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.”
“What’s happening?” Alisa asked, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “I thought there was a purge. Why aren’t they afraid?”
Her blond hair was plastered to her neck and shoulders. Juliette was not faring much better; at least she hadn’t bothered with finger waves, so it was only black locks stuck to her face, not pomade running in a sticky mess.
“Because you cannot kill everyone in one day,” Juliette replied bitterly. “They went for their most prominent targets using the element of surprise. After that, the workers still hold the numbers. As long as people at the top are putting out the call, there will be people at the bottom ready to answer.”
And answer they did. The farther Roma, Juliette, and Alisa walked—delving deeper into the city and closer to the Bund—the more the crowds thickened. It became startlingly clear that those on the streets were all congregating in one direction: north, away from the waterfront and in the direction of Zhabei. It wasn’t only students anymore. Textile workers were on strike; tram conductors had abandoned their posts. No matter how powerful the Nationalists had grown, they could not hide the news of a purge. No matter how much fear the Scarlet Gang once incited, they had since lost their grip on the city. They could not threaten its people back into submission. The people would not stand for murder and intimidation. They would be heard.