“I’m on it. Lark, pigeon.”
She reached for the crate on the scraped metal floor and pulled out one whose tag read, “Nelanta.” It cooed in her hands, its feathers cool and smooth. She passed it to Skye in the front seat.
“Last call for nature,” Luke announced. “General?”
Calder and Rushing ambled to the right; Lark scampered to the left. When they all returned, Skye started the engine.
“Lark Sutter,” Calder said, catching her attention. She peered at the important man curiously. “You saved my life and killed my tormentor. I prayed for days. Yours was the first friendly face I saw, and I knew my prayers had been answered. I won’t forget.”
That assurance meant everything to Lark. The Calders’ approval would go a long way if a lasting relationship between her and Azaleen lay in their future. Warmth filled her cheeks as her lips curved.
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad it worked.”
The jeep lurched forward. They raced toward Stonevale, determined to beat the enemy army there.
Chapter twenty-two
Selective Truth
Dominion, Red River Republic, same day
Jace Irons stood before the mirror in his room, perfecting his shave. Gone were his unruly brown curls, a sharp executive haircut in their place. The white dress shirt and red western tie were also new for a man known more for indulgence than discipline. He’d been managing an ammunition factory for five years but didn’t dress for the grimy factory. Until now, Jace had taken little in his privileged life seriously; however, today was special.
It’s not like he wished his older brother ill. Colt had been there for him when they were kids, after all.It’s his own fault, he reminded himself as he ran a comb through his impeccable hair. He peered into the amber eyes in the mirror, butterflies flapping in his gut. With Dad’s golden boy banished in disgrace, today marked Jace’s first official meeting with the president and his advisors.
Colt’s out and I’m in.As much as he’d dreamed of this moment, it didn’t settle right on Jace’s conscience. He would never question his father’s decisions. Luther Irons was a great man—powerful and charismatic, a visionary. He had always believed it.
What possessed Colt to oppose him?he wondered.Did General Crane deserve to be executed?
Ever since the day of the trial, his father had been … different. Jace was thrilled he’d been invited to attend the meeting, to have his father’s favor and possibly be groomed to take his place one day instead of his older brother. If it weren’t for that hard seed of doubt he couldn’t uproot.What if Colt was right?
He couldn’t think about that. Today was Jace’s day to stand with the father he loved and admired, despite the years he’d been overlooked. He would back up every word the president uttered and learn as much as he could. Maybe he’d only been invited to give a report about bullet production; he convinced himself it was more.
Satisfied that he looked like a respectable adult, one who could be trusted with responsibility, Jace left his comfortable quarters in the keep, his leather-soled shoes tapping across polished tile. He passed a member of the cleaning staff while descending the stairs, and several clerks on the main level. Symbols of power lined the walls; busts of the founders and portraits of presidents watched from above. This morning, as Jace passed familiar rooms—Justice Hall, the Founders’ Chamber, and the Greeting Parlor—it was as if he were seeing them for the first time. A tapestry picturing a fallen soldier clinging to the national flag bore the words, “Truth. Sacrifice. Unity.”
Jace paused outside the Command Hall to take a deep breath and straighten his tie. A uniformed attendant stationed at the door opened it for him. “Mr. Irons,” he said with a bow. Squaring his thin shoulders, the president’s younger son strode in.
The windowless room seemed smaller than he recalled, chairs set around a table, the constant whir of a fan filling his ears. Red and steel dominated the room, hammers and anvils branded into walls and tabletops. Even the air felt industrial. For a split second, Jace felt as if he’d stepped into the jaws of a trap. Then, Economics and Resource Advisor Dalia Ren smiled at him.
“Welcome, Jace. Here. Take the seat by me.”
A friendly face was exactly what he needed. He slid in beside the forty-something-year-old, impeccably dressed woman, her medium-brown hair casually draping her shoulders.
“Good morning, Director Ren.”
Across from them, the severe, older blonde woman in a cold gray suit never glanced up from the folder she was inspecting. Jace had always been a little scared of Beatrice Graves, Minister of Internal Order.
The others filed in: eccentric Dr. Rourke Venz, Minister of Advancement; pious Reverend Abram Quell; Vice President Randall Reagan; and the dubious head of the secret police, Colonel Bram Vexler. All stood when the doorman announced, “The honorable President Luther Irons.”
Jace’s chest filled with pride as his father strode in, holding his average frame with authority. His strawberry-blond pompadour and bushy sideburns remained stubbornly free of gray. However, Jace quickly realized his father was not happy. He glowered through Reverend Quell’s opening prayer. Then they all took their seats.
The chamber held its breath until Luther’s fist struck the table. “Damn that Maddox Crane! Why did he have to defy me? Now we’re stuck with that fool Garcia leading my invasion.”
No one dared point out that it was the president who ordered Crane’s execution and appointed General Garcia as commander of the Republic’s joint military forces. However, Vexler, who leaned back in his chair, chewing a matchstick, said, “You can replace him, Mr. President.”
Vexler, wiry and bald, wore black leather like a uniform of menace.
Jace’s dad pursed his lips, his brows scrunched down over his eyes. “It’s too late for that.” He stuffed a hand in his pocket and pulled out a fist, crumpling a sheet of paper. “Do you know what this is?” He slammed it on the table.