Suddenly an image of Somerset appeared. Normally it was a beautiful sight, and no matter how many times I’d been down the drive heading toward it, I’d always been captivated by the high windows into the atrium, the opulent balconies, the shining white exterior that reflected a shimmer of rainbow in the sunlight. But this time, I had to swallow a gag.
Daxton’s body hung from the front door, held up by a chain wrapped around his neck. A hunting knife was buried to the hilt above his heart, and a big red X glistened across his chest. I doubted it was paint.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, clasping my hand over my mouth. Beside me, Knox remained silent, but out of the corner of my eye, I watched his expression go from painfully neutral to barely suppressed rage.
“That’s it,” he said tightly. “It’s over. We’ve lost the war.”
V
The American Dream
The camera lingered on Daxton’s body for far longer than anyone decent ever would have looked. I turned away after I inspected the portion of his face I could see for any sign it wasn’t him, but every detail matched. Even his dark eyes, which stared blankly out into the night.
Knox buried his face in his hands and didn’t move for nearly an hour. I didn’t know what to say to him—there was nothing to say, nothing that would make any of this any better. I couldn’t apologize for revealing Daxton’s real identity that morning, but that was the root of it. It was my fault Celia had done this, and it was my fault Daxton was dead. I didn’t mourn him, but I did mourn our chances at a fair fight. Already the news networks were showing highlights from the late Prime Minister’s life—mostly from before Victor Mercer had been Masked, which was almost amusing, considering the real Daxton Hart had died over a year ago. Better late than never, I supposed.
None of them even hinted toward the atrocities Daxton had committed in his lifetime. There wasn’t a single word about the facts I’d laid bare in my speech. Just as Knox had predicted, Daxton was celebrated as a hero and a martyr who had died protecting his family and his country from a violent fringe group bent on terrorizing honest and decent American citizens. Any ground we might have gained that morning had disappeared beneath our feet, and already we’d begun to fall.
“We need to tell the others,” said Knox roughly, once he finally came up for air. It was nearly dawn by now, and through the window I could see a pink stain on the edge of the horizon. “We need to prepare them for—”
He stopped, but he didn’t need to finish. They needed to prepare to either spend the rest of their lives on the run as traitors, or they needed to prepare to be executed. We needed to prepare.
Benjy. Knox. Me. We weren’t just enemies of the state anymore—we were enemies of the entire country. And no speech could change that now.
I stood. “I need to find Benjy.” We needed to figure out what we were going to do, and fast. Benjy would be able to hide in plain sight, but everyone in the country knew my face. I would have to spend the rest of my life underground.
I was halfway to the door when the networks all crackled at once—the same sound I’d heard on the radio the night before. But this time it wasn’t Lila’s voice on the other end.
“I see you have once again tried to murder me, and once again, you have failed.”
I whirled around, my heart in my throat. Seated behind a desk in a room I didn’t recognize was Daxton Hart. “What—?”
Knox leaped to his feet and hushed me, his eyes glued to the screen.
“A knife to the heart and a chain around the neck. Not terribly symbolic, dear sister, but I suppose it gets the job done.” Daxton leered at the camera, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. Like this was a game to him, andhe’d just outsmarted us. “Only problem is, it wasn’t me.”
At this, he seemed to sober up. He folded his hands and furrowed his brow in his best impression of someone deeply troubled, but I knew him well enough to see the grin desperate to emerge.
“You and your band of terrorists didn’t kill me, Celia. You killed a father of two who bravely volunteered to serve as my double at Somerset while I took refuge in a safe place far from your guns and threats.” He stared into the camera, and the glint in his eyes never faded. “My son, Greyson, and my dear niece, Lila, are both safe with me, and they will remain so for the duration of this fight. And I promise you, citizens of the United States, I will stop at nothing to see these so-called Blackcoats brought to justice. The entire weight of the United States Army is coming for you, and the people will not protect a bunch of murderous traitors. And I promise you, sister, by the end of this—” He leaned in close enough for me to see a popped vein in his eye. “You will be the one in chains.”