The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

And yet a niggling doubt still managed to worm its way into my brain. Viggo's words had struck too close to home. On more than one occasion in the past, I, too, had wondered if Matrus could be lying about the boys' destination. The fear had plagued me on and off over the years, but I'd always tried to bury it. After all, how would any of us verify it? All we had to go on was the word of the Court because the only safe way to travel the depths of The Green in order to even have a hope of reaching the elusive North was by aircraft, and flying was illegal for all except the Court.

"What do you think Patrus would do if they had evidence of what you suspect is happening to some of Matrus' boys?" I managed.

Viggo shrugged, his eyes forward again as we turned down another road. "I don't know," he muttered. "Everyone is still trying to understand the mind of our new king… But if his father were still reigning, he probably wouldn't care—unless there was a particular political advantage to be gained by caring, if you understand what I'm saying."

"Not exactly."

"Then never mind," Viggo replied briskly, before pursing his lips.

Would Matrus really have attempted such a mass-scale lie, so confident that nobody would ever find out or let the truth slip? Because if the bubble ever burst, the queen and her courtiers would be decried as hypocrites of the worst kind. What difference would there be between our country and Patrus? We would be considered no better than them, just as prone to corruption, lies and bloody-minded leadership. What role would Matrus' national motto, "Freedom in Peace", play in all this?

Stop thinking.

Matrus wouldn't murder those boys. It's Viggo's biased speculation.

My brother is ALIVE. And I'm going to see him again, if I can just keep my act together.

Being so consumed by our conversation, I had lost track of our surroundings, and noticed we were heading to a large store at the end of the road. Dashner's Arms. The parking lot in front of it was empty. Arriving outside its reinforced entrance, Viggo knocked.

A short, balding man wearing a smart tweed suit opened after a minute and, eyeing me in confusion, he beckoned us inside.

Viggo didn't bother to explain my presence. He simply moved forward with me, following the bald man through a giant warehouse stacked with guns and ammunition, toward a pair of double doors. He opened them up and pointed out a dent against the metal, near the locking mechanism.

Viggo stepped outside into a messy backyard, piled with empty crates and boxes. He inspected the area, walking around the circumference of the yard, looking for what exactly, I wasn't sure. Then he returned to us, his arms crossed over his chest while gazing up the high back wall of the building. "The culprit has left no obvious tracks, but I'll send some colleagues round with dogs later today… I take it you don't have any canines guarding this place, Mr. Crighton?" Viggo asked the bald man.

"No," he replied.

"Then I suggest you get some."

Mr. Crighton nodded.

"I'm also surprised," Viggo went on, "that you don't have a better surveillance system in place. You need more cameras out here." He ran a hand over the dented doors. "And these doors are outdated. You're asking for a burglary without the latest technology."

"Okay, sir," Mr. Crighton replied. He pulled out a pad of paper and began jotting down notes.

Once Viggo finished giving him his analysis on the doors and the yard, we headed back into the building. We ended up spending a while in here—Viggo examined every other exterior door and window. Before we left he also had to commission some new weapons for his division. By the time Viggo was done, it was well into lunchtime.

He returned to where I'd been waiting—in a chair outside Mr. Crighton's office—and reached down a hand for me to take. I couldn’t help but notice an odd tingle running down my arm as we touched. It remained for several seconds after he’d pulled me to my feet and let go of me.

Mr. Crighton thanked us and then we left the building, crossed the parking lot, and returned to the road.

"Let's get some lunch," Viggo said.

He stopped with me at the first eatery we passed, a small bakery. When we moved inside, it was empty except for two couples sitting together around a table by the window.

The man behind the glass counter grinned as he looked from me to Viggo.

"Good to see you again, Viggo. It's been a while!" he said. "And who's this? New girl?"

"Mrs. Bertrand," Viggo said tersely, before ordering two large sandwiches. "What do you want?" he asked me beneath his breath.

I opted for a slice of savory pie.

After paying, Viggo carried the tray to a table for two at the back of the bakery. We sat opposite each other—him with his back to the room—and dug into our food.

About halfway through Viggo's sandwiches, the couples by the window rose from their table and made their way over to us.

"Looks like we've got visitors," I whispered as they approached.

Viggo turned.

"Hey, Mr. Croft. I'm sorry to disturb you," one of the men said, eyeing the two of us tentatively, "but I wondered if we could have your autograph?" He held out two white napkins. "We were there at your fight two nights ago. Spectacular performance."

Viggo looked like the last thing he wanted to do was entertain the request, but he acquiesced, if only just to get rid of them quickly. Taking a pen and the tissues from the man, he scribbled his initials on each of the tissues and handed them back.

The men stowed them away appreciatively and Viggo returned to his food. I guessed they were going to leave us alone now, but then the second man said, "I wanted to ask one thing…"

Viggo was once again pulled from his meal.

"Do you ever plan to fight