The Gender Plan Read online

  “Keep sifting that rubble out of the way. We need to get down there. Find out if she’s dead or if she’s managed to escape us. Again.”

  Desmond’s voice held an angry bark to it, reminding me of a savage dog. I’m not dead, I thought to her, as though she could hear me. And I’m going to make your life a lot harder.

  “With respect, ma’am, there are pieces of stone here too big for us to move on our own. We need a full team here to—”

  “Haven’t you heard, Warden? There is rioting in the streets, people looting and gone wild over one little propaganda video made by a team of rebels. And not just any rebels, no, but the same one that girl in the basement happens to lead. She’s a criminal, ladies, and dangerous to boot. Not to mention, she is the only suspect in the assassination of Queen Rina. I don’t care how hard it is; we have a duty to Queen Elena to get her and drag her back to Matrus for questioning. So stop arguing with me and dig!”

  I finally got an angle by going to my belly, peering around the wraparound stairs. It was hard to see all the guards, but from the little flashes and the softer exchange of voices, I counted three. I waited for a while. Desmond paced the area around the stairs like a wild beast as I watched, and I fantasized about going to get my rifle and just unloading a clip into her. But I knew it would be a rash move. Killing Desmond would only get me killed by the guards. While I’d held stairs like this before, I’d been in better shape then, in a pitched battle with backup if I failed. If they all charged up the stairs at me, I was likely to be able to take most of them out—but what if one came around behind me or ran away? Or what if one hit me, and Tim and Owen were left to fend for themselves in the basement with unknown injuries?

  Or I could take them all out at once… I thought about just tossing a grenade down the staircase at them, a brutal parody of what Desmond had done to me and Owen—and, inadvertently, Tim. But down there, the walls were already compromised. Who knew what another concussive blast would do to the structures down in the basement? It could do nothing. Or it could cut off more than the lights in the front part of the basement. I knew the hidden doors needed electricity to run—what if the wires were already damaged? I still had the tiny elevator, but it needed electricity, too. If I had to risk more structural damage to the house, I wanted it to be farther away from the part where my brother was still effectively prisoner.

  I breathed out silently. I was wasting time here imagining fanciful revenge stories and big triumphs. Really, I just needed the guards out of the picture, and that meant using something other than a straight-out fight, which I would never win in my condition.

  I crept back to Jeff’s room, feeling secure about my safety for the next few minutes, grabbed my backpack, and dumped its contents onto the bed. I stared at the things I’d collected, my heart already racing at the thought of what I needed to do, focusing on the items, trying to piece them together… Almost before I had my plan fully mapped, I slipped what I needed back into the bag and stared at the bulletproof vest, wondering if it would slow me down too much to put it on now. I went out into the halls again without its unnatural weight on my ribs and prayed I had not made a grave mistake...

  Then, once I felt I’d gotten sufficiently far enough away from the back wing of the house to avoid damaging more of the basement, I began setting up traps using the grenades.

  It was tricky business, creating a tripwire with a live explosive. I knew a lot about it in theory, based on conversations I’d had with Viggo and Ms. Dale. I was always interested in listening to them talk about this kind of stuff, which wasn’t surprising, considering the course my life had taken.

  I knew two good ways to rig a tripwire using the supplies I had, but given that I only had one good hand, my choice was whittled down to one option. I used duct tape to secure my precious supply of grenades to things in the house, swearing under my breath as I fought each time to rip off the long strands with my single useful hand and my teeth. The grenades looked more like silver cocoons than weapons by the time I was done, nesting on a wall under a chair here, a table leg there—I wanted to make sure the tape held them harder than the jerk it would take to pull the pin loose. With this method, I attached the trip wire directly to the pin, running it at an angle to something across a doorway or a hall and tying it off. Hopefully, the guard who passed through it would walk fast enough so the pin was ripped out. I tried my best to make that the only option while not thinking too hard about what would happen if one of traps didn’t go off. My backup plan was desperate but simple: shoot them before they shot me.

  As I crept around upstairs, stepping lightly, barely daring to breathe, I felt as though every closed door held a guard behind it, and around every corner I expected to see a search party coming to find me. I kept reminding myself they had no reason to believe I could escape the basement—but this was Desmond I was dealing with. Wouldn’t Desmond think to search the house? My breath hitched at creaking floorboards, and I fought to keep my hand steady on the grenades even as I cursed my ever-present cast. My fingers slipped as I set up the traps, and I checked my watch constantly. Every minute passing told me I had been up here too long. Every time I looked down at my watch and saw that even more time had slipped away, I was painfully reminded that Tim and Owen were depending on me.

  Once I had everything in place, or as best as I could get it at the moment, I wavered on running through the trap locations one more time. I had to remember exactly where the wires to the grenades were, or else my whole plan would backfire on me—but it had already been twenty minutes, and I didn’t think I could afford the time. Any moment, they might choose to stop digging and go search the rest of the house. I would just have to trust my memory and risk it.

  I crept back to Jeff’s room and put the bulletproof vest on, then shrugged my shirt back on over it, its clumsy weight settling over my ribs as if to say that we were really getting serious now. I took the gun Owen had given me out of my waistband and wrapped it up in a shirt I’d pilfered from Jeff’s wardrobe.

  Moving confidently down the hall, I slowed as I approached the landing to the servants’ stairs, creeping silently past it. I paused, listening to the sounds of grunting and straining that came from below. The guards were working on moving a big chunk of debris now, and from the sound of it, they weren’t making much progress. A part of me still wanted to try my luck with shooting them… but I’d already gone through that logic. I couldn’t risk taking them all at once.

  At least they were distracted. I approached a window that looked out on the grounds behind the manor. It was a smaller window than the others found around the house—I guessed Ashabee had figured his servants didn’t need a view. Sucking in a deep breath, I drew back my gun, wrapped in Jeff’s shirt, and slammed it hard on the corner of the window.

  It shattered noisily, and I froze, my ears and eyes focused on the landing. Seconds went by without a sound, so I began to knock at the glass still standing in the frame, sweeping it away.

  “Someone’s up there,” a voice said loudly.

  “Of course someone’s up there,” Desmond’s voice came snidely. “Get up there and find out who!”

  I’d known they were going to hear me—that was the point of the maneuver—but even so, my heart jumped into my mouth at the sound of the order to come find me. I heard footsteps clattering up the hall and jumped into action as quickly as I could. Which wasn’t very fast.

  I awkwardly shoved the muffled gun—safety on—into my waistband and moved down the hallway at a fast walk, heading deeper into the servants’ quarters, hearing cautious footsteps on the floor behind me. Despite all my preparations, I spotted my first trap only in the nick of time, managing to step over it and ignore thoughts of what would have happened if I hadn’t seen it there. When I moved around the corner, I paused, my heart beating fast, to peek out into the hallway I’d just left… just in time to meet the brown eyes of a Matrian warden stepping out of a door.

  Her eyes widened, and then the shout went up:
“Over there! She went down that hall!” I darted back, stumbling on my feet with a little jolt of panic at the footsteps behind me accelerating into a run. I didn’t have to get away, I reminded myself. I just had to avoid…

  Three steps down the hall. Four. The footsteps grew louder and louder, and I held my breath, wondering whether to start running.

  Then the explosion went off, debris flying down the hall and impacting against the wall behind me.

  I let out the breath I’d been holding, risking a moment to hope. Peeking around the corner once more, I winced when I saw the still form of one guard, blood soaking into her uniform, making the heavy olive-green fabric appear almost black. The other two guards were also sprawled on the floor, but they were stirring, slowly sitting up.

  I turned back and began to move, heading toward the next trap. I didn’t want to draw too far ahead of them—which was good, because my ribs made it hard for me to run much faster than this. I couldn’t have beat them, even if I wanted to. Even at a pace that seemed agonizingly slow, I made it to the next corner and was just moving into the adjacent hall when gunfire exploded behind me.

  Hunching my shoulders and gritting my teeth against the impending pain in my ribs, I threw myself into the bedroom on the left side of the hall, the door already standing open for me. From what I’d gathered during our time here, these were some of Ashabee’s more ‘practical’ guest rooms, which meant not grand enough for a politician or someone of great wealth, but rather a merchant or some kind of representative.

  It was still such a luxurious chamber that it made this whole maneuver seem more surreal than ever. I slammed the door shut behind me, wincing at the loud noise it made; as soon as it was shut, I slid down onto my stomach, wriggling myself under the bed, trying not to think of hands grabbing my feet and dragging me out while I was exposed like this...

  I made it under, feet first, and waited, my breaths whooshing loudly in my ears, my handgun pressing uncomfortably into my hip. I grabbed the string running down the bedpost to my left and anxiously rubbed it between my fingers, hoping for luck.

  It felt like ages before footsteps approached the door, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I heard the knob begin to turn. This is part of the plan, I reminded myself, trying for a deep, calming breath while making as little noise as possible. The door swung slowly open.

  As soon as I saw the warden’s boots stepping forward clear of the door, I yanked on the string, tightening the simple noose knot I had been able to make using my fingers and my teeth.

  Immediately the sound of gunfire filled the room as the automatic rifle I’d tied the string to erupted. The string continued to compress the trigger, round after round of ammunition tearing out toward the door, and the bedframe rattled as the gun’s recoil strained it against the huge knot of tape and string I’d used to secure it to a bedpost.

  I didn’t wait to see if it had been successful—I knew it had been even before her body toppled to the floor. I slid out from under the bed on the side, away from the gunfire, my chest aching as I squirmed up, scrambling for the bathroom in that direction as the gun finished expending its clip and slamming the door behind me.

  Not a moment too soon, either. Wood went flying as bullets tore through the door, and I ducked down low, crashing into the neighboring bedroom through the shared bathroom. I moved to the door, yanking the handgun from my pants and fumbling at the shirt I’d wrapped it in. I would come back around behind her and—

  The plan died instantly as the door swung open and I saw the barrel of a gun pointed right at my chest.

  7

  Violet

  The gun shook slightly in the warden’s hand. I swallowed hard and slowly raised my arms, letting the shirt fall to the floor. Her pale brown eyes flicked to the gun in my hand, pointed at the ceiling. I could tell she was nervous.

  “Put it down, and step into the hallway,” she said, her obvious fear giving the order a desperation that I understood.

  “Okay,” I said softly, slowly leaning over. My ribs pinched as I reached too far, but I powered through it, not wanting to risk any sudden gestures or deviate from the expectations of the woman in front of me. The gun slid to the floor with a clunk, and I straightened up, very slowly, raising my hands to shoulder height. I moved into the hallway with her. “See? Harmless.”

  The warden took a small step back, her eyes darting all over me. “Don’t talk unless I ask you to. The bag. Hand it over.”

  Taking deliberate care once again, I shrugged off my backpack, hooking it on my wrist and swinging it around. I held it out to her, and she took another step back.

  “You open it. Slowly.”

  I gave her a hard look, and then looked down at the cast on my arm. Another look up told me she didn’t care. As I glanced past her right shoulder, I could see the cause of her fear and rage. Lying a few feet away was a warden, her torso draped out into the hallway, blood seeping into the carpet. I swallowed my own nerves and carefully shifted the bag onto the cast, using the straps to hang it, my arm protesting against weight it was no longer used to. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the clasp for a second.

  Then it was open. I began to awkwardly tilt the bag forward, about to tip the items in it out. “Stop.” I glanced up at the woman, and was surprised to see she had fought back some of her nervousness. A thin thread of steel had wormed its way into her voice, hardening.

  “One at a time—I remember now. You like bombs.”

  The way she said it, with such bitterness and rage, it was like I was a dirty taste in her mouth. I gulped, and began pulling out items as I touched them, one by one. Her eyes narrowed as she took in my one remaining grenade, but I sat it on the floor and kicked it away. She tracked its movement for a few seconds, and then, like a hawk’s, her eyes were back on me.

  Each moment dragged on like an eternity, and I could feel a mounting pressure as each second ticked by, weighing heavily on me, urging me to do something, to get away. Yet I couldn’t—I was locked in the hallway with her. She had me at her mercy. My mind was punishing me already for the blunder, reminding me of all the other times I’d been trapped with no way to escape. Tabitha’s torture room, the palace when the blast went off, The Green’s facility, the Porteque gang’s den…

  Each time had gotten harder and harder to endure. Another fight to try to overcome with no way out. I couldn’t endure it again. I wouldn’t. Viggo had come to rescue me from most of those moments, and I trusted him with my life, but he wouldn’t always be able to reach me even if he would always, always try. I had come this far, too far, to ever let something as precious as my freedom be taken from me again.

  I reached into the bag again, pausing when my fingers touched the squeeze bottle full of kerosene. I pushed down farther, tilting the bag more and giving it a little shake, and was rewarded with the heavy weight of Owen’s lighter. I palmed it awkwardly and then grabbed the kerosene, pulling it out.

  At that moment, I had no idea what my plan was. I wasn’t even sure I had one. Just the knowledge that these two items could mean the difference between my freedom and a high probability of death. Even then, I still leaned over to set the kerosene bottle on the ground.

  “Stop. What is that?”

  I looked up at her, hesitating a moment. Maybe if I lied, she’d let me keep it? “It’s water,” I said a heartbeat later. She met my gaze, and I pressed on, emboldened. “It was dusty. In the basement. I got some water to take with me.”

  “Hand it over,” she said. I straightened slowly, suddenly confused. Why did she want it?

  After a moment’s deliberation, I held the squeeze bottle out in front of me, taking a careful step forward. The warden reached out and snatched it quickly from my fingers, and I almost fainted as the lighter clenched between my bottom two fingers slipped. I jerked my hand back to my stomach, pressing the lighter against it. Looking away for a moment, certain she had seen and all too cognizant of the gun pointed at me, I started to take a slow step back. The ward
en’s voice stopped me.

  “Open it.”

  In her hand, the bottle remained outstretched toward me, the white plastic container held out like an offering, or a gift that nobody wanted. Licking my dry lips, I stepped forward again, clutching the lighter more tightly to my palm. My hands felt sweaty and clumsy, my heart beating staccato against my ribcage. I pinched the lid of the bottle between my thumb and forefinger and twisted, relieved that the seal gave easily. I twisted twice more, my movements hurried and jerking to disguise the lighter in my hand.

  The lid lifted up easily after the third twist, and I pulled it, and the lighter, back slightly. The warden pulled the bottle toward herself—to her nose or her mouth, I had no idea. In that moment, I seized the opportunity.

  My left hand flashed out, quicker than I could ever imagine, pressing forward on her hand and upturning the bottle, while my casted hand lashed out at the pistol in hers, connecting awkwardly, the gun pointed at me flying out of her hand as the woman gave an ‘oof.’ The liquid sloshed out of the bottle in an arcing spray, splashing down on her mouth, chin, and chest.

  The warden had a moment to shout. Then I was pressing forward with my left hand, using my thumb to slide the lighter up into my fingers and flipping open the lid. It was already coming down on the spark wheel, my hand pressing in close to her chest, when I fully registered what I was about to do.

  And then it was too late. My thumb hit the spark wheel, viciously spinning it around. There was a whoosh of noise as the kerosene ignited, and then the woman before me was burning, fire licking up her torso and head in blue and orange flames. I saw her eyes widen above the flames around her mouth, which was opening to scream, but nothing came out save a harsh, brittle whoosh of air.

  I took a step back, the lighter slipping from my fingers and onto the floor as the flames began to spread, the heat from it causing my eyes to sting. The woman tried to bat at the flames on her chest, but her shoulders were already beginning to burn. And the smell… The smell of burnt hair began to flood the hall.