“Out of the question,” Niklas speaks out.

But Izabel puts up her hand to silence him. And without looking at him she says to me, “Without refusal, without an argument, without your opinions,” reiterating our conversation weeks ago at Dina Gregory’s house, to which I know I must abide.

She drops her hand; Niklas wants more than anything to keep talking, but he hesitantly gives her the floor.

Izabel turns so that everyone can see her.

“The end begins today,” she announces. “We eradicate Vonnegut, and Victor takes over The Order before the summer is over.” She makes eye contact with everyone in the room, one after the other, challenging any one of us to a debate. “The plan to weed him out will not change: we will trust and utilize the information that Nora gave us, and I, being the only one who knows how the slavery rings work in Mexico, will be the one carrying out the mission—I’m the only one here who can.”

She begins to pace, her arms crossed, her mind focused, determined, and unwavering.

“It’s a bad idea, Izzy—”

“No,” she cuts Niklas off, finally looking at him. “It’s the only idea.”

“Bullshit—there are a hundred different ways to go about this,” he argues. “There are dozens of women in our Order who can play the part you think you’re going to play.”

“That I am going to play,” she corrects him swiftly. “Sure, you can take any other woman from our Order, make her dress the part, show her how to play the part, but not one of them”—she points her index finger at the floor sternly—“knows what I know; not one of them has been there, seen the things I’ve seen, experienced the things I’ve experienced. I am the fucking expert”—her voice begins to rise and harden—“and I’m the one who, no matter what any of you believe, will be the one who pulls this off. Not So-And-So from the First Division, or Agent-Whatever who watched a few movies about sex slavery and read a few newspapers and case files and thinks she’s ready. And not even Nora Kessler, who can fake tears and emotions well enough, but she can’t fake being broken. Not like I can.” Her hand shoots up again. “But more importantly than being the absolute best for the job because of first-hand experience, I’m the only one here who’s seen the real Vonnegut.”

An uncomfortable quiet blankets the room.

“I hate to say this, Izabel,” Gustavsson speaks up, “but I agree with Niklas—despite your experience, you shouldn’t be the one to go there, not after everything you’ve—”

“I’m not having this conversation with any of you again,” Izabel snaps, and she looks at each one of us in turns. “About how you think what I went through in Mexico will impede my performance—it’s an old and tiring argument.” She pauses, inhales and exhales deeply. “Look, I’m as much a part of this Order as any of you; I may be the youngest, the one with the least experience, but all of you seem to forget, or maybe you just don’t realize it, that every one of you are as fucked up as I am. Every one of you have sapping weaknesses that threaten to derail you every day in this profession—not just me.”

She points at Fredrik.

“You kept a psychotic woman prisoner in your basement because you couldn’t see through your love for her to realize she was a danger to you, herself, and to anyone who crossed her path, including all of us.”

Gustavsson swallows hard, says nothing.

Izabel looks to Niklas.

“The grudge you hold against your brother is a bigger weakness than you realize,” she points out.  “Not to mention, you can’t keep your dick in your pants, or your tongue in your mouth.”

“My two best assets,” Niklas comes back, ignoring the part about me. “I don’t see how that’s a weakness, Izzy.” He grins. “And my tongue…well, it’s kind of famous, actually.”

Izabel snarls, and rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant by your tongue, Niklas. I mean that you can’t seem to shut up; your mouth is always running ninety to nothing”—she presses the fingers and thumb of her right hand together rapidly—“with your vulgar, disgusting comments; loud and obnoxious personality; pretending to be a thoughtless, heartless bastard with thick skin, when really you’re just a brokenhearted little boy on the inside, scared to death that someone is going to swoop in and pull the scab off your heart.” She cocks her head to one side. “Why don’t you try being yourself for once?”

Niklas’s wide eyes seem stuck, unblinking.

Finally, he says bitterly, “I am myself.” He waves both hands down the front of his chest. “Who you see here is one hundred percent me. I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not, and quite fuckin’ honestly, I’m offended you’d accuse me of it.”

Izabel steps up into Niklas’s face, looking upward at his tall height so he can see the seriousness in her eyes. “Then say it,” she challenges. “Say you love and miss your kid sister, Naeva. Or are you too proud?” She steps up even closer; my own stomach is suddenly twisting into one solid knot, as if I somehow know that what she is about to say next will make me extremely uncomfortable. “Or better yet, Niklas…admit that you have feelings for—.” She stops abruptly. She glances at me, clears her throat, and then turns back to Niklas. “Feelings for Nora.”

That is not what Izabel had started to say to my brother…

Niklas tosses his head back and roars with laughter. He laughs for a full five long seconds, before finally lowering his head and letting the laughter fade.

“Wow,” he says, “that’s probably the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard you say, Izzy.” He shakes his head, still laughing under his breath. “If you believe that, you’re not as smart as you’re trying to make us believe—you’re doing a shitty job trying to prove your point. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“And you, James,” Izabel says, sharply, and she turns swiftly to face him. I get the feeling she only wanted to cut Niklas off before that particular conversation got too revealing. And I am glad for it.

James Woodard frowns; his chubby fingers wind around one another nervously down in front of him.

Izabel pauses, looks him over, contemplates.

Then she waves a hand dismissively and says, “Honestly, you’re the only normal person here.”

“Nora,” Niklas says, still with laughter in his voice. “Unbelievable…”

“And speaking of Nora,” Izabel goes back to making her point. “She may truly be the thoughtless, heartless human being that Niklas pretends to be; she may have more experience than anyone here other than Victor, but that woman is the epitome of one-track-mind, and her inability to feel emotions is going to be her downfall one day. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Now she looks at me, and all of the moisture evaporates from my mouth.

“And you, Victor…you know very well what your biggest weakness is.”

Yes—you are.

“Your biggest weakness is yourself,” she says. But she does me the courtesy of not extending the detailed, and humiliating, explanation that she did with everyone else.

“If you go to Mexico,” Niklas says, “you’re only gonna get yourself killed, and that’s all there is to it.” He looks to me, as if expecting me to step in and say something to back him up, but Izabel quickly gets his attention again.

She lifts the hem of her black silk blouse, revealing her stomach.

“You tried to kill me once,” she says, showing him the scar from her gunshot wound, “but you failed.”

Niklas’s jaw tightens.

Izabel’s blouse falls back over her stomach. She walks back to the very center of the room, and gazes at all of us standing around her. Then she reaches up and takes an end of the sheer black scarf, pulling it slowly away from her throat. Her scar blazes at us all, affects us all in different ways: Woodard lowers his head with sadness; Gustavsson shakes his head with disbelief; Niklas’s head turns red with anger; my head feels like it is going to explode with rage. I take a deep breath as Artemis’s face flashes across my mind.