"No."
Her answer was blunt. She saw a flicker of sadness—of pity—pass through his eyes.
'Why does he have to be sad?'
He knew nothing about the men who had just died.
Why does he have to look at me with compassion?
She could not hear his words of comfort.
'Why do I have to feel guilty?'
All those questions churned in her head. She was a killer. She wasn't supposed to ask questions; she was supposed to pull the gun, aim, and shoot. It was simple—simple enough for her to do it at fourteen.
'So why, why is it so hard?'
She raised her arm with difficulty, her hand trembling—but not from the wind.
'Hate me.'
Of course he wouldn't hate her. John and he were the same, and that was what made the task so hard.
"Why can't you just hate me?"
That question had haunted her nights for more than a week.
"John showed me his list. We were both on it, Ethan—both of us..."
Her voice broke; she was whispering now.
"They wanted to leave, hand the seat to me, but he had little chance of surviving without killing us. None of this would've happened if the yakuza hadn't stuck their noses into our business."
With the wind, he probably hadn't even heard her plea.
"How?"
"He showed me his list..."
Amanda stopped when he began shaking his head.
"How could you kill him?"
The question shook her as though lightning had struck; the hand holding the gun began to tremble uncontrollably. It was already too late—he would never forgive what she had done that night. That was why he was here, in the shadows, surely ready to pounce the moment she faltered.
She could no longer lower her weapon. She had been weak, but she never would be again.
Her finger squeezed the trigger twice.
BANG. BANG.
One bullet to the head, another to the heart—one to kill, one to make sure.
She let the gun drop heavily to the ground, knowing her only way out was to declare her innocence at the top of her voice. She took a blank slip of paper and a pen from her small bag and began to write:
I avenged you, darling.
She had shot him in the back that night, never letting him glimpse her face.
He was the one who shot you that night. He must have thought he was showing mercy—compassion—by letting you bleed out.
She hadn't been able to kill the love of her life, even if she wanted to become Princess of War more than anything.
Everything will be all right now.
A sniper's crack was the only reply: the bullet tore through her stomach, her body offering no resistance.
The little scrap of paper slipped from her fingers, joining the leaves that swirled above her before settling to the ground. She sank to her knees.
Within seconds she heard footsteps. She could recognize him by his silhouette despite the large goggles and oxygen mask he wore. He emerged from the thinning smoke, as though searching for someone.
'He tried to save us to the very end...' she thought, watching him draw nearer.
He ignored her completely and went to Ethan's body lying a few steps away.
John uttered no cry of pain at the sight of his friend's corpse, yet she could read the agony in his hunched posture. Silently he removed his gear, placed it on the ground, and came over to her.
He squatted in front of her. She couldn't meet his gaze and stared at the tips of his knees instead.
"Was it worth it?"
Instinctively she lifted her head and met his eyes. It was really him.
"I didn't want to hear your answer anyway. What was it you told me that night, by the way? Ah, yes—nothing personal, of course, just business."
He stood. Before leaving he repeated, word for word, the last thing she'd said when she left him for dead:
"I sincerely hope you don't survive."
With that, he walked away, leaving her to bleed out quietly into the grass.