Benedikt paused, trying to figure out his best course of action. If he listened hard, he thought he heard the steady hum of conversation from inside, which meant they were possibly hosting an early-morning function. He could hardly comprehend how. The Nationalists had just set the command for slaughter on the city. How did any of these men find the stomach to congregate together and continue with their day when their soldiers were laying waste to the people outside?
“Marshall, where the hell are you?” Benedikt whispered to the empty gardens. Carefully, hunching close to the ground, he started to make his way around the gravel paths, sticking close to the cover of the trees. Too close to the house and he feared being spotted through the large windows; too close to the fence and he feared being sighted by the patrolling soldiers. It wasn’t until he came around the back of the house that he dared straighten a little, hobbling close to the painted white walls. Somehow, he needed to find a way in. Perhaps if he stripped out of the overalls, he could pretend to be a Nationalist’s assistant and claim that—
Benedikt halted. He had passed a window, only now he doubled back, peering in more closely. There was a flag hanging over the desk inside: deep blue with a white sun. This was an office. This was General Shu’s office.
The two windowpanes were latched, but that was no problem. Benedikt retrieved his pocketknife and triggered the thin blade, sliding it right between the two panes. All he had to do was push up, and then the latch was nudged out of the way, the window hinges creaking softly when Benedikt nudged at the glass.
He almost couldn’t believe it. With care not to bring the dirt of the gardens in with him, he climbed through, wincing when he landed on the carpet. The office stayed silent—no alarm going off, no secret guard waiting in the corner. Only the flag fluttering with the slightest disturbance, dust settling over the papers on the desk and the early sunlight casting a slash across the wall. One door opposite the desk likely led out into the hallway. Another door near the flag was smaller—a storage unit.
Benedikt’s gaze caught on the desk. He hardly had the time to dawdle, yet he paused all the same, trying not to put more pressure on his ankle as he walked over and picked up the two pieces of paper left at the center.
The first was messily scribbled, its characters almost bleeding off the page in a hurry.
Intercepted this.
We’ve sent word ahead to Lord Cai.
Benedikt blinked, a bad feeling sinking into his stomach. The second piece of paper was far thinner, ink visible through the sunlight even before he unfolded it. This message was written in a much more careful hand, addressed to . . .
“Oh, no,” he muttered.
Da Nao—
Cai Junli and Roma Montagov seek safe passage with you to leave the city. You must take them onboard. Both of them. For the good of the country, for the good of the people. Please do this favor.
—Lang Selin
The Nationalists knew. The Scarlets knew. They would be assembling their forces right this moment, intent on stopping Juliette from leaving. And if they caught them, then Roma would be hauled away for execution.
Benedikt set the papers down. He had to find Marshall. They had to get out, get to the Bund, deliver the warning.
But then came the sound of footsteps down the hall. Then came the boom of voices, coming closer and closer.
They were heading for the office.
Panic set his pulse into breakneck speed. Benedikt eyed the window, calculating the time he needed to climb back out. With no time to spare, he pivoted instead for the other door in the office and opened it to find a storage room for filing cabinets—barely wide enough to let one person walk through, but long enough to leave darkness on the other end. He squeezed right in, his back pressed against the cabinets lining the walls, shoulders almost colliding with the sharp metal edges.
Click. Benedikt pulled the door after himself just as the burst of voices entered the office. They settled into the room, chairs scraping back, heavy bodies sitting down—discussing the Communists, discussing the massacre.
And then: “We have complaints from the Scarlet Gang about the Montagov kill order. Said it was dishonorable.”
Benedikt wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. He turned rigid with surprise, listening closer. So the Scarlet Gang hadn’t been entirely on board. He didn’t know whether to respect them for voicing their concern or hate them for going through with it anyway.
With fear coating his skin like sweat, Benedikt pushed at the door as carefully as he could, allowing it to open just the barest sliver. He didn’t have a perfect idea what each high-ranking official in the Kuomintang looked like, but he recognized General Shu, if not by his resemblance to Marshall, then by the image permanently seared into his head when General Shu was taking Marshall away from him.
“Forget it,” General Shu said. “My command stands. We will never again have a chance like this for eradicating our enemies; we must take it.”
Benedikt’s fists curled by his sides, twisting at his sleeves for something to do, for some way to exert energy so he didn’t move and make noise. Since when were the White Flowers enemies to the Nationalists anyway? Dimitri had allied with the Communists, but was that enough to condemn every White Flower? If it were the Scarlets demanding the White Flowers be pulled into the purge, that was one matter, but General Shu insisting on it instead . . .
There were only four Montagovs left in the city. Unless the kill order wasn’t a strike against the White Flowers at all, but an effort to take everyone Marshall loved away from him.
Benedikt exhaled slowly. The Nationalists continued with their discussion, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting into the closet space. All the while, trying not to move a single muscle, Benedikt was trapped.
Forty-Two
Rain had been falling in a light drizzle over the city, washing at the stains marring the sidewalks, turning the lines of blood into one long stream that ran through the city like a second river.
When Juliette picked her way out of the lab building, emerging cautiously into the late morning, the street was empty. It had been quiet for some time now. The gunshots and shouting and clanging metal had not gone on for long; the Nationalists and the Scarlets had stormed the city with military-grade weapons, after all. Those at the other end of their violence had submitted quickly.
“Something’s not right, dorogaya.”
Juliette turned around, watching Roma emerge into the open, clutching Alisa’s hand. His eyes shifted nervously.
“It’s too quiet.”
“No,” Juliette said. “I think it is only that all reinforcements have been called elsewhere. Listen.”
She held up a finger, tilting her head into the wind. The rain started to fall harder, turning the drizzle into a proper downpour, but beneath the din, there came the sound of voices, like a screaming crowd.
Roma’s expression turned stricken. “Let’s move.”
The first cluster of people they came upon was a surprise. Roma panicked, Alisa froze, but Juliette pushed at both of their shoulders, forcing them to keep moving. These were protesters—university students, gauging by their simple fashion and plaited hair—but they were too caught up in their slogan-shouting to even notice the three gangsters passing them.
“Keep moving,” Juliette warned. “Head down.”