Taken (Erin Bowman)

“Both entrances are patrolled day and night. And there’s always the tear gas if needed.”
    Her words are foreign to me, but I shudder nonetheless. How had Evan and his team expected to be even remotely successful? This is a fortress, with no way in other than by invitation.
    Eventually, the place lives up to its name. The crevice’s width doubles, triples, quadruples. It grows so wide that it is immeasurable, at least to my eyes. The rock walls continue to surround us but give way to clouds and fresh air overhead. And before us lies the valley, a footpath twisting down into it. Fields and gardens are plowed out beneath the open-air ceiling. Dirt streets snake between houses and livestock pens. A market in the distance brings the scents of herbs and roasting meat to my nose. There are people, too, hundreds of them. I never would have guessed that Harvey had amassed so many followers. Or maybe it was Elijah. I think back to the records in Union Central, perplexed. I’m starting to question the accuracy of Frank’s information. Something doesn’t add up. Maybe Harvey’s not even here.
    I look down at the town. From our elevated position, the people appear as tiny dolls, dressed in drab clothes. They are young and old, women and children, men and boys. The place is oddly familiar, like Claysoot, only picked up and shoved into a hollowed-out mountain. On the outskirts of the open valley, where the steep walls begin reaching for the sky, tunnels and passageways twist into the rock’s depth. If Harvey really is here, finding him will be no easy task.
    “What’s to keep your enemy from coming in the top?” I ask.
    “We have our defenses, even if they can’t be seen, but I’m not sure you can be trusted with those details yet. Better wait ’til after your vote.”
    We hit the base of the valley floor, and Bree cuts up the street that passes the market. People stare at the red triangle atop my chest, the f stitched in its center. They have hatred in their eyes, hatred so clear I know they wish me dead.
    “This vote,” I say as we leave the market and turn up a side street. “What do you mean when you say it’s mine?”
    “Exactly that. It’s your vote. They’re deciding if you live or die.”
    “What? I . . . I thought that’s what my father was deciding, back when he met me in the interrogation center.”
    “Well, yes and no. Owen was deciding if you lived to see Crevice Valley, but he doesn’t make all the calls. Now the others get to weigh in.”
    “What others?”
    We are approaching two men near one of the dark tunnels that breaks off from the valley. They are monstrous, both taller than me and nearly twice as wide.
    “Bree, what others?” I ask again anxiously. She doesn’t answer. Instead, the two men swipe me up effortlessly, each one grabbing me beneath an elbow. I struggle against them, but it’s pointless. Why had I trusted Bree? My father? Why did I think the Rebel headquarters would be any safer than Taem itself? They are going to have me killed, just like Frank ordered.
    I shout to Bree as the men drag me away, but she remains rooted in place, quiet and stoic. She has a look of pity in her eyes, if only for a moment.
    The next thing I know, we are bursting into a large room housed off a torch-lit tunnel. The men throw me into a chair and bind my wrists to its armrests. Circling the table are five people: the votes for my sentence. Four are strangers, but one is my father.

TWENTY-THREE
    THEIR EYES BEAR DOWN ON me, inquisitive, curious. I have no clue what happens now. The only thing I know for certain is that this vote could be the end. I’ll have spent the last days of my life chasing after truths that never revealed themselves, hurting the people I love in the process.
    Why was I so stupid, so reckless? I need to get back to Emma. I struggle against my bindings. I have to get back to her. My breathing is suddenly erratic.
    “Screw you. All of you.” I spit at the center of the table. The liquid lands in front of a tall, thin woman. Her brows dip toward the bridge of her nose. “You especially,” I shout again, eyeing my father. He looks hurt, but he betrayed me. He shook my hand knowing this vote would come; and shouting feels painfully good, like salt in a wound.
    “You’re going to cast my life away with a vote?” I continue. “Do you know what I’ve been through to get here? Do you know what you’ll take away from me if you don’t vote in my favor?”
    An aged