Page 76 of Song Bird Hearts
The fight meets a stalemate, no one gaining ground. We’re trapped on the street near the courthouse, the Foundation unable to come deeper into the city, and us refusing to let them in any further than they’ve already made it.
There’s blood on my boots. I don’t know who’s, but it’s gonna be a damn difficult stain to get out later. People are taking cover, hunkering down if they’re not shooting, if their role isn’t to aim a gun. No one backs down. No one stops. And we don’t plan to.
The livestream is still running. The cameras are catching it all, so they see when the new SUV pulls up, this time in pristine white. The color is a like a mockery in the midst of all the bloodshed.
A figure steps out of it as I watch, my shotgun raised in case I need to fire it. The man who gets out isn’t armed that we can see and he’s dressed in a dove-colored suit that’s easily worth the price of this entire town. He doesn’t run as he steps forward and his people fall back, their weapons down to let him speak.
His suit is perfectly pressed, not a wrinkle out of place. His hair is silvering at his temples, which tells me he’s old enough to know better than to step forward when so many guns are pointed his way. He smiles at us like a politician, like he’s about to take the microphone and lie through his teeth.
“Valerie Decatur,” he calls out. His voice is amplified, crisp and even, as if he’s speaking into a high-tech bullhorn. At the tip up of my chin, his smile widens. “I think it’s about time we talked. . .”
Chapter37
Valerie
Smoke still curls from the rooftops, rising into the deepening twilight like the ghost of the battle we just fought. The square is a patchwork of chaos—overturned benches, singed flags, shattered glass. The scent of gunpower and blood is thick in the cooling air. Sirens wail faintly in the distance, making their way to Steele to help. There are bodies, many of them just injured, but a few. . .unmoving. Their people. I don’t know if any of ours have gone down. Not yet.
I stand tall at the foot of the bronze Frederick E. Savage statue, forcing the man who wants to talk to walk down a street lined with our people, their weapons at the ready. If he wants to talk, then we’ll talk, but it won’t be easy for him.
My arm is bleeding again where my bullet graze wound had torn open somehow. I have a split lip and a bruise feels like it’s forming on my temple where I’d ran into someone who hadn’t seen me coming. I’m covered in the grime and dirt of the battle, my shirt torn in places where I’d caught it on bits of metal on the barricades. A fire burns in my chest that can’t be soothed with simple words or apologies. Whatever this man says, it better be good.
The livestream is still going, some of the cameras toppled over and streaming sideways. Around us, a few people work to right them, trying to catch as much as possible. The world has seen enough to make their decisions at this point, but it’s the least we can do.
Apparently, the 27 Foundation has seen enough as well, if they’re sending this man to come speak to me.
The line of sleek black SUVs that were looming at the edge of town have gone still at this point. The firefight had stopped abruptly when the man’s white SUV had appeared, and it feels like we’re all holding a breath mid-battle. This isn’t how war works, though I suppose the leaders having a conversation is common. Still, none of us trust it, and none of us put our guns away.
The man approaching is immaculate. The closer he gets, the more details I can see. His dove-gray suit is as expensive as I thought from a distance, and the closer he gets, I can tell it’s been perfectly dry-cleaned. There isn’t a crease out of place, not even where his arms and knees bend. His shoes are polished to a mirror sheen despite the dust and debris he has to walk through. His graying hair is swept back with military precision, the kind of haircut that tells me this man has been trained with a rifle. There’s no blood on him. He doesn’t sweat. He’s just cold calculation and unsettling calm.
He walks toward us with the kind of measured confidence that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command a room. . . or a battlefield.
I don’t flinch when he stops fifteen feet in front of me.
“Ms. Decatur,” he greets, his voice smooth as oil. “May we speak?”
I narrow my eyes. My body aches right now, evidence of the fight. My ears are ringing from the explosions and gunfire. My shotgun hangs loosely at my side. I’m not pointing it at him now, but it’s loaded, and I can fire at a moment’s notice. I don’t trust this man. I don’t trust any of them.
“She’s not yours to summon,” Knox growls from beside me, his finger twitching over the trigger of his gun. He doesn’t have the same qualms I do. His gun is pointed directly at this man’s chest. If he so much as moves towards me, I won’t have to shoot him. Knox will.
I touch his wrist, my hand steady. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”
“You’re bleeding,” Wolf murmurs quietly.
I don’t look away from the stranger. “Then let him see what I’m willin’ to spill.”
I take a few measured steps forward, closing the distance so we’re only about ten feet from each other. The move is more symbolic than necessary, two generals stepping up to discuss the war. It also shows I’m not afraid of him.
“Impressive showing,” he says, glancing around at the people watching him like a hawk. He’s surrounded and yet entirely at ease. “Steele surprised us.”
“That was the point,” I answer, watching him carefully.
“And the names you dropped on your livestream?” He arches a brow. “A bold move. Some of them were still active, useful even. They’ll have to be disposed of. Naturally.”
I can tell the comment is an attempt to make me feel bad, a way to measure just how big my heart is. It’s damn big, but I don’t have pity for people willing to hurt other people. They chose the risky pathway, to work under a nefarious shadow organization. That was bound to come bite them in the ass. If they were smart, they’d have run the moment I dropped their name, actors or not.
“Useful for destroying lives maybe,” I say, not addressing his comment about disposing of them.
His expression barely shifts. It’s just a fractional narrowing of his eyes that I notice. “Collateral,” he says.
