Mockingjay(28)

Despite his controversial interview with Caesar, many ask about Peeta, assure me that they know he was speaking under duress. I do my best to sound positive about our future, but people are truly devastated when they learn I’ve lost the baby. I want to come clean and tell one weeping woman that it was all a hoax, a move in the game, but to present Peeta as a liar now would not help his image. Or mine. Or the cause.

I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me. What I mean to the rebels. My ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has so often felt like a solitary journey, has not been undertaken alone. I have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at my side. I was their Mockingjay long before I accepted the role.



A new sensation begins to germinate inside me. But it takes until I am standing on a table, waving my final goodbyes to the hoarse chanting of my name, to define it. Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries. Plutarch knew when he rescued me from the arena. And Coin knows now. So much so that she must publicly remind her people that I am not in control.

When we’re outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of water from Boggs. “You did great,” he says.

Well, I didn’t faint or throw up or run out screaming. Mostly, I just rode the wave of emotion rolling through the place.

“We got some nice stuff in there,” says Cressida. I look at the insect cameramen, perspiration pouring from under their equipment. Messalla scribbling notes. I had forgotten they were even filming me.

“I didn’t do much, really,” I say.

“You have to give yourself some credit for what you’ve done in the past,” says Boggs.

What I’ve done in the past? I think of the trail of destruction in my wake—my knees weaken and I slide down to a sitting position. “That’s a mixed bag.”

“Well, you’re not perfect by a long shot. But times being what they are, you’ll have to do,” says Boggs.

Gale squats down beside me, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you let all those people touch you. I kept expecting you to make a break for the door.”



“Shut up,” I say with a laugh.

“Your mother’s going to be very proud when she sees the footage,” he says.

“My mother won’t even notice me. She’ll be too appalled by the conditions in there.” I turn to Boggs and ask, “Is it like this in every district?”

“Yes. Most are under attack. We’re trying to get in aid wherever we can, but it’s not enough.” He stops a minute, distracted by something in his earpiece. I realize I haven’t heard Haymitch’s voice once, and fiddle with mine, wondering if it’s broken. “We’re to get to the airstrip. Immediately,” Boggs says, lifting me to my feet with one hand. “There’s a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” asks Gale.

“Incoming bombers,” says Boggs. He reaches behind my neck and yanks Cinna’s helmet up onto my head. “Let’s move!”

Unsure of what’s going on, I take off running along the front of the warehouse, heading for the alley that leads to the airstrip. But I don’t sense any immediate threat. The sky’s an empty, cloudless blue. The street’s clear except for the people hauling the wounded to the hospital. There’s no enemy, no alarm. Then the sirens begin to wail. Within seconds, a low-flying V-shaped formation of Capitol hoverplanes appears above us, and the bombs begin to fall. I’m blown off my feet, into the front wall of the warehouse. There’s a searing pain just above the back of my right knee. Something has struck my back as well, but doesn’t seem to have penetrated my vest. I try to get up, but Boggs pushes me back down, shielding my body with his own. The ground ripples under me as bomb after bomb drops from the planes and detonates.

It’s a horrifying sensation being pinned against the wall as the bombs rain down. What was that expression my father used for easy kills? Like shooting fish in a barrel. We are the fish, the street the barrel.

“Katniss!” I’m startled by Haymitch’s voice in my ear.

“What? Yes, what? I’m here!” I answer.

“Listen to me. We can’t land during the bombing, but it’s imperative you’re not spotted,” he says.

“So they don’t know I’m here?” I assumed, as usual, it was my presence that brought on punishment.

“Intelligence thinks no. That this raid was already scheduled,” says Haymitch.

Now Plutarch’s voice comes up, calm but forceful. The voice of a Head Gamemaker used to calling the shots under pressure. “There’s a light blue warehouse three down from you. It has a bunker in the far north corner. Can you get there?”