Coveted (The Last Assassin Series Book 1)

by Jack Alden

A familiar silence envelops the cave. Central, the North-Side headquarters for training. On the South Side, training headquarters is called Domain, but the function of both is the same. Train civilians for war, or more accurately, train civilians for sport, seeing as how war has really become more of a deadly sibling rivalry than anything else. And valuable too. The wealthy make bets, bids, even requests for particular strategies and attacks, fueling the blood sport of two rival nations. Frothing at the mouth over the deaths of those they consider smaller, lesser, expendable.

  After the End War, a large portion of the remaining world population ended up here on the mountain, where two brothers, both former politicians, took up leadership and formed a government of their own. The Dogan brothers were fiercely competitive and disagreed on nearly every issue. Their feuds resulted in a division of the mountain and of the population. Half the population took to the North Side under the rule of Turk, while the other half took to the South Side, under Stark.

  The North-Side Valley Sector, the Gutter, has been home to the Leary’s ever since. Generation after generation. Every last one of us.

  Tempest’s hand moves up and tousles my hair, making it fuzzy. “Take a breath, Dagger. Everything’s going to be all right. Trust me, yeah?”

  He says it with a smile, but I know him better than I know myself sometimes. Underneath all that calm and quiet, he’s scared.

  “Yeah.” I wrap my arm around his back and lean my head against his shoulder. His words flit through my head again. Central would be hurting for you if they knew what you could do. Fear pricks, stirs in my gut. They can never know. Tempest and I both know that.

  He rests his head on top of mine and squeezes me tight. “I’ll always protect you.”

  He doesn’t have to say it. I already know.

  “S’bout seven,” he says after a while, checking the old, cracked watch on his wrist. “The Market buzz will start soon. Better get going.”

  We make quick work of the clean-up, not having unloaded much to begin with. Today isn’t a training day, after all. We only came to the cave to get away, a quick escape from everything we’re soon going to have to face. It’s our place, the cave, the second safest place we know.

  The first is with each other.

  ***

  On the way back to town, my mind races. Tempest must sense it because he nudges my arm.

  “Chin up, buttercup,” he says, the same thing our father always said to our mother when we were low on money and food.

  I allow myself a smile, but it doesn’t hold. I’m not the crying kind but I can feel my throat getting tight. My eyes begin to burn.

  “What if they draft us both?” I can’t bring myself to ask in anything more than a whisper, reaching out to pull my brother to a stop. “What about Mom and Beck? They won’t make it without us. You know they won’t.”

  Tempest’s hands grip my shoulders. He lowers his voice to match mine. “We’ve talked about this, D.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But nothing. Okay? Stop and think before you panic. You know the rules. You know they can’t draft more than one head per household if it means leaving the house without a caretaker, and we’re the main caretakers. Use your head. Don’t let your emotions get the best of you.”

  At Tempest’s reassurance, I get it together as quickly as I lost it. With a hard pat to my back, Tempest urges me forward and we continue making our way back to town.

  Most of the time, Tempest and I don’t need words. In one look, we can have an entire conversation, like we’re both tuned to the same station inside our heads. Sometimes the feed is staticky and difficult to understand, but most of the time, it’s as clear as a bright, sunny day on the South Side. Some things, though, just need to be said out loud.

  Cutting through the alley beside our house, we head onto the main street running through the Gutter and take the road nearly half a mile to the Square.

  The Square is all hustle and bustle even though no one in the Gutter really does much business, and hardly ever for anyone outside the Gutter. Rock shipments are sometimes ordered for the wealthy who landscape in the sectors up the mountain. Down in the Gutter, there’s no limit of rocks, whether they’ve been here for years or are steadily chipping off the sides of the surrounding mountains.

  My shoulders feel tight as we wind through. There’s always a feeling of exposure and vulnerability in the Square. Maybe it’s because I know we’re being watched every minute, every step we take. We’ve been told it’s the same in every sector. Cameras and guards scattered over every main road, every corner. That’s the way it’s always been for as long as any of us can remember, so it should feel natural, comfortable even, but it doesn’t. There’s something off about it. It doesn’t even make me feel safe. It makes me feel caged, like an animal. All of us waiting to be sent off to slaughter.

  We pass the Administrator’s house, which sits in the middle of the Square, and make our way to the northern corner where the Market lies. Every sector on both sides of the mountain has an Administrator, enlisted to keep the populace in order. They’re also the ones who send us to the Draft. The Gutter’s Administrator, Kal Hitchins, is an evil son of a bitch. He takes sick pleasure in the authority he’s been given, punishing crimes however he sees fit, his preferred being a public display of torture. Everyone in the Gutter avoids him when they can, and when they can’t, they pretend to like him. Best not to test his temper, or worse, his pride.

  Inside the Market, I relax a bit. Familiar faces flash at me from every direction, but Gerta Prow, the frail, older woman who lives just two houses from our own, hobbles over to us before I have time to fully process the crowd. She’s always in the Market, craving attention and company. She lives for it, mostly because she has no family. Not anymore.

  She taps me on the arm. A large hump in her back keeps her at a nearly ninety-degree angle all the time, so I have to bend over a great deal to get in hearing range of her quiet, shaky speech. “Meet me out back in an hour,” she says before hobbling off again. Crazy, old woman.

  I nudge my brother. “Gerta wants us to meet her out back in an hour. You think she wants to ask you on a date?”

  “Hope so.” Tempest grins. “I’ve been trying to catch her eye for years.”

  We head off into the heart of the Market. The buzz is thick and chaotic around us. Like flies, everyone flits around from station to station, landing only long enough to snatch a good deal. Chatter spills from every open mouth. That’s the buzz, filling the air with a loud, steady rhythm.

  Tables, wagons, even small trailers line every foot of the giant warehouse. Voices boom out from every corner, attempting to draw people into whatever they’re selling. If you can’t rely on smells or sight, you can usually follow the pitch lines to find what you need.

  “Fresh kill!” or “Get it while it’s hot!” will generally lead you to some sort of food, while “Keep warm!” and “We’ve got every color!” will take you to the apparel booths. Then you’ve got household goods, with vendors shouting, “Everything you need!’ and “Stock up while you can!” and in the center of the market are the news booths, chanting, “Read all about it!” and “Central discovers true talent!” “President Dogan lays down the law!” At the far end of the Market, though, is where you want your ears to take you, if you can afford to follow. That’s where you’ll hear, “One time only!” and “Never before seen!”

  The rarities booths. Precious items, such as jewelry or gems, rare meats and fresh milks that are hard to come by and generally too expensive to order from the farmlands. Cloth materials that are only available in the cities. Tempest and I are interested in something even rarer though, and to get that, we have to deal under the table.

  We head toward the rarities booths, stopping to pick up breads and cheeses, a half-dozen eggs, and seven rolls of yarn. We leave the more expensive items, such as meat and firewood, for our mother to barter for in the mornings. She can usually get them by trading her knittings, which saves us
from having to spend excess money, especially since yarn is so cheap and she can knit an entire winter set in just a couple of hours.

  People stop us along the way, just saying hello or asking to send clothing orders with us. One of Tempest’s old friends from school, Greysin Pollard, stops us just before we reach the rarities booths. He and Tempest catch up a bit while I stand at my brother’s side, silent and shifting my weight from leg to leg. I tune them out and take to watching the people buzz about. I’ve never been terribly comfortable with casual conversation. I tune back in immediately, though, when I hear Greysin’s next words.

  “So, the Draft’s coming up.”

  Tempest simply nods and leaves it at that.

  Accepting that that’s all he is going to get from my brother, Greysin starts to wander off, but just before he does, he turns back to me. He runs a hand through his short, spiky hair and flashes a smile that makes me feel like I’ve been stuck under a spotlight. “Eighteen on Saturday, right, Dagger?”

  I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. Yes. Saturday. How’d you know?”

  “How could I not?” He shakes his head a bit, and with a short, lighthearted laugh, strolls off into the buzz.

  Tempest rolls his eyes and waits until Greysin is out of earshot before putting on the best imitation of a Greysin-smile he can muster, all big teeth and cocked eyebrows. He lets out an airy laugh, pokes my shoulder, and says, “Oh, silly Dagger! How could I not know your birthday?”

  “You’re really not funny.”

  He lets out a deeper, wilder laugh—one all his own, and I can’t help but smile.

  “Shut up,” I say, tugging him forward. “Let’s go.”

  At the rarities booths, Tempest makes sure to get just within sight of Tredge Lawson, the main trader running the furs booth. He’s a short mouse of a man, mostly bald with beady eyes and shaky hands. Standing on a chair to better see and address the crowd, he calls out deals, one after the other.

  When he catches sight of us, he places his left hand down at his side and drops one finger. This indicates that only one new shipment has come in. Tempest nods at the gesture, a silent agreement to catch up with him at the usual place, usual time. Under-the-table trades, or what we call digs, don’t take place at the Market. This is just where we get our information. The actual trading happens at night.

  We head for the back alley next, and as soon as I open the door, I see Gerta. Hunched over against the back wall of the warehouse. She’s enveloped from head to foot in winter wraps. Her scraggly gray hair sticks out from under a fuzzy, red hat I recognize as my mother’s work, and her nearly white eyes dart speedily in every direction, as if waiting for someone to jump from behind a building and steal her precious wraps. As old as the mountain, she’s overly paranoid and always bordering on annoying, but she also always has the latest inside news and you can bet on it being legit. She has a way of blending into the background. People rarely notice her, so she overhears a lot.

  Tempest gives her a nod. “Mrs. Prow, how’ve you been?”

  Gerta greets Tempest with a toothless grin. She favors him, as most do. “I’m getting by, young man. I’m getting by.”

  “What’s the latest, Gerta?”

  Her gaze flicks to me, and she shakes her head back and forth. “No news, dearie,” she says, grin falling away. “I hear other things. Bad things. Things about you.”

  Her eyes dart back and forth between Tempest and me. Tempest shoots me a look to keep quiet. His face is stern, serious, but he doesn’t show any signs, not even subtle ones, of panic or fear; at least, not yet. Gerta notices Tempest’s sudden change in demeanor, which has her lips moving again.

  “They know,” she says.

  Tempest’s brow furrows. “Know what?”

  “They followed you there.”

  “Who followed us?” I ask. “Where?”

  “They know,” Gerta says again, then nods her head in my direction. “About her.”

  Tempest looks to me, briefly, and I feel my stomach bottom out.

  Gerta lets out a slow breath. It puffs into the air as a white cloud of fog. Her next words cut through the cloud like a knife. “They’re coming.”

  2

  The front door slams behind us. I barely get our goods on the table before Tempest’s hand wraps around my arm and pulls me toward the stairs. Once in his room, he shuts the door behind us and backs up against it, as if to barricade us from whatever evil might suddenly appear outside it, desperate to get in.

  Not two seconds later my mother is at the door. “Tempest Leary, what have I told you about slamming doors?” She jiggles the doorknob. “What is wrong with this doorknob? Tempest? Beckham will be up any minute and he’s going to need clothes. Open this door! And where is your sister? Is she in there? Prudence? Are you in there?”

  “In a minute, Mom!” he shouts through the door, not bothering to sweeten his voice as he usually does when dealing with her. “Just give us a minute.”

  “Well! I’m glad the whole world can be put on hold whenever you and your sister need a minute.”

  She shuffles off down the hallway, and my shoulders sag at the sound of her retreat. I can feel Tempest’s eyes boring into me, as if waiting for me to panic. I don’t. I take a deep breath and remain as calm as possible.

  An uneasy silence settles between us. I clear my throat. “I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here. What did Gerta mean?”

  “I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d say we’ve been followed to the cave, and if that’s the case, Dagger, this is bad.”

  My heart drops into my stomach like a stone.

  “You know having a training quarter outside Central is illegal. The cave will be seen as a resistance camp. That’s treason.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means we better hope they come before Saturday.” His gaze drops to the floor.

  “Saturday? Why?”

  “Because right now, you’re still a minor, and at most, you’ll be whipped or incarcerated. If they wait a week, we’re both dead.”

  They. Gerta used the same word, and now I know who she meant. The Sanctioning Squad, a specialized troop in our military. The SS collects criminals and takes them to The Dome, the North-Side capital, for trial and judgment. In cases of maximum-security breaches and treason, the SS is sent in to carry out the sentence themselves, because such crimes are not granted hearings. In those cases, the perpetrator is automatically sentenced to death by whatever means necessary or available.

  My brother can’t look at me. He barely chokes out the words before covering his face with his hand. Dead. The word slides down my throat like acid, burning every inch, and finally pools in the pit of my stomach until I feel it bubbling, rising back up the way it came. It climbs up my throat and floods into my mouth. I swallow, hard, choking it down, but the taste still tingles on my tongue. It was the way Tempest said it, as if he’s already accepted it and is only concerned about me. He’s not even trying to think of a way out of this.

  “You say that like it’s a sure thing.”

  “As good as,” Tempest says. “They’ve probably been watching us, following us for months now, so you think we can deny it? And we can’t run, because if they don’t kill Mom or Beck for it, they’ll no doubt make them suffer.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  I can’t hold myself still. I bounce on my toes and curl my fingers into my vest. “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You have to know, okay?”

  “What do you want me to say, Dagger?” he snaps. “I don’t know! I can’t fix this!” Sliding down the door, he rests in a giant heap on the floor, and though he doesn’t cry, I can tell he wants to.

  Tempest never cries. He isn’t afraid of dying. Sometimes, I think he would prefer it. No responsibility. No worry. No fear. No pain. He’s been the head of the house since he was thirteen, desperately trying to take care of us all. He
told me once when we were younger, not too long after the bomb raid, that he wished it would have been him who died instead of Juden, or even Dad. No, Tempest isn’t afraid of dying. He’s afraid of breaking his promise; the promise that he would always find a way to protect us.

  My brain pushes into overdrive. They’re coming. Gerta’s words play over and over in my mind. They know. They followed you there. They know about her. They’re coming.

  They know about the cave. They followed us there. They know about me. They’re coming to kill us. Then, it hits me.

  “What did Gerta mean when she said, ‘They know about her’?”

  Tempest shakes his head. “I don’t know. She probably meant your birthday. They know you’re almost eighteen, which means they know you can be tried as an adult soon.”

  “No, Tempest, listen to me.” I drop to the floor beside him. “Gerta said, ‘They followed you there. They know about her.’ The Dome has records of every person born on this side of the mountain, so I know someone there already knows my birthday without having to follow me anywhere. Even Greysin knows my birthday.”

  There’s the light bulb. Tempest’s head jumps from his hand. “They followed us to the cave,” he says, sounding even more worried than before.

  When you’ve lived your entire life in the same place, routine things become virtually invisible to you. You stop noticing the shabby, rundown appearance of the buildings or the missing hour hand from the giant clock in the Square. You overlook the things that have always been, like beggars in the alleys and holes in the road. You eventually stop seeing the guards on every street, at every corner. You stop paying attention. Maybe that’s why Tempest and I stopped noticing the whirring buzz of the hovercams that float throughout the Gutter, day and night, the buzz that had probably been following us to the cave for who knows how long.

  “They know about you.” The words come out in a whisper, as if what Tempest has just realized is too terrifying to say out loud.

  We stare at each other in silence, the reality of the situation finally sinking fully in, before Tempest begins to shake his head. “No,” he says. “No. I’ll think of a way out of this.”