The Gender Fall (The Gender Game #5)

We’d managed to find something even better: a huge, busy old ranch that kept a supply of gasoline in their own tanks for their farming equipment. We’d managed to trade one of Ashabee’s guns—the rancher had been more than happy to let us fill up to get his hands on the state-of-the-art semiautomatic we’d had in the trunk. And then, as we’d been debating the safest way to get Violet some medical attention, the local veterinarian had come out of the barn, fresh from treating a cow with some kind of infection… Close enough.

Mr. Kaplan was a kind, older man with no family to speak of, and his skills were probably the reason Violet was still breathing now, why she was even somewhat conscious. Upon seeing her condition, he’d let us follow him home for the remainder of the night, shaking his head at our notion that we would immediately continue our journey. Owen had slept. I had not—I couldn’t let this stranger operate on Violet throughout the long night, on his own. He had been able to set her arm, stitch up cuts, and provide strong medication that was helping to stabilize her. It was also effectively doping her up, keeping the pain at bay but doing who knew what to her logical reasoning. At this point, I didn’t care what kind of animal the sedatives had been designed for. It would at least tide her over until we got back to Ms. Dale and the others and let our doctor look at her.

If we got out of here.

Even if we did, we would be scrambling to keep ahead of the other patrols flooding the area, in search of the terrorist who had bombed King Maxen’s palace. These farms were out of the way enough that they hadn’t been immediately searched, and I had hoped, last night, the patrols wouldn’t get around to it until after we were gone… but no such luck.

I wasn’t sure what news had filtered out into the area regarding the attack—the news tickers had gone out around the same time the palace had fallen, according to our host’s news report—but I was certain that while the public was being told the official “terrorist” story, the Matrian wardens were well aware of whom they were looking for.

Violet was barely twenty years old, but she was Matrian enemy number one. She was being held responsible for the assassination of her home country’s former monarch, Queen Rina. She had actually killed another one of their princesses, although that operation had been kept much quieter. Two princesses, if Tabitha had been killed in the blast in the palace, as I fervently hoped.

Now it was morning again—much too early in the morning after yesterday, barely past dawn—and we were hiding from an approaching Matrian patrol in a storage compartment under Mr. Kaplan’s stairs. Our host was outside the door, casually adjusting the painting that hung over the already seamless spot of wall that marked the hidden door. He was a man who spoke softly and asked few questions, for which we already had cause to be grateful.

“It will be all right, Mr. Kaplan—just act natural,” Owen coached our ally quietly through the wall, though I thought he might have been more nervous about this than Mr. Kaplan was. The blond man met my questioning gaze, but kept talking. “Be polite, calm, and answer their questions without giving it too much thought. Avoid lying when you can. Be vague.”

I frowned at his growing list of suggestions. Everything he was saying was good advice, individually, but it was like taking months of spycraft training and trying to condense it down, then jam all the tips for being questioned into a thirty-second speech.

Mr. Kaplan’s replies were soft, too soft for me to make out from my position beside Owen. I looked down at Violet and felt my heart clench.

She looked terrible. Her face was ashen, the violent red-and-purple bruising that covered one half of it standing out in stark contrast. Her eye was swollen and black on that side, her lip split. White bandages enveloped her neck and chest, covering the first-and second-degree burns she had received from being caught in the blast. Parts of her hair were singed off, and other parts were clumped together.

It was gut-churning to see her so damaged, and I felt rage at Tabitha swelling in my chest. That monster had hurt my girl. If Tabitha had survived the blast, I was going to tear her head off.

“That’s perfect, Mr. K,” Owen replied, interrupting my dark thoughts. “And please… if they try to take you somewhere, and you have a chance to run, then run. Please.” I shook my head at him, half worried that the statement would upset the older man, half worried that Owen hadn’t made his warning stringent enough. Elena’s wardens were tasked with reducing the male population of Patrus by sixty percent—by systematically isolating them from their families and loved ones, and then executing them.

I turned to set Violet down, taking great pains not to jostle her too much. She shifted fitfully as I rested her against the wall, but her eyes didn’t open again. I gently pushed hair out of her face, then turned back to Owen.

“How much time do we have?” I asked, studying his face.

Owen shrugged, then raised his arm to wipe away the sweat collecting on his forehead. “Hard to tell. I spotted them when they were close to the turnoff for the farm, but I hightailed it through the field. They had to go the long way around, but they were in a car, so…” Owen made a gesture with both his hands, as if weighing something, then let his hands drop down.

I grumbled a curse and grabbed my gun, sliding back the muzzle and chambering a round. Owen’s look was wary, but he didn’t hesitate in pulling out his own gun. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my frazzled nerves. To say I hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the last few days would be an understatement, what with the Matrian attack on Ashabee’s manor, and then Violet running off to face Tabitha in order to rescue her family. Granted, she hadn’t gone alone, but if I hadn’t gone after her…

I shook away the grim image of myself shouting over her body as I tried to force her to breathe again, and exhaled slowly. After a moment, I looked at Owen. “Did you remember to hide the—”

“Of course I remembered to hide the bloody car,” the younger man spat back, his spine stiffening. “I’m not a moron, Viggo.”