“I am simply more lithe than you are,” Marshall replied. He turned back for a second, sparing a glance as the Scarlets below moved forward, at no risk of disappearing anytime soon. “Come on.”
Marshall extended a hand. Benedikt hurried forward and took it, their fingers laced together, half to be near each other and half because he truly did need to be dragged to prevent his ankle from giving out entirely. Soon, the Scarlets seemed to be slowing, and Marshall halted, his lips pinched in thought as he watched them.
Benedikt peered over Marshall’s shoulder. As he squinted through the rain, he couldn’t stop the hiss that escaped when he tried to set even weight on both his feet. Marshall’s attention pivoted to him immediately, looking him up and down.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Benedikt said. “How are we to approach them?”
The Scarlets had stopped outside a building—what looked like police headquarters, though it was hard to read the faded French along the front. Marshall and Benedikt had arrived at the Bund too late. With horror, they had halted to a stop by the roadside just in time to witness Roma being dragged away, separated from Juliette and torn in the other direction. Marshall had almost hurried forward, intent on stopping them in their tracks with “General Shu’s” new order, but it was risky—almost too suspicious for such timing. There was a better chance of success if they waited until the Scarlets reached their destination, instead of mysteriously appearing en route.
So Benedikt and Marshall decided to trail after Roma. He had not tried to escape through the entire walk: he remained wooden between the Scarlets who had ahold of him, saying nothing save for the occasional assurance to Alisa. Alisa, on the other hand, had bucked and kicked as hard as she could, going as far as to try biting one of the Scarlets. None of it worked. They did their best to ignore her, and the march onward only continued.
Now, at their destination, one of the Scarlets was arguing with a Nationalist standing guard by the doors. Roma and Alisa stood in the rain with their Scarlet captors, every single one of them looking out of place on these empty streets. There would have been more civilians walking about if the Nationalists hadn’t cleared the roads with their military vehicles. There would be more civilians witnessing this bizarre scene—Montagovs under Scarlet control—if the Nationalists had not laid waste to everyone outside with bullets and gunfire.
“I think we may have to do it now,” Marshall said, hesitating. “I don’t know if they have a jail cell waiting inside or a firing squad.”
“Then let’s go.” Benedikt made to shuffle off the roof tiles. He had barely gotten a step forward when Marshall’s arm shot out.
“With your ankle like that? Stay here, Ben. It makes more sense when it is only me who arrives with the command anyway. You’re still dressed like a worker.”
Before Benedikt could protest, Marshall was already sliding off the roof, hanging along the gutters by his fingertips, then jumping down and landing cleanly.
“Keep an eye out,” Marshall hissed from below. He disappeared quickly, ducking through the nearest alley and then emerging between two of the buildings, coming onto the main road. Benedikt didn’t like getting left behind, but he had to admit it would have looked strange for him to accompany Marshall. From his vantage point, he watched Marshall approach the group, his posture stick straight, acting the Nationalist soldier. He started to speak with one of the Scarlets, pulling the forged note out of his jacket. All the while, the other Scarlet who had stepped out of the rain and under the awning of the police station was still arguing with the soldier standing guard. The Scarlet—as Benedikt eyed him—lashed out, whacking the soldier’s hat and flipping it right off his head.
Benedikt wondered what could possibly be a point of contention at this precarious time. Was it not the Nationalists’ mission to capture the Montagovs? Why would they keep Roma lurking outside for so long? Did they not worry about a rescue attempt?
“Hey!”
Roma’s voice rang loud. The Scarlets, the two soldiers outside the station, Marshall—they all turned to look at him, taken aback, but Roma’s attention was fixed on the soldier picking his hat back up.
“Why is your hat so big? It doesn’t fit you in the slightest.”
The rain suddenly eased into a light drizzle. Its raucous noise grew faint, and it was like Benedikt’s ears had come unplugged, like he could think clearly again. He realized what Roma was implying. The man outside was not a Nationalist soldier. He had been planted there to stall.