Reign: A Royal Military Romance (15 page)

W
e’re walking
through the entryway to the bunker. I can finally hear myself think, now that the goddamn alarm is out of earshot. My stomach is twisted into a thick knot, because if there’s something worse than something going wrong, it’s not knowing what’s gone wrong.

Plus, I cannot fucking
believe
the timing.

Halfway down the hall, I stop, glance at both doors, and take Hazel’s shoulders in my hands.

“It’s not a fire drill,” she says.

Her eyes are wide as she looks around the concrete hallway, pipes and electric cords running along both sides.

“No,” I say. “That alarm means there’s a black-level threat.”

Her eyes widen a little more.

“Meaning there’s been a threat to a member of the royal family or the cabinet,” I say. “The black level protocol is for all remaining members of the royal family and cabinet to secure refuge in a bunker. There are a couple around the palace.”

“Okay,” she says, and sucks in a breath, nodding like she’s trying to take it all in.

It’s a lot, especially considering what we were up to about two minutes ago.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I admit. “This bunker is for royals and high-level officials only, so if there’s anyone inside already, there will be some questions.”

She nods, then takes one of my hands in hers.

“The guard didn’t tell you what happened?” she asks.

I just shake my head, and she kisses my hand.

“I hope it’s nothing,” she whispers.

“Me too,” I say.

The thought of my father, mother, or little brother hurt or dead makes me nauseous. Even though the cabinet members aren’t family, I still know them all. I know their families.

Please, God, let this be a false alarm
, I think.

I let Hazel’s hand go and open the second door. Beyond it is pure, inky blackness, so thick I feel like I could reach out and touch it. We’re the first ones here, then, so I find the switch on the wall and turn on the overhead lights.

They flicker to life one by one, ugly and fluorescent, but the whole bunker is ugly so it’s only fitting. The door we came through opens onto a landing, and an aluminum staircase leads down to the main area of the bunker, the size of a large living room with an arched ceiling overhead.

All concrete, of course. The place was built by the Soviets, who may not have realized there were other building materials.

We walk down the staircase and into the main room. Underneath the landing is a hallway that leads to a few rooms: a perfunctory kitchen, two dormitory-style bedrooms with rows of bunk beds, and a makeshift office. I head for the office and Hazel follows me.

I don’t even sit down before I pick up the phone and hit the red button on it. After half a ring, someone picks up.

“Report,” Chief Minister Arkady barks at me in Russian.

“Kostya in the basement dungeon bunker, along with Hazel Sung,” I say. “Crystal sardine.”

Quickly, I pray that I got this month’s password right.

Chief Minister Arkady heaves a sigh of relief into his end of the line.

“Kostya, good,” he says.

Then I hear him talking to someone else in the room, and all I can make out is
go tell the Queen
.

That means my mom is okay. The knot in my stomach loosens, just a little, and I look over at Hazel. She’s sitting on an ugly wooden bench, elbows on knees, watching me.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

“There’s been an assassination attempt on the King,” he says, gravely.

“An attempt,” I say. My heart squeezes in my chest.

“The bullet only grazed his shoulder, thank God,” Arkady says.

“My mother? Misha? The cabinet?”

“All well right now,” Arkady says. “Everyone at the palace is fine.”

I cover the mouthpiece of the phone and whisper, “Assassination attempt, but everyone is fine,” to Hazel.

She nods.

Then Arkady pauses, and even over the phone, I know that’s not everything.

“Tell me,” I say.

It’s a long, slow, halting story full of holes, but it’s essentially this: my father was in Tobov, the capital city, for a meeting of the Council on Black Sea Fisheries. As he was leaving, a gunman leapt out of the crowd and got off one shot at him before my father’s guards brought him down.

Then it gets complicated, partly because no one seems to have all the information. The gunman was screaming about a partner, or maybe many partners, hiding in wait around the city. There were strange reports from air traffic control of a squadron of unidentified planes flying south over the mountains — a blip on the radar for a moment, then gone.

The military has been intercepting something that
looks
like coded messages all day, sent via fax machine from service stations in remote areas to other service stations in other remote areas. And then there are the rumors: someone’s seen a fighter jet, someone’s learned that Russian hackers are planning to breach our national security and sabotage the state-run oil company, there are submarines in the Black Sea headed for Velinsk.

“It’s probably all nothing, except for the assassination attempt,” Arkady says. “You know how things spin out of control. But at this stage, we have to take it all seriously.”

We talk a bit more. I speak with my mother, who’s nearly beside herself, sobbing into the phone. My father is meeting with his military advisors, so I can’t speak with him yet, but we agree to video conference in fifteen minutes and I hang up the phone.

Hazel looks at me.

“Someone tried to assassinate my father,” I say.

I can barely believe it, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, anger flares inside me. Suddenly, I’m seeing red.

How dare they? How
fucking
dare they, after everything my father’s done for Sveloria?

No, he’s not always the gentlest leader. He has some policies that I think are stupid, that I wish he’d do away with, but twenty-five years ago Sveloria was a war-torn wasteland that had been utterly wrecked by the Soviet Union, and now it’s a peaceful country with a thriving economy.

I jump up and start pacing back and forth in front of the ugly, boxy steel desk.

Now someone wants to
murder
him?

“Is he okay?” Hazel asks.

“The bullet grazed him,” I say. “He’s fine.”

“Is everyone else okay?” she asks.

I turn and pace the other direction, and as I do, I realize she still looks worried. It stops me in my tracks.

You didn’t even ask about her parents,
I think.

“He said everyone in the palace was fine,” I say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask about your parents.”

Hazel half-smiles, and shakes her head, looking at the floor.

“I’m sure you’d have heard if they weren’t,” she says, but there’s still a flicker of worry in her eyes.

“I told Arkady you were here,” I say. “At least they won’t worry.”

“Thanks,” she says.

There’s a long pause as Hazel looks at the floor and I pace back and forth, trying to collect my angry, scattered thoughts.

“Did they catch the guy?” she asks.

“Yes, but they don’t know if he’s working with others,” I say.

Pace, turn. Pace, turn.

“It’s the USF,” I say. “I fucking
know
it is.”

“I thought they were defunct,” Hazel says.

I stop pacing for a moment.

I shouldn’t tell her that the United Svelorian Front is active again, that they’ve been wreaking havoc and my father has throttled the media. She’s an American, and she’s not even in Sveloria on official business. She’s on vacation.

But she’s also here, with me, in a goddamn
bunker
, and I think she deserves to know why.

“They’re not exactly defunct,” I say, slowly.

I tell her about the raids, about the burned farms, about the anti-government attacks.

I tell her about how my father is handling the situation, how I think it should be handled, how the USF isn’t actually united at all, that some of its constituent groups are peaceful protestors who want reform and some are violent militias who just want to watch the world burn. That we think they might have Russian backing, but that we don’t really know.

I sit next to her on the bench and tell her about the rumors, about the jet planes and hackers and submarines. Hazel just listens, nodding until I finish.

There’s silence. She looks at her hands.

“I guess that’s why my mom is here,” she says. “I thought it was weird that she got sent somewhere without too many problems.”

The phone on the desk rings. I touch her knee lightly, then stand and answer.

“Kostya.”

“Where are you on the video call?” my father growls into the phone.

I glance at the state-of-the-art monitor on the desk. I haven’t even turned it on.

“I’m glad to hear you’re well,” I say, my own voice sounding hollow. “I’ve had some technical difficulties. I’ll be on in a few minutes.”

“Hurry up,” he says, and hangs up the phone. I bend down and boot up the computer, and it whirs to life. The technology down here gets updated at least every year, which is more than I can say for the canned food in the kitchen.

Hazel stands.

“Prince stuff?” she asks.

I nod.

“Hours of it, I’m afraid,” I say. “In Russian.”

She half-smiles.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to entertain myself,” she says, and walks out of the office.

* * *

I
t’s
incredible how quickly a situation can go from heart-stopping to tedious. Within thirty minutes of listening to my father and his military advisors argue, bicker, shout, and point fingers at everyone from the Russians to Turkey to “the young people,” I’ve nearly had enough of them.

We still don’t know what’s going on. Most of the rumored threats don’t seem credible, but we’re still untangling everything. I’m barely participating, and in another window on the computer, I’ve got Twitter open.

If there’s a silver lining to the assassination attempt, it’s that it’s been too big to ignore. My father can muzzle the TV stations and newspapers, but he can’t muzzle thousands of people with phones.
Now
, at least, the people know what’s happening like they deserve to.

After two hours, I sneak out to use the bathroom. Unlike the rest of the bunker, this room is all stainless steel, with a toilet, sink, and shower big enough for exactly one person.

Hazel’s sitting at a table in the main room, an ugly gray blanket wrapped around her, and she looks up when I come out.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

I just shrug.

“No one knows anything, so this is useless, but they’ll never admit it,” I say, walking toward her.

The table is covered with a half-finished puzzle of an elaborate castle, the box off to one side.

“There are books, but everything is in Russian,” she says. “I’m not a puzzle person, but it’s this or stare at a wall.”

“Interesting choice,” I say.

“Because I’m in a castle, putting together a puzzle of a castle?” she asks, turning a piece around in her fingers. “The only other one is a basket of puppies, and I wasn’t in the mood.”

In the office, I can hear the shouting escalate, and I close my eyes briefly.

“Go,” she says. “I’m fine out here.”

I nod. I’d much rather be here, even helping Hazel put together this stupid puzzle, than arguing with men over video chat. I can still smell her faintly on my fingers, and even though it ought to be the last thing on my mind right now, I can’t help but be distracted.

Stop it
, I think.
There’s a time for ruling and there’s a time for fucking around.

I walk back into the office, where men are still shouting in Russian.

* * *

A
nother four hours later
, we finally wrap things up. There’s no reason that we didn’t wrap it up already, because we haven’t gotten more information in ages. Air traffic is still looking for those jets, and the military police are still trying to uncover a larger conspiracy behind the assassination attempt. That means we’re all still in Soviet bunkers and there’s nothing we can do besides sit on our hands and wait.