I hear the van’s engine turn over. The king will make it. My sight blurs, but I can still see Montes struggling to leave the vehicle, and Jose’s hand pushing him down so that he’s not in the shooter’s line of sight.

The pounding footsteps get closer and I glance behind me. A man and a woman wearing black fatigues jog towards us, their guns raised.

I aim my weapon and fire off three more shots—all misses due to my trembling hand—then the gun clicks empty.

Tires screech and the van peels out. Several more shots ring out, and bullet holes puncture the side of the van. The last thing I see before rough hands grab me is Montes’s face.

It’s a mask of despair, and that, more than anything frightens me. If the king is already in mourning, then I am as good as dead.

“We got the queen,” the man radios to his accomplices. I guess I know which side survived the gunfire. “We’re going to load her and take her back to the warehouse.”

That can’t be good.

Rough hands lift me from where I’m crumpled against the ground. I scream at the sensation. The woman grabs my arms and the man grabs my legs.

I shriek as they lift me, and salty tears sting my eyes. My wound feels like it’s ripping me in two; warm liquid exits it and slides across my skin.

They carry me to a nearby ambulance and load me on a stretcher. I’m already starting to shiver.

“She’s losing a lot of blood. Think she’ll survive the ride?” the man asks the woman.

“Nadia will make sure she does.”

I groan from the pain and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget just how my life led me here. Given the situation, I hope the wound takes me. Chances are good that if I live through it, I’m going to die a much more painful death.

The door to the ambulance opens, and I see the nurse I talked to earlier. “So you’re the traitor?” I wheeze.

“I’d say the same thing to you.” She glances at the man hovering over me. “Get the car started. The rest of the team is leaving.”

She turns her attention back to me. “Let’s get you fixed up.” This must be Nadia.

They shot me only to stitch me back together. “This is why I hate doctors,” I whisper.

“I’m a nurse,” Nadia says, snapping on gloves. And then she touches the wound.

I scream. What she is, is a sadist.

I blink open my eyes, confused about where I am. I twist my body to look around, and pain lacerates me everywhere. I yelp and still. My side throbs long after I stop moving, and I quickly fill in the gaps of my memory.