THE BROWN SHIRTS TRAIN their weapons on the tram as it nears the mountaintop, and once it jolts to a stop, the soldiers swarm it from every angle. One looks inside the tram. Two climb to the top and search the roof. One soldier even checks beneath it.
Nothing. No one.
The commanding officer, a short, grizzled man with a plug of tobacco in his cheek, runs a hand through his thinning hair.
“Still nothing from below?”
A soldier stands with a walkie-talkie pressed to his ear. “No, sir. No one’s answering.”
The officer shoots the wad of tobacco into the snow, then squints into the dark.
Dangling from the cable forty feet down the mountain, Hope sees and hears it all. At the last minute, she squeezed out the window, clambered to the top of the tram, then jumped to the other cable. It was a miracle she found it in the dark—and an even greater one that she’s able to hold on.
When the officer turns and speaks to his soldiers, she begins to work her way up the cable, one hand over the other. When he turns back, she stops. Talking to soldiers—climb. Turning back—stop. This could take a while.
The cable is icy and cuts into her fingers. Blood oozes from her palms and trickles down her wrists. But when she thinks she can’t hold on another second, the smug smile of Chancellor Maddox flashes in her mind . . . and she moves again.
Fifteen feet from the station she stops, realizing her next movements will bring her into a pool of light. She dangles above the snow. The commanding officer takes most of the soldiers with him and they go marching off. That leaves two . . . which is still two too many. They both wield automatic rifles.
Hope begins to count.
On three, she releases her right hand so that she’s only hanging on by her left. Her free hand races to her neck and fumbles for the necklace—the good-luck charm with the photographs of her parents. She yanks it off, and then her hand lunges for the cable, the necklace pressed inside the palm. The cable sways. She breathes heavily.
Don’t let go, she tells herself. Hang on.
Once more she counts, and on three she drops the right hand and tosses the necklace. It sails above the soldiers’ heads and clatters against the back wall of the tram stop. Both soldiers turn and raise their weapons.
Hope inches up the cable—right hand, left hand, right hand, left hand—until she’s nearly to the platform. With trembling arms, she repositions herself, takes a breath, then lifts her legs and extends them forward until they wrap around the neck of the nearest soldier. She squeezes her thighs together until they go tight around his throat. The Brown Shirt’s face purples as he struggles for air. He drops his gun and reaches for her legs, trying to pry them off.
The other soldier hears the commotion and turns. Hope kicks the strangled soldier in his direction and they both go toppling down. She leaps onto the platform, whips out her knife, and presses it against the second soldier’s neck.
“Don’t even think about it,” she hisses. He has no choice but to drop his gun.
As she gags and binds them, her mind races. She’s made it up the mountain. She’s gotten past the soldier at the bottom and these two up here. But there are still many Brown Shirts left, and the clock continues to tick.
The tunnel stretching from the tram stop to the elevator is long and dark . . . but not dark enough. She removes a slingshot from her back pocket and deftly takes out the few remaining lightbulbs. Smash, smash, smash.
The tunnel is now completely black. If she should pass any soldiers, she’ll be nothing more than a dark shape moving in the gloom.
All goes according to plan until the elevator doors slide open and a rectangle of light falls on the stone. A Brown Shirt emerges and takes one look at the darkened tunnel.
“Doesn’t anyone change lightbulbs around here?”
“Tell me about it,” Hope mutters, lowering her head.
She tries to walk past him, but there’s enough glow from the elevator to illuminate her.
“Hey, wait a minute—”
Hope sends an elbow smashing into his windpipe. He grabs his throat and buckles over, and she finishes him off with a well-placed kick to the groin. He collapses in a heap on the stone.
She drags him out of sight, realizing that the last time she was up here, she wore a uniform and cap. But this soldier’s clothes are way too small. So she’ll need to avoid the light if she wants to reach Chancellor Maddox. She lets the elevator doors whisper closed without stepping in . . . and then heads for the lone door tucked in the corner. She gives it a yank and sticks her head inside.
It’s a steep stairwell—a series of metal steps that switchback up four hundred-some feet to the top. Hope realizes she’d have to be crazy to climb all these stairs. Or desperate. She takes a deep breath and begins.
The stairway is lit, and there are no exit doors. If someone were to enter from the top, she’d have to turn around and scamper back to the bottom. The sooner she can get out of here, the better.
Hope is in good shape, but there are over seven hundred steps. She’s winded before she reaches the halfway point. Her heart is slamming against her chest, like some wild animal trying frantically to escape a cage. She wants to rest but then remembers her parents and her sister—and the woman responsible for their deaths.
She keeps walking.
Despite the damp cool of the stairwell, sweat runs down her jaw, her sides, the small of her back. Keep going, she wills herself. Don’t stop now.
When she finally nears the top, her hand tightens around the knife handle. She presses her ear against the door, listens, then eases it open. She is shocked by what she sees.
She figured the fortress would be on high alert, but she didn’t expect to see so many Brown Shirts. They’re everywhere, in battle gear and fully armed. Locked and loaded and ready for what comes next.
But there’s something else she picks up on, too. Although they move with soldierly efficiency, it almost seems like they carry a sense of dread. As though they’re not all that enthusiastic about unleashing a fatal dose of chemical weapons on New Washington and its citizens.
Hope glances at her watch. One forty-five a.m. The inauguration starts at ten. Just over eight hours to prevent the slaughter of thousands of innocent people.
Four soldiers go running past, and Hope tucks herself in the shadows. She waits for the echo of their footsteps to evaporate before easing back out. Her gaze lands on the enormous structure that looms above the fortress: the towering white cylinder. She is convinced that’s where Maddox is.
Which is why Hope turns around and promptly walks the other way.