splatters on my hands and wrists. One of my abductors shouts, releasing me reflexively.
I don’t hesitate. I raise my gun and shoot the man point-blank in the face.
The final man, who’s still pressing the damp cloth against my face now slams me into the wall in an effort to dislodge my weapon, cursing under his breath as he does so. I can hear the panic began to enter his voice.
I’m likely putting up more of a struggle than they expected.
The drug I’m being forced to inhale starts to take effect. Colors are blurring and my movement is slowing.
I lift my gun wielding arm.
Suddenly, I’m yanked back from the wall. The hallway spins with the movement.
My body begins to sag, each muscle feeling increasingly heavy. I still hold my weapon, but it takes an increasing amount of focus to get my body to move.
“Don’t shoot!” the man behind me says.
It takes a second for my eyes to focus.
When they do, I see what my attacker sees: over a dozen different guards and officers, most with their weapons drawn. And right in the middle of them, Montes.
Our eyes find each other. He doesn’t show his fear or his anger, not like most men do. But they’re both there, simmering just beneath the surface.
I know his men aren’t going to shoot, not when my captor is using me as a human shield.
The edges of my vision are starting to darken when I feel the man at my back trying to pry my gun from my grip.
I’m not going out like this.
It takes the rest of my strength just to pull that tiny little trigger. The shot echoes down the hall and the man cries out. I’m not even sure whether or not the bullet hit him or he was just taken by surprise. Either way, it’s enough.
I fall out of his hold, and a dozen other guns discharge. And then the last of my attackers meets his grisly end.
I set my bloody crown down on the airplane’s conference table, the gleam of it somewhat dulled by the blood splatter.
It’s been over an hour since the attack, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at us all. I’m still coated in blood. Despite the fact that I have worn blood more often than makeup, it never gets less horrifying.
Heinrich Weber, the king’s grand marshal, is the last to enter the cabin, the door to the aircraft closing behind him.
“Your Majesties,” he bows to me and Montes, the latter who is stalking up the aisle from the back of the plane, a damp hand towel gripped tightly in his hand, “we found several dead employees in the stadium’s storage closets,” he reports. “From what the investigators have been able to piece together, it’s believed that Serenity’s attackers disposed of them then took their ID badges and gear.”
“That was all it took?” the king says. He kneels in front of me. Placing a hand against my cheek, he begins to wipe down my face with the cloth. I’m so taken by the gesture that I let him tend to me.
“The queen of the entire eastern hemisphere goes to her first—her first—speech,” he continues, “and all it takes for the enemy to infiltrate is a couple stolen badges?” His ministrations roughen with his anger.
As soon as the towel gets close to my lips, I take it from Montes. I don’t want anyone else pressing a damp cloth near my mouth. Not even the king.
He stares into my eyes, one of his hands dropping to my thigh and squeezing it. When he removes his palm, I notice it’s stained red from just touching the fabric I wear.
I’m a bloody, bloody mess.
He stares at his hand for a beat, then his fingers curl into a fist.
Someone’s going to die. I can feel it. The king’s anger has always needed an outlet.
He stands. “Did you discover who the men are affiliated with?”
I begin wiping my arms down. It’s a hopeless task. The blood’s everywhere.
The officer hesitates. “They’re still not sure, but it appears that they were associated with the First Free Men.”
I go still.
Styx Garcia.
The man tried to capture me again after the deal we made. The thought makes me seethe. Surely there’s an explanation for it.
I remember the way Styx looked at me when we last spoke. He wants me for more than just power and political leverage. There is some personal aspect to this.
Beyond them, three men wait for me, two holding bloody knives, and one with his gun leveled on my chest.
He adjusts his aim, then he pulls the trigger.
I hear a grunt at my side as the guard next to me takes a bullet to the chest. He staggers in front of me, covering my body even as he chokes for breath. The shooter’s gun goes off several more times, and the other soldier flanking me goes down.
In the distance I hear shouts, but they’re too far away.
I reach for my gun as they come at me.
I unholster my weapon just as the three reach me. One of my attackers jerks my arm up. I use the motion to align the barrel with the bottom of his chin.
I fire.
The back of his head blows away. Whatever pretty beliefs he had, whatever life he’d made from himself, it’s gone within an instant.
As quick as I am, I’m still outnumbered two to one. One of the men forces my hands behind my back while the other covers my mouth with a damp cloth.
Now I’m having flashbacks to when the king pulled the same stunt.
That will never happen again.
They are still grappling for my weapon, and now I begin firing, hoping that I can hit some piece of enemy flesh. Blood splatters on my hands and wrists. One of my abductors shouts, releasing me reflexively.
I don’t hesitate. I raise my gun and shoot the man point-blank in the face.
The final man, who’s still pressing the damp cloth against my face now slams me into the wall in an effort to dislodge my weapon, cursing under his breath as he does so. I can hear the panic began to enter his voice.
I’m likely putting up more of a struggle than they expected.
The drug I’m being forced to inhale starts to take effect. Colors are blurring and my movement is slowing.
I lift my gun wielding arm.
Suddenly, I’m yanked back from the wall. The hallway spins with the movement.
My body begins to sag, each muscle feeling increasingly heavy. I still hold my weapon, but it takes an increasing amount of focus to get my body to move.
“Don’t shoot!” the man behind me says.
It takes a second for my eyes to focus.
When they do, I see what my attacker sees: over a dozen different guards and officers, most with their weapons drawn. And right in the middle of them, Montes.
Our eyes find each other. He doesn’t show his fear or his anger, not like most men do. But they’re both there, simmering just beneath the surface.
I know his men aren’t going to shoot, not when my captor is using me as a human shield.
The edges of my vision are starting to darken when I feel the man at my back trying to pry my gun from my grip.
I’m not going out like this.
It takes the rest of my strength just to pull that tiny little trigger. The shot echoes down the hall and the man cries out. I’m not even sure whether or not the bullet hit him or he was just taken by surprise. Either way, it’s enough.
I fall out of his hold, and a dozen other guns discharge. And then the last of my attackers meets his grisly end.
I set my bloody crown down on the airplane’s conference table, the gleam of it somewhat dulled by the blood splatter.
It’s been over an hour since the attack, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at us all. I’m still coated in blood. Despite the fact that I have worn blood more often than makeup, it never gets less horrifying.
Heinrich Weber, the king’s grand marshal, is the last to enter the cabin, the door to the aircraft closing behind him.
“Your Majesties,” he bows to me and Montes, the latter who is stalking up the aisle from the back of the plane, a damp hand towel gripped tightly in his hand, “we found several dead employees in the stadium’s storage closets,” he reports. “From what the investigators have been able to piece together, it’s believed that Serenity’s attackers disposed of them then took their ID badges and gear.”
“That was all it took?” the king says. He kneels in front of me. Placing a hand against my cheek, he begins to wipe down my face with the cloth. I’m so taken by the gesture that I let him tend to me.
“The queen of the entire eastern hemisphere goes to her first—her first—speech,” he continues, “and all it takes for the enemy to infiltrate is a couple stolen badges?” His ministrations roughen with his anger.
As soon as the towel gets close to my lips, I take it from Montes. I don’t want anyone else pressing a damp cloth near my mouth. Not even the king.
He stares into my eyes, one of his hands dropping to my thigh and squeezing it. When he removes his palm, I notice it’s stained red from just touching the fabric I wear.
I’m a bloody, bloody mess.
He stares at his hand for a beat, then his fingers curl into a fist.
Someone’s going to die. I can feel it. The king’s anger has always needed an outlet.
He stands. “Did you discover who the men are affiliated with?”
I begin wiping my arms down. It’s a hopeless task. The blood’s everywhere.
The officer hesitates. “They’re still not sure, but it appears that they were associated with the First Free Men.”
I go still.
Styx Garcia.
The man tried to capture me again after the deal we made. The thought makes me seethe. Surely there’s an explanation for it.
I remember the way Styx looked at me when we last spoke. He wants me for more than just power and political leverage. There is some personal aspect to this.
