The Revelation of Eden Pruitt, page 22
Cass sank into a nearby armchair and took—what felt like—his first proper breath since an explosion knocked him unconscious in Washington, DC. He’d known Eden was alive and not in the government’s custody. Otherwise Amanda Hawkins wouldn’t have offered him freedom for information on Eden’s whereabouts. But hearing it confirmed, along with Cleo’s survival, filled him with such swift and acute relief, his throat went tight and hot.
Cleo and Eden were alive. They were together. In Alexandria, where they’d been planning a prison break. In juxtaposition to Cass’s relief was Dvorak’s horror. It remained steadfast, even when Emmett assured her the asset was still in their possession. So few had survived. And they had no idea what had happened to the six prisoners from whom they’d been separated. Emmett was just as clueless as they were. He only knew what was on the news—two prisoners and a guard were believed to be dead at the bottom of Potomac after a bomb exploded on the road and the prison van skidded off the bridge. Emmett had been trying to get in touch with Amir, with headquarters in Alexandria, but everyone had gone silent.
He hobbled to the desk in the far corner of the room and grabbed his phone. He dialed a number and put the call on speaker. It rang and rang and rang. Emmett shook his head and hung up. “I was just on my way to his house to see why he wasn’t answering.”
Emmett was talking about Amir.
He had been on his way out when Cass and Dvorak arrived.
“You should go,” Dvorak said, her expression tight with worry. “Let him know I’m okay. Tell him we need to speak as soon as possible.”
Emmett nodded. “I’ll leave me phone here. That way, he’ll have a way to reach ya if he’s home and able to call. In the meantime, you can change into some dry clothes and make yerself some coffee. Get warm. Sit tight. We’ll be in touch as soon as we’re able.”
35
Cass ran his hand along his smooth jaw, courtesy of the disposable razor in Emmett’s linen closet. He stopped in the doorway and took a drink of his coffee. In the room in front of him, Dvorak sat cross-legged on the couch. She was dressed in dry, oversized clothes with a mug cupped between her palms. A ribbon of steam curled into the air. She stared into the crackling fire, flames dancing in her dark, glassy eyes. To the public, she was a terrorist who had carried on Karik Volkova’s legacy. An evil criminal deserving of execution without a trial. But in this moment, she looked vulnerable and young. A few stands of silver hair—bold and bright against black—the only sign of her age.
The television was dark and quiet. Before taking Emmett up on his offer of dry clothes and hot coffee, they’d been unable to tear themselves away from Concordia National News. But then the news started to repeat itself. The recovery mission was on hold until river conditions improved. Prudence Dvorak and Cassian Ransom were believed to be dead, but death couldn’t be confirmed until divers pulled their bodies from the back of the prison van. As far as the other prisoners—the six that had also been transferred—Concordia mentioned nothing.
All Cass could do—all Dvorak could do—was wait.
For Emmett to return.
For Amir to call.
“Are you going to come in?” Dvorak asked, her gaze fixed on the fire. “Or are you going to stand there and stare at me?”
Cass took a seat in the armchair. He felt on edge, overly alert as he set one elbow on the armrest and took another drink of his coffee.
“Amir looked into you,” she said, her tone detached. Devoid of emotion as she continued staring into the fire. “When your face first came on the news. After the Brysons were killed and you were connected to the bombing in Chicago. He discovered you weren’t Cassian Ransom, but Cassian Gray. A fighter for the Underground with ties to Mordecai. Otherwise known as Nicholas Marks, a known member of Swarm.”
“So you thought I was a member, too.”
Dvorak nodded. “You were the guy. Pretty Eden Pruitt was nothing more than your sidekick.” She looked at him, then. The expression in her eyes betraying the detachment in her voice. It was fearsome. And furious. “They do like young girls.”
The coffee in his gut soured.
“But then you showed up, and she was the one with all the fire. She was the one who wanted the Monarch dead. Because he was after her father.” Her fearsome fury morphed into suspicion. Like she’d been contemplating those final moments before the raid every bit as scrupulously as he had these past few weeks stuck in a prison cell. “Because he brought down Karik Volkova.”
Cass gave her a steady, singular nod. But internally, his heart pounded.
Dvorak stared at him. “How did you enter the picture?”
He stared back, his gaze unwavering. What was the best way to lie? Weave in the truth. As much of it as possible. “You already made the connection.”
“Mordecai?”
“He was looking for the Pruitts.”
“Because Mr. Pruitt destroyed Oswin’s test group.”
She was close to it now. Eden. Her identity. The truth. “I thought someone should warn them.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like when bad things happen to innocent people.” It was the same line he’d given Eden in Cleo’s dorm room. He fed it to Dvorak now.
She didn’t seem too keen on the flavor. She traced her thumb in figure-eights along the porcelain of her mug. “Where is the girl’s father?” she finally asked. “Why is he letting his pretty little daughter traipse around the country to hunt down his hunter with someone like you?”
“He was shot. Twice. It made traveling difficult.”
“How did you find us?”
“Francesca.”
Dvorak narrowed her eyes.
“Several years ago, her path crossed with Cleo’s. Francesca was being treated by Cleo’s mother. Cleo asked Francesca how she got the glass eye. Francesca told Cleo the Monarch gave it to her. So we traced Francesca to the Brysons and the Brysons led us to Amir.”
“And now here we are. All but destroyed.” Her mouth tightened.
The fire popped.
Cass shifted in the armchair, eager to pivot the conversation, throw her attention in a different direction. “What’s your story? How did you even know there needed to be a resistance?”
“I was a member of Swarm.” A spark ignited in her eyes. A flame that seemed to burn from within. “Not that I was given a choice.”
“How does that work?”
She took a long breath, as though settling in for a story. “When my father graduated high school, he was recruited into the United States army. There, he was recruited again. Swarm was targeting patriots. People with a profound love of country. My father believed the lies Swarm fed him—America was in danger. Politicians, protesters, rioters, the agenda-driven media. All of them were a cabal of extremists hellbent on tearing his beloved country apart, and only the Monarch knew how to stop it. My father joined the cause. They called themselves Invictus. They thought they were saviors. After his first tour ended, he began attending Thursday night meetings and there, he met my mother. A woman even more radicalized than he was. They got married. They had me. Twelve years later, my mother was killed in a random act of violence carried about by an illegal resident. You can imagine how much more extreme and devout my father became after such an event.”
Cass imagined the man. Grief-stricken and bitter, having lost the woman he loved. He didn’t agree with any of it. Conspiracy theories. Cabals. Extremism and radicalization. But he could see how all of it might shape a person into someone very strange.
“I was fifteen when The Attack happened. Over a million people were dead. And do you want to know what Invictus did?” She paused with her nostrils slightly flared. “They celebrated. They toasted to a new future. A new beginning. Predicted by their beloved Monarch, step one in the grand vision he had painted. A vision that included the destruction of the evil cabal. The next step came three years later. My father insisted I play a part.”
Cass tilted his head, absorbed in the tale Dvorak was spinning.
“The Monarch was looking for women. Strong and healthy. With no genetic defects. Of child-bearing age. My father never asked if I wanted to participate. I never gave my consent. And yet, I was subjected to a series of medical procedures with no say at all. Many of the women died during these procedures. Many more failed to conceive. To my chagrin and my father’s immense pride, my body succeeded. There I was, a pregnant virgin.”
Cass stared, troubled by what he was hearing. Amazed, too. Prudence Dvorak was a Magnes Mater. But her name wasn’t on the back of the pamphlet.
“Amir called me Mary.” Dvorak smiled a bitter smile, then shook her head. “I was placed in a cohort with five other women, each one as devout as my father. Lillian Kashif was the oldest. Her son, Amir, was only one year younger than me. We became close friends. Confidantes. Twice, my body attempted to reject the life that was forced upon me. Twice, I was forced to undergo more medical procedures that prevented it. Amir held my hand through it all. And then, the big day arrived.”
“Sanctus Diem,” Cass muttered.
Dvorak nodded, her expression grim. “We were taken to one of Oswin Brahm’s underground facilities. All ninety-four of us. There, we were induced. My body was more than ready. I was the first to deliver. Lillian was the last. I watched as a doctor cut her open. I watched her bleed to death as they pulled the life from her womb. The babies were taken away and we were given medicine to drink. Medicine that would make us strong. Medicine that would make us clean so we could be reunited with our special children. I didn’t want to be reunited with my child. I wanted nothing to do with it. I pretended to drink. Then I watched as one by one, these devout women—these great mothers—convulsed and died.”
Cass’s grip tightened on his mug. Ninety-three innocent women, dead because of a monster named Oswin Brahm.
“I escaped. I ran to Amir. I told him everything that had happened. He helped me hide. And that was the beginning. It took many more years of careful and meticulous planning before we became a respectable resistance. But now …” She closed her eyes, like the effort of keeping them open had become too much.
Now the Resistance had dwindled egregiously.
Thanks to him and Cleo and Eden.
They led the government to their doorstep.
Because Mona had sold them out, just like she’d sold Cassian and his mother out all those years ago. He could feel the storm clouds brewing—gathering, darkening—as his grip tightened around his mug.
The door to the alley opened.
Cass and Dvorak turned toward the sound.
Footsteps clomped up the hallway.
Emmett appeared, looking even older than when he’d left.
Dvorak came to her feet. Her blanket spilled to the floor. “What’s wrong?” Her attention dropped to Emmett’s gnarled hand, which was curled into an upturned fist.
He opened it. A Monarch pin rested on his palm.
Dvorak stepped forward, a look of horror stretching long down her face. “Why do you have that? Where is Amir?”
Emmett looked up from the pin with soupy, haunted eyes. “He’s dead.”
36
The morning sun crested the horizon, painting the clouds in yellows and pinks as a team of Alexandrians extracted an unconscious Francesca from the steel shipping container. Her skin was burned. Her combat clothes were charred. Her boots half-melted. As quickly as possible, the team moved her onto a stretcher and wheeled her off to Kaiser. Lark went with, her injury much less dire.
Eden wasn’t injured at all.
Not even a scratch.
Her hand moved to the tear in her tactical vest, covered in dried blood. Her blood. Where a scrap of metal had pierced through bone and organ. She felt Cleo’s eyes upon her, but she didn’t meet them. She couldn’t meet them. Lest the wall she’d spent the last five hours building around her heart shatter. If she was going to continue this mission—if she was going to be a weapon and fight Oswin Brahm—she needed that wall to stand.
Birds chirped in the trees. Frost glittered on weeds. Somewhere further away, in the pink-yellow sky, a crow circled and cawed. They stood in a haphazard huddle that was pregnant with shock and defeat. Eden and Jericho, covered in grime and soot. Cleo, Asher, Dayne, and Nairobi were clean. But their faces were ashen. Their eyes, bloodshot.
Nobody spoke.
What was there to say?
They’d been working on this prison break relentlessly, and it had failed. Not just sort of, but flagrantly. Every one of those prisoners was dead, along with the four from Bunker Three. And that guard, who was very much not on their side. Eden pulled the ring from her pocket—the memory of the man’s cries swirling with the cawing of that crow. She opened her hand. The ring caught the sunlight and glinted in her palm.
Asher took an aggressive step forward. “Where did you get that?”
“A guard was wearing it. He was by me after the explosion. I was with him when he … ” She swallowed hard, her teeth clamped.
“It’s like Amir’s,” Nairobi said.
“Do you think it’s more than a ring?” Jericho asked.
Asher took the piece of jewelry from Eden’s palm. The others drew nearer as he removed his chess piece and began comparing the two.
Eden remained in place, not a trace of curiosity within her.
“It has a button,” he said, running the pad of his thumb across the backside of the butterfly. Running the pad of his other thumb across the button on his chess piece. The one that contained nanotech, and alerted them whenever a council member needed to meet in the war room.
“What happens if you push it?” Cleo asked.
“We shouldn’t try without knowing,” Asher said.
Nairobi’s breath caught.
A small hitch only Eden could hear.
She looked and saw why.
Asher’s chess piece was flashing.
He clicked the minuscule button on the bottom side of his queen. It projected a red holographic code that floated in the air. “It’s from Amir. He’s waiting in the war room.”
They wasted no time.
They rushed to the boardroom, where an array of technology blinked and hummed. They sat at the table and slipped on headsets.
When Eden opened her eyes, she was in the virtual space with six of its octagonal walls still covered. Someone was already there, waiting for them.
Only that someone wasn’t Amir.
That someone was Prudence Dvorak.
Eden splashed water on her face. The grime left in swirls of smoky liquid that washed down the drain. She gripped the sides of the sink and met her reflection in the mirror. Drops of water slid down her cheeks. With trembling fingers, she combed through the snarled mess that was her hair. She tried commanding them to stop. Be still. But as she braided her locks into a plait, the tremble only grew worse. Until it wasn’t a tremble, but a quake.
Heat billowed in her lungs.
Fire licked up her throat.
A sob tore free in a fast and furious exit.
She cupped her hand over her mouth to stop anymore from coming. But the tears couldn’t be stopped. They pooled in her blue-gray-green eyes and tumbled down her wet cheeks.
Cassian was alive.
She removed her hand from her mouth and inhaled—a loud gasp that flooded her chest with oxygen and life and a paralyzing, tenuous hope that fissured the wall she’d erected around her heart.
Cassian was alive.
He was on his way to the airport with Prudence Dvorak. Jericho was meeting them there now. Eden had insisted upon going. Jericho had insisted she stay. He knew how to get them here—to the IDA—unseen. She would only muddy the waters. So here she was, staring at herself in the mirror. Afraid to move. Afraid to blink. Afraid to hope.
Cassian was alive.
But not Amir.
Their mole had been killed in the same way the Brysons had been killed. In the same way the security guards at SafePad Elite had been killed. In the same way a bookie named Yukio had been killed. A cold-blooded bullet to the forehead. The prison transfer had been a set-up. Amir was fed faulty information. He passed that faulty information to the Resistance. The Resistance ambushed the convoy, which had been rigged with an explosive. As soon as that explosive detonated, suspicions about Amir Kashif were confirmed. He wasn’t on Swarm’s side. Amir was the leak.
Now, Amir was dead.
Eden should feel sad about this.
Prudence Dvorak certainly was.
But as she stared at herself in the mirror, Eden could feel nothing but this paralyzing hope. The news of Cassian’s survival felt like a thing that was terrifyingly delicate. A wisp of flame that could be extinguished by the slightest breeze. What if Prudence Dvorak was playing a trick? Or what if this was another set-up? What if Dvorak’s avatar wasn’t Dvorak at all, just like King George hadn’t been King George, but Asher hiding behind his avatar? Francesca wasn’t there to ask her strange questions. Nobody else had bothered to confirm her identity. What if they were fools and Cassian really was dead at the bottom of the Potomac River and another ambush was on its way? She imagined curling her arms around the tenuous flame in an attempt to protect it from the barrage of debilitating what-ifs, determined to keep it alight.
She tore some paper towels from the dispenser and dried her face. She set her shaking hand over her abdomen, took a deep breath that lifted her shoulders, and exited the ladies’ room.
The boardroom hummed.
The television was on, playing Concordia National News.
Two carafes of coffee sat on the table. One empty. The other half gone.
A platter of food someone had fetched from the commissary remained untouched.
They’d been awake for going on thirty-six hours, but not a single one of them dreamt of sleeping. They were waiting on pins and needles for word from Jericho. They’d just received word from Kaiser that Francesca was stable and sedated. Two bones in her left arm were broken. Her burns were mostly second degree. Her hands and face had taken the brunt of the impact. Her combat clothes had offered protection to the rest of her body.
