nineteen
Haven
Agunshot sounds, and I jolt awake.
Knox is staring around, alarmed. Voices shout in the distance.
That can’t be good.
“Reinforcements,” Knox says with relief. “Ender, my beautiful, ill-tempered friend, has found us.”
The door slams open, and Idris barges in. He’s back in his mask.
“We need to leave, princess,” he says. “Now.”
He unlatches my chains, leaving the cuffs on. I stare at Knox.
“What about Knox?” I ask.
“His friends can have him.”
“Leave her alone,” Knox says, straining against his chains.
A second gunshot tears through the wall, punching into the wardrobe. I jerk backward, knocking a chair over. Knox struggles harder, his face twisted in frustration.
Idris grabs my arm, yanking me toward the door. “Come on! Move!”
My eyes dart to Knox. He could get hit by a wayward bullet and die.
The walls echo with shouts and the blasting sound of gunfire. Whatever is going on outside is going to creep inward eventually, and Knox could die.
My hands fumble at the cuffs, uselessly.
“We have to help him,” I say. “We can’t leave him behind.”
“Princess, now!” Idris hisses, pulling me again.
The sound of a shot cracks directly behind us, and I stumble forward, almost losing my balance. I hear Knox grunt as the bullet tears through the wall where he sat only moments ago. He ducked in time, but what if the next one slides between his eyes?
It is cruel to leave him behind, and my instincts scream at me to protect him.
“Get him,” I whisper to Idris. “Or I’ll do it myself.”
I’m their leverage, and if I die trying to help Knox, Idris will get in trouble. I don’t expect him to agree since he could just drag me along, but he curses under his breath, leaving me in the hallway to unlock Knox’s chain. Just like me, Knox’s cuffs remain on.
My lungs burn from the smoke. My wrists are raw where the cuffs dig in. Smoke thickens my lungs, and mangled screams pierce the air.
Chaos unfolds around us.
I worry for Prue and the others. If Ender is here, there won’t be any survivors left.
Idris leads us to the basement, down a row of crooked stairs. The rebels’ voices are frantic as they scramble to slide into their vehicle.
Prue is standing by a big, black truck, twice the size of her, built for off-road trails.
“We need to move out,” she says. “Now.”
A grenade launches at the garage doors, and the wall caves in. I fall to my knees, my ears ringing. Blood trickles down to my neck, and I taste a film of ash on my tongue.
