The Battle Within Page 6

  “I don’t want anyone killed,” I say.

  “People might die, Kelendra. You as well as I already know this.”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone. I won’t.”

  “You won’t be killing anyone. If anything, it will be me or Eugene who does it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “This isn’t your choice, dear. If one has to die to save many, then I am perfectly capable of doing that.”

  “I don’t want any part of this.”

  “You committed yourself the moment you declared your Purpose.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to die!” I cry. “I just wanted to make things better!”

  “Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.”

  I am physically, emotionally, and mentally unable to reply.

  I stand.

  I put my half-eaten plate of food down on the desk.

  Then I turn, unlock and unbolt the door, then walk out of the room.

  Though the gazes of those around me are harsh with wonder and filled with concern, I do not bother to acknowledge any of them.

  No.

  Instead, I turn and make my way out of the Saloon, then down the darkened corridor until I make my way to the old bar.

  Inside, I fall to the ground, wrap myself in my blankets, and cry.

  Though I want to deny it so, I know I cannot.

  Dusty McGee is right.

  Things will get worse before they are better.

  More lives will be lost. More blood will be shed.

  And worst of all: it’ll all be because of me.

  Wu and Ceyonne return not long after my outburst. It is obvious, however, that they are unsure what to say, and as such, are remaining silent.

  The first words that come out of my mouth are: “I’m sorry.”

  To which Ceyonne replies: “You can’t help it. I think we would’ve acted the same.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask. “Why did you leave me to act alone?”

  “Because he’s right,” Wu says. “People are going to die no matter what we do. We just have to figure out how to reduce the number of casualties.”

  I’m not sure what to say. Because of that, I merely roll over to face them, and watch as they both look on with concern. “It’s my fault,” I whisper.

  “What is?” Ceyonne asks. “That this happened? That all these people are dead?”

  I nod.

  “You couldn’t have known this would happen,” she continues. “You wanted to make a difference. You did what you thought was right.”

  “Besides,” Wu offers. “If it weren’t for you, and you saying that we stood with the Saints, then the three of us would be dead, and we’d have no chance to change anything.”

  “They would’ve done it without us.”

  “Maybe so. But don’t you want to live? Don’t you want to see your mother again?”

  “I—”

  “I know I want to see my mother and father. And I’m sure Ceyonne wants to see hers.”

  “And Baylea,” Ceyonne says. “I want to see her again, if only it’s one last time.”

  “I just want things to go back to normal. For everything to be all right. For everything to be okay,” I say.

  “I don’t think anything’s ever gonna be okay again, Kel. I think… I think the world’s changed. And if we don’t something about it: it might be over for all of us.”

  All I can do is nod.

  In the end, what more can I offer the world, if not only one last chance?

  Six

  We unanimously decide to comply with the plan. There is nothing more we can do.

  “So,” Dusty says after we have returned to the Saloon and the office within it. “You’ve decided to come around.”

  I sniffle and reach up to brush my hand over my upper lip before saying, “Yeah. I have.”

  He finishes eating the rice and beans on his plate before saying, “It’s a hard life we live. I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t think it would change things for the better.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, sir.”

  “Do you?”

  I don’t. Realistically, this could be all a ruse to get what he wants, what he thinks he deserves. But in the end, what would be the point of him trying to save the world? Did he have stakes somewhere we did not?

  No, I think. He doesn’t.

  It made no sense for him to want to do this if he didn’t truly want to. He was no emperor. He was like a street dog, just wanting to survive in this world. And the three of us? We are just girls who want to live our lives to the fullest, and who have inexplicably been caught in this political war game.

  Rather than reply to his question outright, I say, “When do we do this?”

  “Her personal vehicle is still there,” Ashton says. “We could go now if we really wanted to.”

  “But we won’t,” Dusty says. “We have to dye Kelendra’s hair, and ensure we have the means to go about this mission.”

  “Do we have volunteers?” I ask.

  “We will once we announce our goal.”

  “You trust these people enough to let them know that we mean to capture the First Lady?” Wu asks.

  Patrice nods. “These people have been heavily vetted. They won’t disclose our location. They’d sooner die than risk endangering the others who live here.”

  “You’re sure of that?” I ask.

  The woman narrows her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sure.”

  Though I am not convinced of her words, if only because I do not know these people or the lengths they have been driven to, I nod and say, “Okay,” then straighten my posture before adding, “I guess I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “There’s a lady here by the name of Yolanda,” Dusty says. “She’s the one who’s been keeping everyone’s hair in order. She and her three children live in the old hair salon just down the hall. Ashton will take you there and explain what’s going on. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just remember one thing, Kelendra.”

  I turn to regard Dusty as Ashton both unlocks and unbolts the door.

  “Your purpose has evolved. You’re not just helping your country, but your world.”

  I can only nod before turning to walk out the door.

  When I was a child, I once saw a picture of a man carrying the world on his shoulders. With strong muscles and a titanium gaze, he seemed more than capable of doing what many believe he could not.

  But me? I am just a girl of sixteen.

  Can I change the world?

  I pause, then, and realize something.

  I already have.

  It’s just taken some time for it all to sink in.

  The woman named Yolanda is dark-skinned like Ceyonne, and her three children are the ones who greet me and Ashton upon our approach.

  “Mama!” a little girl who is probably only seven calls out. “A man is here to see you!”

  “What man?” her mother counters from her place along a row lined with revolving stools. She lifts her eyes to face us and says, “Oh. Mr. Marks.”

  “Hello,” Ashton says, offering the woman a small nod before stepping forward. “Sorry to bother you today, ma’am, but Dusty sent me with a request.”

  “What kind of request?” she asks. Her eyes flick toward me as she adjusts the large lamp she was using to examine her various tools.

  “He wants you to dye Mrs. Cross’ hair.”

  The woman centers her gaze on me. “I wondered where I recognized you,” she says. “You poor girl. I’m so sorry for everything you’ve gone through.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I reply. “I mean, in a way, I got myself here.”

  “Only because you wished for a better life,” she says. She steps forward to look at me, then reaches out to take hold of my hair. “It’s never been touched by product?”

  “Product?”

  “Bleach? Or dye?”

  “No, ma’am. It ha
sn’t.”

  “I can only assume you’re about to do something dangerous,” she says. “Dusty never asks me to use the dye otherwise.”

  “It’s—” I start, then stop as I see a young boy, possibly only five, appear from behind his mother’s legs. I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “It’s something.”

  She nods, as if to acknowledge the fact that there are children in our presence, then turns to face Ashton and asks, “Did he say which color?”

  “Black,” he replies.

  “All right. We’ll be done within the hour. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

  With that, Ashton bids me a short goodbye, then turns and makes his way back down the hall.

  “Come with me, dear,” Yolanda says, then turns and enters the salon.

  Stepping into this place is an admission to a fate I would rather not have. Knowing that the events that have led to this point have been of my own choosing, however, makes it even worse. It’s like jumping into the line of fire when you know that a gun is about to go off—completely and utterly insane. At the same time, though, I know that it is something I have to do.

  To save your world, you must brave the fire, and test the flame.

  But do I really wish to brave that fire, or test those flames? A part of me says yes, but the part that says no is stronger.

  Don’t be afraid, I think. It’s just a little hair dye.

  “Mama always said to not cry over spilled milk,” I then whisper.

  The woman named Yolanda gestures to one of the many chairs, then says, “Sit here, dear” before turning to gather up the supplies.

  As I settle into the chair, and as she comes forward to wrap a thick haircutting sheet around my neck, I feel an immense sense of doubt, and even more guilt.

  Sighing, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then wait for her to say that she is ready.

  That moment comes only a few short moments later when she says, “Let’s begin.”

  The application of product on my hair should be simple, in theory. Like the celebrity I am, this should be seen as nothing more than routine—a fact of life in an ever-changing world. Knowing that this is to take another person from her life and change it drastically, though, is enough to make me reel in discomfort. I find myself trembling in my seat, locking my hands at my knees, gripping tight the muscles in my thighs. Whether or not Yolanda notices this I cannot be for sure. I’m afraid to even look at myself in the mirror.

  She massages the dye into my scalp, then waits a moment. Her footsteps then round the chair before she says, “Now, your eyebrows.”

  The thin brush feels like a blade cutting deep into my flesh—stripping me of my self, my identity.

  When she says, “Now, we wait,” I swallow yet another lump in my throat, then lean back and breathe.

  The whole process takes little more than a half-hour.

  By the time she begins to wash my hair and face, I feel as if I’ll break.

  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

  After scrubbing the water from my hair, she spins me around and, with a somber voice says, “Okay.”

  I open my eyes.

  A part of me wants to die.

  Before me is a ghost of a person—a specter of doubt, fear and worry. The dark locks that fall from my head are not me, nor are the brows that have been dyed to match them. It is like I am a creature who has crawled out of a well and made it fit to terrorize the world. My pale flesh seems even paler in comparison. But my eyes—

  I swallow.

  My eyes are haunted.

  How can they not be, I wonder, when they have seen war firsthand?

  I decide not to think about this. All I can say, in the end, is: “Thank you.”

  Then I rise and begin to make my way out of the salon.

  Yolanda’s hand on my shoulder stops me before I can leave.

  “Kelendra,” she says.

  I stiffen beneath her touch. “Yes?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t bother to ask what she’s sorry for.

  All I do is walk out.

  Neither Ceyonne nor Wu comment on my drastic change in appearance. I know they want to—because that much is apparent in any instance where someone changes their presentation so suddenly—but they don’t. Rather, they offer me short nods and small smiles, as if wishing to impart some shred of happiness upon me.

  Unfortunately, I can take no happiness they offer.

  Dusty, though—his eyes are set directly on me, his gaze impenetrable, his intentions clear. He says, “How do you feel?”

  And I, in response, say, “I don’t know.”

  The man doesn’t reply. Rather, he turns toward Ashton, who continues to sit and monitor the progress of First Lady Rosanna’s location, then says, “Is she still there?”

  “She hasn’t budged at all.”

  “So she’s in hiding.”

  “Is she really in hiding if people know she’s there?” Ceyonne asks.

  “Few people actually know that she does,” Dusty replies. “They know it’s a gated area, and that it’s possible a politician lives there, but not the First Lady of the Glittering City.”

  “Why not stay in the city?” Wu asks. “I mean… doesn’t it make sense for someone of her position to remain where there are more guards?”

  “The city has proven to be dangerous. The outskirts, meanwhile, are less inhabited. That is why we believe she is there.” Dusty pauses, then lifts a hand to his chin and says, “Or perhaps she’s there simply because she’s stubborn.”

  “The world is changing,” Ashton says.

  “Exactly.” Dusty returns his gaze to me. “Would you be willing to orchestrate these events within the coming hours?”

  “Hours?” Wu asks, to which Dusty replies with only a nod. “I thought you said—”

  “We have to act fast, Miss Dao. The sooner we apprehend the First Lady, the sooner we can prevent the bomb from being launched.”

  “I want to get this over with,” I say.

  “Good.” Dusty straightens his posture. “Ashton has already begun working on a computer algorithm that will disable the security systems and, hopefully, open the exterior gates that line the property. It should be done soon. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Ashton replies.

  Dusty turns his gaze to me. “This will occur after dark, when we are less likely to be seen.”

  “And you’re sure that she won’t leave?” I ask.

  “The house is being watched as we speak. We can guarantee she won’t.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that. The word implies that they will be able to stop her if she tries to return to the city, but the actual statement?

  I shiver.

  The statement, I realize, is utterly damning.

  If the First Lady tries to leave—and if, for whatever reason, she runs into the Southern Saints…

  They’ll kill her.

  This I already know, but to accept it?

  All I can say in the end is, “When do we leave?”

  And Dusty, in response, replies, “At eight o’clock tonight. You’d do well to rest now, Kelendra. We have no idea what will happen come time night falls.”

  No, I think. We don’t.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” Wu asks.

  I lift my eyes to face my friend and say, “I don’t know.”

  We sit in the clothing boutique—Wu and Ceyonne cross-legged, me with my knees to my chest. Cold and silent but at the same time rebellious, I try my hardest not to think of what will happen come time evening falls, to no avail.

  My first thought is: How can I do this?

  My second is: Will it work?

  And the third, final, and darkest is: Will she die?

  I hold no ill will toward the First Lady of the Glittering City. Like many, she is simply a slave to her circumstance, war-torn as it happens to be. For that, I cannot say that she is a bad person, though whether or not that is true I cannot be for su
re. All I wonder is how, when it comes time for us to detain her, we will deal with the aftermath.

  Will she be blindfolded? I wondered. Will she be gagged? A bag placed over her head? A drug injected into her system?

  Just what will happen?

  These thoughts, and more, course through me—and this, I know, is why I cannot answer my friend.

  My silence is deadly, though; and in response, Wu sighs and turns her attention on Ceyonne, who offers only a shrug.

  I don’t blame them for being unsure. It is not they who are being asked to risk their lives and safety—at least, not yet.

  Yet.

  I have to keep reminding myself that I am not the only person in this game. They, too, were victims of this twisted war. We just happened to get a second, though unlucky chance.

  Sighing, I lift my head to face my friends and say, “I think… I think I’ll be okay. I just need to realize that we have people around us who know what they’re doing, and have faith in their abilities.”

  “Do they know what they’re doing?” Ceyonne asks.

  To which I reply with, “I hope.”

  Hope.

  It is a wicked word, clever and kind but at the same time merciless. It offers no good chances, no true assurances, and even less positive outcomes. Hope, it could be said, is a thorn in all men’s sides. But a woman’s?

  A frown crosses my lips.

  Hope, I then realize, it not guaranteed.

  Especially for girls like me.

  That thought is enough to compel me to rise.

  “Where are you going?” Ceyonne asks, lifting her head to follow my movements.

  “I need to prepare,” I reply, “and hope to the Great God that I’ll be all right.”

  Seven

  I am but a shadow in the presence of these men and women—who, with their heads held high and their backs ramrod straight, are prepared to do the seemingly impossible, and the downright insane.

  Kidnap the First Lady of the Glittering City.

  A part of me wants to believe that this is all a dream, and that I’ll soon wake up from the nightmare my life has become. The logical part, however, knows that this is not the case.

  No.

  I am not going to wake up, because this is no dream.