A shot rings out and blood sprays as a soldier ahead of me takes a bullet to the head. What remains of his body collapses, and I have to jump over him to keep from tripping. There’s nothing we can do for him at this point.

“Sniper!” I shout. The remaining soldiers and I scatter, running wildly left and right. I’ve trained with these people; we work soundlessly as a unit. Only now I’m their commander. Because my father …

My eyes move over the fence, until I spot a car waiting about a hundred yards down to my left. I whistle and point to my men. Their movements are still wild, but they’re moving towards it. I hear the sound of another gunshot, and the soldier running ahead of me falls.

I snarl and glance over at the mansion. It’s impossible to see a sniper from here, so I can’t do anything about it. But someone does catch my eye.

The king, standing on his back balcony. He’s too far away to shoot as well, otherwise I would. He’s also too far away for me to make out his expression. I hope he’s hurting, I hope he knows I slaughtered his men, and I hope today causes him unending grief, like it will for me.

I know it won’t.

I turn away from him and focus on the fence and the car, some heavy SUV with tinted windows. Another shot rings out, and I hear it ping against the car’s armor. At this point, I can only hope it didn’t destroy anything vital, or else we’re out of an escape.

Ahead of me, someone—probably our ride—has cut away two of the wrought iron fence posts, leaving an opening wide enough for a person to slip through. The soldiers exit through it and jump into the car.

I’m the last out, and I follow my soldiers into the back of the SUV.

Our driver, a burly, bearded man, guns the engine and peels down the road, constantly checking his rearview and side view mirrors.

We skid around the corner, the car fishtailing, then we’re accelerating until my surroundings blur. Three official-looking cars pull onto the road behind us. I glance at our driver. He doesn’t look nervous. No, he smiles when he notices the vehicles. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s just as bloodthirsty as I am.

I hear a distant, high-pitched whine, and then the first car behind us explodes in a burst of flame. The sound of crumbling metal follows a second later, presumably as the two cars following the first crash into it. Someone laid in wait for those cars. And someone shot them with a grenade launcher.

Our driver whoops and slams his palm triumphantly on the driving wheel. “That’s how it’s fucking done!”

Rather than join in, I feel myself weaken as I release the last of my adrenaline. I lean back in my seat. “Who are you?” I ask.

The man pauses a beat. “I am a part of the Resistance.”

He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “And judging by the fact that you have more blood on you than a butcher, I’m guessing that you aren’t as traitorous as everyone’s making you out to be.”

I look out the window. My hands are shaking. Soon the rest of my body will follow suit, and then I’ll have to truly feel again. Once that happens I’m going to wish I were dead. As it is, my head pounds as it tries to disassociate itself from all that just happened.

My father’s dead.

His body lies in enemy territory.

I bury the emotion that’s rising. Just because I’m not running and shooting at the moment doesn’t mean I’m safe. I can’t allow myself to fall apart now, not when I have three WUN soldiers whose lives I can still save.

I digest this. “Thank you,” I finally say, “for risking your life to get us out of there.”

The man grunts in response. “Did you kill him?”

I don’t need any clarification to know whom he’s asking about. “No,” I say darkly.

Silence falls over the car, and for several minutes there’s a strange kind of calm. It’s not real, not when the blood of a dozen different men drips down my body and I tightly clench two guns in my hands, safeties off. Not when the car we’re in is careening through the city of Geneva, zipping around other vehicles and pedestrians.

The sound of blades slicing the air catches our attention, and our driver swears. “That was faster than I expected,” he says, looking up at the sky. I follow his gaze, and I see a helicopter heading our way.

Our driver makes another quick turn. “I’m going to pull into a garage in about thirty seconds. Once I do, get ready to jump out. You’ll be entering a nondescript blue car, which I’ll pull up next to. Got it?”

“Yes,” I say. The men next to me grunt. They’re even quieter than me.

The SUV fishtails as our driver takes a turn at breakneck speeds. The chopper makes a beeline for our car.

“You must’ve been some kisser,” our driver mutters under his breath.

The wheels of our car squeal as our driver makes the tight turn into the parking garage to our left. As soon as we enter, the car accelerates to the other end of the structure, where a beat-up blue car idles.

Our driver slams on the brakes once we’re almost upon it, and the WUN soldiers and I pile out of the vehicle.

“Thank you,” I say over my shoulder, my voice hoarse. I push down the emotions. I need to hold out just a little longer.

Our driver nods. “Stay safe.”

The helicopter doesn’t notice the dingy blue car that leaves the garage. Instead its attention is focused on the black SUV we were in a minute ago.

I swallow down my worry for our previous driver as I watch his car careen down in the opposite direction, drawing attention away from us. As soon as the king’s men realize I’m not in the car, his life will be in danger.

The rest of our drive is quiet, and the trip stretches on and on. I have no idea where we’re going or what we’ll find when we finally stop. To be honest, I don’t really care at this point.

We move out of the city and pass through several more. As I stare out at the foreign landscape, a hand lands on my shoulder and then one of the soldiers pulls me into his arms and squeezes me tight. Only then do I realize I’m crying. I press my face into his chest, and heave great sobs.

So many people died today—some at the hands of the king’s men, some at the hands of me and mine. So much death. The emotions are welling up; I can hear the keening sound work its way up my throat.

The soldier rubs my back. He’s older—closer to my father’s age than my own—which only makes the ache inside me hurt more acutely. His actions are so much worse than the usual tough guy act soldiers love to play, because at least aloofness separates us from the pain. This is the exact opposite. I can’t avoid, can’t suppress, can’t hide from it anymore.