Time to dance with the devil.

Chapter 3

Serenity

Eight years ago my father put a gun in my hand for the first time.

That morning when I walked into the kitchen, he sat at our table sipping a cup of coffee, a wrapped box in front of him.

I halted at the sight of it.

“Thought I’d forgotten your birthday?” he asked, glancing up from his laptop.

I had. He hadn’t mentioned it, and I hadn’t bothered reminding him. He’d been so busy. So weary. It made me feel guilty any time I thought of mentioning it to him.

I continued to stare at the gift.

“Well?” He closed the computer screen and pushed it aside. “Are you going to open it?”

Tentatively I approached the kitchen table. “You didn’t have to get me a present,” I said, even as I reached for the box.

He gave me a gentle smile, but something in his eyes warned me to curb my enthusiasm.

Carefully I peeled away the wrapping, savoring the fact that my father had remembered. Beneath it was a worn-out shoebox advertising men’s loafers. I raised my eyebrows, earning me a chuckle.

“Open the lid, Serenity,” my father said, leaning forward.

I lifted it like he asked, and balked at what rested inside.

“Go ahead and grab it—gently.”

Reaching in, I touched the cold metal and wrapped my hands around the handle.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked me.

How could I not know? “It’s a gun.” I tried to curb my disappointment. I wouldn’t be getting any new toys this year. Not on my father’s watch.

“No,” my father said. “That is a death sentence.”

I stared at the weapon in my hand like it was a snake.

“I know you’ve seen the street gangs shooting up property for the hell of it,” he continued, leaving his seat to kneel at my side. “That is not a toy. You point that gun, then you aim to kill.”

My eyes widened at that. Of course I knew guns could kill, but my father was gifting me the weapon. As though he expected me to kill.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Then get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

He flashed me a small, sly smile. “The shooting range.”

Nine hours after we left D.C., the flight begins its descent into what was once Switzerland.

My father takes my hand and squeezes it. He’s not a man of many words, but throughout the flight he’s been even quieter than usual.

“I never wanted this life for you,” he says, looking at me.

I squeeze his hand back. “I know, Dad.”

But he’s not done. “You’ve had to grow up so damn fast. And now this. I’ve delivered you into the belly of the beast.”

I look at him, really look at him. “You are all that I have left,” I say. “I’d rather die here with you than live alone underground until the war ends.” And I’m captured.

My father shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

What he doesn’t say is that my lifespan isn’t all that much longer in the bunker than it is here. The real question is what would kill me first—starvation, capture, or my failing health.

“And what kind of life is that?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Will likes you. Has for a while. And I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

My brow creases at this, and my cheeks flush. Out of all the horrible things I’ve seen and done, why does this one embarrass me so much?

“Dad, that couldn’t ever happen.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it could. Will seemed interested in starting something.

My father sighs. “I just wish.”

And that’s all we do these days. Wish.

The jet touches ground and I hold onto my seat as we bounce. Outside the sun is brighter than I’ve ever seen it, and the sky bluer. I don’t know how it’s possible that the world can look this lovely.

Outside the runway, a large crowd has gathered. My head pounds at the thought that they are waiting for my father and me.

I unbuckle my seatbelt as the aircraft coasts to a stop near the crowd. By the time my father and I stand, our guards are already waiting in the aisles, their faces grim. I know each and every one of them, which makes this whole situation worse. Now I have over a dozen people to worry over, to grieve for should anything go wrong.

One of them takes my bag from me, and now all I can do is twist my hands together.

Half our guards leave before we do. Then my father exits the jet. I linger back a moment, take a deep breath, then step out to face the enemy.

The air is cool, crisp, and the sun blinds my eyes. I blink against the glare as they adjust. Once they do, my breath catches. The crowd gathered cheers when they see us.

At first I can’t figure out why they’re cheering. And then I do. My father and I are going to discuss the terms of our surrender. The end of the war. In their eyes, they have won, we have lost, and the world might now return to the way it once was.

I descend down the stairs, keeping my attention focused on not falling in these heels.

On either side of me a camera crew films my entrance. The footage is likely being streamed across the Internet. Anyone who wants to view it can. Will is watching, I know he is, and that thought makes me raise my chin a little higher. I am a soldier, a survivor, and I represent the WUN.