Tears trailed silently down her cheeks, like the rain on the windshield. They both knew what had to happen; what was supposed to happen. He would jam the dagger through her heart, twist it once or twice for good measure, then perhaps cut it out to be sure she was dead. The guards would log the time of the execution, dispose of the body, and head back to the citadel in Iowa where they'd file the paperwork. Meanwhile he'd be somewhere else, killing someone else.
They broke the Laws.
The balm that usually soothed his conscience tasted like poison, and he wanted to spit it out. His mind raced as he searched for a solution, a way out, but there was none. When Ark had appealed, Malick had passed judgment himself. There was no one else to appeal to. There was nothing to do except run. Then the
