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The guard's boots click-clack against the concrete as he circles me. He speaks breathlessly into his radio, calling for backup. I have only seconds to react.
    I make my move the moment he gets close to my legs and not a second later. Kicking out hard, I sweep his boots from underneath him. An errantgunshot cracks out, and the guard falls backward, landing hard on the ground. He tries to retrain his weapon on me, but I'm too fast. Like a silver wolf pouncing on prey, I leap on him and jam my knee hard on his throat.
    I reach for my gun and frantically draw it out. Then I dig the barrel hotly into his neck and say, "Drop it."
    The guard doesn't obey. Instead he jerks and tries to aim his gun at me. I press down harder on his windpipe, sealing off his air supply. His face turns purple, and he drops his weapon.
    Another siren roars out, echoing loudly off the buildings around us. The Centurion Guard is on the way. With my knee firmly in place, I spin my head, desperately searching for a way out. A child's wide eyes watch from an open second-floor window of a shabby midrise apartment building. When our gazes meet, he backs slowly into the shadows of his apartment. He, like everyone else, wants no part of this. The sirens and the noise of a scuffle have sent everyone into hiding, as they rightly should. No need to be present when the authorities come around, as nothing good ever comes of it.
    My eyes dance from building to building and dark window to dark window. There's no way out and no one to help. I curse loudly.
    I look down at the guard, whose face has turned a ghastly shade of blue. The man needs to breathe, and I need to run. Sweat drips off my bloodied chin and splatters onto his lips. His eyes are bugging out of his head. He'll die soon if I don't let up.
    Before I can think better of it, I lift my knee from his throat. He hoarsely draws a gallon of air and immediately chokes on it. He spits up blood.
    I lean down close to his face and say, "I came home to kill men like you. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to put this gun to your temple and flick the trigger. Do you understand?"
    His voice is raw. "Yeah," he says with a tremble.
    "If I hear the Kingdom is looking for a man with a gun, I'll come to your home and kill you, and I won't use this gun. Got me?"
    The guard nods his head furiously, eager to comply. Jude was right. This man isn't a hardened centurion; he's a washout, a failure who's terrified of both killing and dying. Unfortunately for him, I fear neither, a truth I know he can see in my eyes.
    That's when I'm filled with an unstoppable rage to murder him. He's the epitome of every evil that dominates this country. This guard—this pathetic excuse for a human being—is a cog in the great machine that keeps my people oppressed, only a small step removed from slavery. As long as King Charles reigns, we in the South will never be free.
    This man needs to die, and he needs to die now.
    I might not get another chance.

hear her voice before I see her face.
    In a silky and unfamiliar accent, she says, "Don't do it. Come with me. We have only seconds."
    I tilt my head toward the soft voice and raise the gun, taking aim at the dark woman from the Office of Record. Her tears are gone, replaced with a dry and resolute stare. I lower my gun and direct it back to the guard lying beneath me. The color of life has returned to his face; his eyes dart wildly, his mind trying to devise a plan.
    "Don't even think about it," I tell him. "I dare you to give me the hint of an excuse to pull this trigger."
    The sirens are louder now, no farther than a block away. If I stay where I am for another minute, it'll be too late. If the centurions around the corner see me—gun in hand—they'll mow us down.
    This girl and me. No questions will be asked; their rifles will simply explode to red-hot life, and then there'll be nothing but the silence of death—but not before the pain.
    The young woman, in a breathy whisper, pleads,