Forty-Four

Forty-Four

Keep up. Keep up.”

Benedikt winced, almost slipping right off the roof tiles. The rain was pelting down. On the plus side, it meant that the Scarlets they were tracking were unlikely to look up and see Marshall and Benedikt following from the rooftops—drawing near when they were bypassing the narrower commercial streets and keeping at a distance when the roads got wider with fewer buildings to use for cover. On the downside . . . Benedikt was very close to taking a tumble and landing with a splat on the sidewalks below.

“How the hell did you do this so often?” Benedikt asked, brushing his sopping-wet hair off his forehead. In seconds, the rain had pushed it back.

“I am simply more lithe than you are,” Marshall replied. He turned back for a second, sparing a glance as the Scarlets below moved forward, at no risk of disappearing anytime soon. “Come on.”

Marshall extended a hand. Benedikt hurried forward and took it, their fingers laced together, half to be near each other and half because he truly did need to be dragged to prevent his ankle from giving out entirely. Soon, the Scarlets seemed to be slowing, and Marshall halted, his lips pinched in thought as he watched them.

Benedikt peered over Marshall’s shoulder. As he squinted through the rain, he couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped when he tried to set even weight on both his feet. Marshall’s attention pivoted to him immediately, looking him up and down.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Benedikt said. “How are we to approach them?”

The Scarlets had stopped outside a building—what looked like police headquarters, though it was hard to read the faded French along the front. Marshall and Benedikt had arrived at the Bund too late. With horror, they had halted to a stop by the roadside just in time to witness Roma being dragged away, separated from Juliette and torn in the other direction. Marshall had almost hurried forward, intent on stopping them in their tracks with “General Shu’s” new order, but it was risky—almost too suspicious for such timing. There was a better chance of success if they waited until the Scarlets reached their destination, instead of mysteriously appearing en route.

So Benedikt and Marshall decided to trail after Roma. He had not tried to escape through the entire walk: he remained wooden between the Scarlets who had ahold of him, saying nothing save for the occasional assurance to Alisa. Alisa, on the other hand, had bucked and kicked as hard as she could, going as far as to try biting one of the Scarlets. None of it worked. They did their best to ignore her, and the march onward only continued.

Now, at their destination, one of the Scarlets was arguing with a Nationalist standing guard by the doors. Roma and Alisa stood in the rain with their Scarlet captors, every single one of them looking out of place on these empty streets. There would have been more civilians walking about if the Nationalists hadn’t cleared the roads with their military vehicles. There would be more civilians witnessing this bizarre scene—Montagovs under Scarlet control—if the Nationalists had not laid waste to everyone outside with bullets and gunfire.

“I think we may have to do it now,” Marshall said, hesitating. “I don’t know if they have a jail cell waiting inside or a firing squad.”

“Then let’s go.” Benedikt made to shuffle off the roof tiles. He had barely gotten a step forward when Marshall’s arm shot out.

“With your ankle like that? Stay here, Ben. It makes more sense when it is only me who arrives with the command anyway. You’re still dressed like a worker.”

Before Benedikt could protest, Marshall was already sliding off the roof, hanging along the gutters by his fingertips, then jumping down and landing cleanly.

“Keep an eye out,” Marshall hissed from below. He disappeared quickly, ducking through the nearest alley and then emerging between two of the buildings, coming onto the main road. Benedikt didn’t like getting left behind, but he had to admit it would have looked strange for him to accompany Marshall. From his vantage point, he watched Marshall approach the group, his posture stick straight, acting the Nationalist soldier. He started to speak with one of the Scarlets, pulling the forged note out of his jacket. All the while, the other Scarlet who had stepped out of the rain and under the awning of the police station was still arguing with the soldier standing guard. The Scarlet—as Benedikt eyed him—lashed out, whacking the soldier’s hat and flipping it right off his head.

Benedikt wondered what could possibly be a point of contention at this precarious time. Was it not the Nationalists’ mission to capture the Montagovs? Why would they keep Roma lurking outside for so long? Did they not worry about a rescue attempt?

“Hey!”

Roma’s voice rang loud. The Scarlets, the two soldiers outside the station, Marshall—they all turned to look at him, taken aback, but Roma’s attention was fixed on the soldier picking his hat back up.

“Why is your hat so big? It doesn’t fit you in the slightest.”

The rain suddenly eased into a light drizzle. Its raucous noise grew faint, and it was like Benedikt’s ears had come unplugged, like he could think clearly again. He realized what Roma was implying. The man outside was not a Nationalist soldier. He had been planted there to stall.

The doors of the station burst open. And out poured a cascade of workers, armed with rifles.

“Ohhh—no, no, no—”

From the street side, Marshall’s gaze snapped to Benedikt, his arm miming a slash across his throat. Don’t! Stay there, Marshall was warning, just as Dimitri appeared behind the workers, coming to a stop at the top step of the station. The workers fanned out.

“I’ll take it from here,” Dimitri said. “Shoot the Scarlets.”

The Scarlets didn’t have a chance to fight back. Some managed to retrieve weapons, some managed one shot. But the workers had them surrounded, rifles already aimed, and with a pop-pop-pop! reverberating along the whole street, the Scarlets all dropped, eyes blank and glazed, fleshy wounds studded into their chests. The blood splashed generously. When Marshall raised his arms high, signaling his surrender, the left side of his neck was entirely splattered.

This is bad. This is so, so bad.

The last of the Scarlet groans faded into silence.

“May as well shoot us too while you’re at it,” Roma said into the deathly quiet. Loudest now were the clinking of bullet casings, dropping from the rifles and littering the ground. “Or do we receive the honor of being torn apart by your monsters?”

Dimitri smiled. “You get the honor of a public execution at nightfall for your crimes against the workers of this city,” he said evenly. “Lead them there.”

Marshall didn’t resist, letting himself be nudged by the sharp end of a rifle. He fell into step beside Roma, arms still held up, and didn’t glance up, though he had to know Benedikt was watching. It was to avoid Benedikt being caught too, he knew, but still he cursed Marshall for it, because if this was Marshall’s death, if this was an inescapable fate, then he needed one last look. . . .

Benedikt scrambled up, his teeth gritted hard. He knew how to save them. He would save them.

Before any of Dimitri’s men could see him, Benedikt hurried off the roof and started to run in the other direction.