| |
AMOS KNELT ON THE PLUSH carpet, hands clasped on his head. He felt the stares of the people seated around the ornately carved table, their gaping mouths and hushed comments confirming the Runners hadn’t been expected.
Even Darcy, seated at the far end of the room, appeared shocked.
There was one exception. Amos nudged Jane with his elbow, nodding to indicate the smirking Councilor at the head of the table.
He was the only one standing, one arm resting casually on his leather chair, his back to the glass-walled exterior. His smug expression told a different story from his counterparts around the table.
You knew we were coming. Amos glared at the Councilor as the implications sank in. Mateo works for you. The two of you set this whole thing up.
Mateo stood beside Amos, cradling a Hoarder weapon in his arms. He basked in the Councilor’s approval like a lizard on a warm rock. Amos’s contempt morphed into a fiery rage. He couldn’t even look at him.
His inner voice, once held at bay, was quick to jump into the fray. And yet, once upon a time, you trusted him. If only Trey could see you now. He’d be so proud.
Amos ground his teeth, furious at himself for letting his brother down—again.
“My fellow Council members.” The Councilor spoke for the first time. His voice reeked of Hoarder arrogance. “This is truly an auspicious occasion. We are gathered, the surviving remnant of the Council, to inaugurate a new era of peace and security in the Enclave.”
Several of his comrades eyed him with suspicion. Others continued to stare, with a mixture of curiosity and repugnance, at the four prisoners kneeling on the lavish carpet. Little wonder—their faces had been broadcast on the Infomedia all day long, in an infinite loop.
The Councilor left his chosen post, circling around the table to stand before the Runners. He clasped his hands behind his back, clearly enjoying himself. He eyed each of them with equal contempt, and then spoke to Mateo.
“Just as you promised, Mr. Reyes.” He smiled—a gracious despot praising his underling. “You’ve earned your place in the Citadel. The Givers will be pleased.”
Mateo bowed slightly from the neck. “It is my privilege, Councilor Sterne. The Givers are as wise as they are generous.”
Amos felt a nudge from Jane, elbow to elbow. He glanced at her, and she pointed with her chin at the rest of the Council.
The mere mention of the Givers produced a noticeable effect on the people seated around the table. Several exchanged uneasy looks, while others rose to their feet—half-eager, half-wary. The spike in tension was unmistakable.
Amos felt a new surge of fury as he spied a familiar figure at the far end of the table. Darcy was one of the first to leap to his feet, but unlike the others, his face was distorted by loathing and contempt.
Not just for the captured savages. Amos knew without being told. For Mateo, and the Givers he’s betrayed us to.
The door behind Amos opened, and Logan entered, taking a position beside Garr. Sterne paid him scant attention, beyond a curt nod, and then stepped back with a magnanimous gesture to Mateo.
“Come, my friend, step forward and be recognized.” He retreated to the middle of the conference room, standing before a dull black wall. Lightning flashed outside the windows, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He appeared to be waiting, his attention solely focused on the rough-textured black wall. The remaining Councilors got to their feet, their apprehension clear.
Mateo glanced at his kneeling prisoners, his head cocked to one side. “I bid you all a good journey.”
Amos spat at him.