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the building with an escort of Grid soldiers and a crowd of people, many of them
     protesting the verdict. Marcus couldn’t tell if they wanted something harsher or more
     lenient, but he supposed there were probably different factions calling for each.
     Asher Woolf led the way, slowly pushing through the people and clearing a path. A
     wagon was waiting to take them away—an armored car rigged with free axles and drawn
     by a team of four powerful horses. They stomped as they waited, whiffling and blustering
     as the noise of the crowd grew closer.
    “They look like they’re going to start a riot,” said Isolde, and Marcus nodded. Some
     of the protestors were blocking the doors of the wagon, and others were trying to
     pull them away while the Grid struggled helplessly to maintain order.
    No, thought Marcus, frowning and leaning forward. They’re not trying to maintain order, they’re trying to . . . what? They’re not stopping
     the fight, they’re moving it. I’ve seen them quell riots before, and they were a lot
     more efficient than this. More focused. What are they—?
    Senator Weist fell to the ground, his chest a blossom of dark red, followed almost
     immediately by a deafening crack. The world seemed to stand still for a moment, the
     crowd and the Grid and the meadow all frozen in time. What had happened? What was
     the red? What was the noise? Why did he fall? The pieces came together one by one
     in Marcus’s mind, slowly and out of order and jumbled in confusion: The sound was
     a gunshot, and the red on Weist’s chest was blood. He’d been shot.
    The horses screamed, rearing up in terror and straining against the heavy wagon. Their
     scream seemed to shatter the moment, and the crowd erupted in noise and chaos as everyone
     began running—some were looking for cover, some were looking for the shooter, and
     everyone seemed to be trying to get as far away from the body as they could. Marcus
     pulled Isolde behind the bench, pressing her to the ground.
    “Don’t move!” he said, then sprinted toward the fallen prisoner at a dead run.
    “Find the shooter!” screamed Senator Woolf. Marcus saw the senator pull a pistol from
     his coat, a gleaming black semiautomatic. The civilians were fleeing for cover, and
     some of the Grid as well, but Woolf and some of the soldiers had stayed by the prisoners.
     A spray of shrapnel leaped up from the brick wall behind them, and another loud crack
     rolled across the yard. Marcus kept his eyes on the fallen Weist and dove to the ground
     beside him, checking his pulse almost before he stopped moving. He couldn’t feel much
     of anything, but a wave of blood bubbling up from the wound in the man’s chest told
     Marcus the heart was still beating. He clamped down with his hands, applying as much
     pressure as he could, and cried out suddenly as someone yanked him backward.
    “I’m trying to save him!”
    “He’s gone,” said a soldier behind him. “You need to get to cover!”
    Marcus shrugged him off and scrambled back to the body. Woolf was shouting again,
     pointing through the meadow to the hospital complex, but Marcus ignored them and pressed
     down again. He hands were red and slick, his arms coated with warm arterial spray,
     and he shouted for assistance. “Somebody give me shirt or a jacket! He’s bleeding
     front and back and I can’t stop it all with just my hands!”
    “Don’t be stupid,” said the soldier behind him. “You’ve got to get to cover.” But
     when Marcus turned to look at him, he saw Senator Delarosa, still in handcuffs. She
     was crouched between them.
    “Save her first!” said Marcus.
    “He’s over there!” cried Woolf, pointing again to the buildings behind the hospital.
     “The shooter’s in there, somebody circle around!”
    Blood pumped thickly through Marcus’s fingers, staining his hands and covering the
     prisoner’s chest; blood from the exit wound flowed steadily from the man’s back, spreading