He rolled onto his back beside me. I stayed on my stomach. A tinge of mirth danced in his eyes. “I should point out an assailant would likely not obey you.”
I offered a scathing glare. “Thanks for thosepoignantwords of advice.”
“Alright. That’s it for today. Once you start spitting at me, you’re useless.”
Quelling the fiery desire to punch his arm, I rose to sit cross-legged beside him. “Do you have any information?”
He rubbed a hand across his face. “They’re moving a load of prisoners from the Stability bloc in a month. You may be able to intercept them.”
“Where are they taking them?”
“Executions. They’re running out of resources to keep everyone alive.” He said it so blasé, like we were discussing which of his coworkers stole his favorite pen.
“Who will perform the executions?”
“Me.”
Right. Of course.
Why did I always forget this about him? The man was an executioner.
“They’re painting it like a celebration. A huge win for the NAO. They know the Defiance is getting closer to toppling everything, and they want to get under your skin, prove they still have all the power.”
“So if we fail, how many people…?”
He shrugged. “I think around two hundred.”
Two hundred?
My head swooped. A moment passed before I could speak. “How—how can you be so calm about potentially murdering that many innocent people?”
“Potentials are not actualities.” His gaze cut to mine. “And I’m not calm. I’m pissed. This shit always falls on me.”
I paused on the bare creases between his eyebrows, the flush of red in his nose and cheeks. Expressive this man was not, but I’d finally learned to parse out the subtle tells in his face.
This was Lucas Scott, angry.
“It does,” I said, puzzling out his reaction. “Why?”
He shook his head, withholding an answer.
“Could you refuse to do it?”
His mouth twisted. “So we can watch Jackie Miller do it instead?”
All the blood drained from my head as another piece of the puzzle snapped violently into place. The NAO took away their option to use firearms for executions solely to degrade us. They wanted us to know the horror that would happen to those who defied them. But unlike his comrades, who tortured before they killed, Lucas didn’t inflict pain or make the deaths linger.
Perhaps Commander Haynes had realized how this treatment of his POWs would look to the rest of the world. Not even fascists enjoyed overt human suffering.
“Holy shit,” I muttered.
His arched brows drew together. “What?”
How could I not have seen? Not only did Lucas offer the most merciful death, he also did it in the most terrifying way. With Lucas and his scalpel, Commander Haynes got exactly what he wanted—terror and a humane death.
“You… You’re… You…”
“Are you having a stroke?”
