Текст книги "State of Pursuit"
Автор книги: Summer Lane
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Summer Lane
STATE OF PURSUIT
For Grandma & Grandpa.
You’re the best. I love you!
Prologue
Omega POW Facility – Somewhere in L.A.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had water. It’d been a while. He knew that much. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that it had been too long. He could tell by the way he swallowed. There was no moisture left in his mouth.
There was blood on the floor.
Why? He couldn’t remember that, either.
He only knew that he was, and for the moment, that would have to do. Survival depended on focusing his thoughts on a single point. One thought. One object. One name.
Cassidy.
“You know… it wouldn’t take much to help yourself,” a tall, lithe man in the corner drawled. Harry Lydell. He was handsome, impeccably dressed in an Omega uniform. Black jacket and pants, boots. Piercing blue eyes. He looked bored, watching the prisoner lean against the wall in the corner of the cell.
He was a sight. All blood and bruises. Radiating pain.
Just the way Harry liked it.
“You’re stubborn,” Harry continued, crossing his arms. “You remind me of someone I know. Someone you know.” He paused, a cruel smile creeping across his lips. “Cassidy Hart.”
The prisoner looked up, dirty blonde hair plastered against his unshaven face. Sweat dripped off his forehead. He said nothing. Only glared.
“Nothing has changed,” Harry went on. “This is still a war. We are still enemies, and at the moment, you are at a disadvantage.” He stopped. Waiting. “You can either divulge your secrets…or die. Because that is what will happen. You, Chris Young, the Commander of the beloved militias – dead. It’s not quite the glorious death of a warrior you envisioned for yourself, is it? Crammed in a hole, bleeding to death?”
Chris still said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
Harry remained silent for a moment. Pensive. He better than anyone knew exactly what Chris Young was capable of, and what he would do to protect the people he loved the most. And right now, those people were out of Harry’s reach. And that put him at a disadvantage. Chris Young would not give him any information regarding the militias if his life depended on it.
The fool, thought Harry. He would give his life for anyone except himself.
“We will talk in the morning,” Harry said at last. He tilted his head, straining to get a better glimpse of Chris’s face. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He smirked at his own joke and retreated from the cell. The door clanged shut behind him as the guards locked it tight again. The concrete hall glowed softly with generator-powered lights.
That didn’t work, Harry mused internally. If only I had something that was important to him… someone important…
But there was only so much time Omega would spend interrogating Commander Young before they would simply kill him. Chris Young, like the rest of the POWs in this prison, were valuable only if they were willing to talk.
And Chris would not talk.
Chris would die first.
So die he must, in Harry’s mind. That was the only logical option left.
He checked his watch, exiting the hallway. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. He entered a wide office room, desks and cubicle dividers creating a maze-like illusion. Omega officers nodded their heads in respect as they passed.
Ah. That was what he liked. Respect.
His office was here, at the opposite end of the building. A private room with a window overlooking the street below. It was a clean room, a tight one. Efficient and practical. That’s how Harry preferred it.
He stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
And he thought.
Of all the militia officers that Omega had managed to take prisoner, Chris Young was the most annoying – the most trouble. The man had remarkable leadership capabilities. He had, after all, taken mere civilians and turned them into a viable fighting force. One that sent Omega reeling on more than one occasion. Thanks to him – and Cassidy Hart – militias were coming out of the woodwork across the state. The country, even.
Chris Young was a threat that should be eliminated.
But Harry wasn’t an impatient man.
She’ll come, he thought. And when she does, I’ll kill her, too. All of them.
Because for Harry Lydell, very few things mattered besides power, hatred and revenge. And revenge was exactly what he had in store for Chris Young and Cassidy Hart.
He would make sure of that.
Chapter One
National Guard Headquarters – Militia Forces – The Grapevine
Rain is pouring from the heavens, freezing.
My curly red hair is soaked, sticking to my face. I pull my jacket tightly around myself, gazing across the expanse of asphalt and abandoned buildings. There are soldiers everywhere, looking like ants in the distance. They are bloody, torn, bruised and exhausted. I kneel on the roofing, perched like a bird. Watching. Waiting.
I’ve been up here a couple of times in the past ten hours.
Maybe, if things had been different, I could have gone back. Maybe I could have saved him. Maybe I could have saved both of them. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears rolling down my cheeks, hot and salty. I could have saved at least one of them, couldn’t I?
You know that would have been impossible, my inner voice reasons. You were outnumbered a hundred to one. Jeff’s death wasn’t your fault. Chris staying behind to help Max isn’t your fault either.
I feel like it’s my fault. Why should I be the one to make it back alive and safe?
What if Chris is dead? It’s been twenty-four hours since Manny rescued me in his biplane and brought me back to Headquarters, where our National Guard forces have amassed. Twenty-four hours since I watched Jeff Young die, Chris’s younger brother. Twenty-four hours since Derek and Max went missing and Chris promised me he’d be right behind me.
He broke that promise.
I’ve been scanning the horizon every hour since I got back. I’ve hardly slept. I’ve barely eaten.
And here I am. Battered, but cleared for duty.
No sign of Chris.
God, please don’t let him be dead. Please. I’m begging you.
A commotion on the south side of the parking lot draws my attention. I lean forward. Someone is arriving. Soldiers straggling in on foot. My heart leaps in my chest. Chris? I jump over the ledge and swing my legs onto the rusty fire escape on the side of the building. I climb down the ladder, hit the asphalt and run across the parking lot. I bypass idling Humvees unloading injured soldiers to be carted into the medical building.
A mountain rises up at the end of the parking lot, one of the Tehachapi hills, the beginning of the Grapevine next to the I-5 Interstate running into Los Angeles. National Guardsmen are gathered around the arriving group of soldiers.
I push through the crowd. Several of the guards step aside. I am a Lieutenant here, and I am well known. When I reach the front of the crowd, I beam. Derek, lithe and blonde, is supporting Sophia Rodriguez. They’re both caked in mud, filthy, bloody. But alive.
And then I frown because Chris is not with them.
The medical team hurries to the scene, helping Sophia and Derek toward the Jack in the Box. I have no time to say hello or exchange greetings. I lock eyes with Derek. He nods briefly, a sorrowful glance.
He knows.
I stand on the edge of the parking lot, staring into the hills. The pillars of black smoke that were poisoning the air only yesterday have already diminished. The rain has been too heavy for the fires to continue burning.
But we have pushed Omega back.
For now.
The sky is dark. Mud and rocks slide down the sides of some of the hills, piling across the freeway like manmade blockades.
Still no sign of Chris.
I turn on my heel and head back toward a restaurant set away from the freeway – the Taco House was its former name. Right now we’re just calling it Headquarters. I enter the front door.
The National Guard’s Colonel Rivera is inside, along with his officers. Many of our own militiamen are here, too. Candles inside of lamps illuminate the building. Rain pelts the windows. Rivera, a burly man with powerful, defined features barely glances at me as I step into the room. Angela Wright, a fellow militia commander, straightens up, alert. Her white hair is pulled in a tight bun. Her daughter, Vera, is standing nearby, her platinum blonde locks in a ponytail. We make brief eye contact before she looks away, staring at the maps on the counter.
“Have you sent out another search party?” I ask.
“It’s on its way back,” Angela replies, casting a sideways glance at Rivera. One that he doesn’t return. “We’ll know for certain when they get here.”
I swallow a massive lump in my throat.
It’s taking everything in me to hold myself together.
Everything.
I assess the crowd gathered here.
Derek, Sophia and Vera are accounted for. Angela survived. Rivera is alive. Max and Uriah haven’t returned yet. Jeff is dead.
I’m alive. Barely.
I stare at the smoking cigar Colonel Rivera is nervously chewing on.
“How many of our men defected?” I say.
The word defected makes everyone flinch. Maybe a better word would be betrayal. Because that’s what happened. Our own men turned against us during the battle last night. Turncoats. Spies.
Murderers.
“We don’t have an exact number yet,” Colonel Rivera states, briefly looking at me. “It’s not as bleak as you think.”
“Yes, it is,” I snap, startled at the venom in my voice. “How did this happen? How did that many of our own men turn on us? How long have they been infiltrating our ranks?”
“A long time,” Angela replies, unconsciously tensing. “A very long time.”
“Not that long,” Rivera says.
I glare, animosity simmering in my blood. My affection for Colonel Rivera is at zero. This man once denied the militia backup while we were under heavy fire. It’s safe to say that I’m not his number one fan.
And neither was Chris.
But Chris sucked it up, took charge and worked with him anyway, my conscious says. You should do the same, or you’re going to explode. You’ve got to maintain control, Cassidy.
Right. Control. Me.
I can do this.
“Can I contact the search team via radio?” I ask, moving toward the table.
“We’re radio silent,” Colonel Rivera growls, snapping his gaze up. “No contact.”
“But I need to—”
“—We all need to know.” Angela places a hand on my forearm. A dangerous move, considering the mood I’m in. “But we need to wait. They’ll be here.”
I slowly withdraw my arm and close my fists around the corner of the counter.
Waiting is driving me insane. I can’t wait.
I won’t.
“Good news, folks.” Manny bursts through the front door. His gray hair is hanging in wet strands to his neck, flight goggles and cap tight against his forehead. His coat is dripping, his face is covered in ash and soot. “They’re back,” he says. And this time, he looks right at me.
“They saw them.”
Last year, an EMP destroyed the technological infrastructure of the United States of America. Technology – everything from vehicles to microwave ovens – died in an instant. Long story short, it screwed everything up.
Everything.
The country collapsed, anarchy ensued, people panicked and Omega – a shadow army arisen from the chaos – rolled in and invaded. I was living in Culver City, California at the time of the EMP – also known as an electromagnetic pulse. I barely escaped with my life from Los Angeles. I got separated from my father, and in the process teamed up with a former Navy SEAL named Chris Young. In the last year I’ve been imprisoned in an Omega slave labor camp, joined a militia called the Freedom Fighters, found my father, teamed up with the National Guard to fight Omega and barely survived a devastating betrayal by our own militiamen.
On the bright side, the militia forces and the remnants of the National Guard combined have pushed Omega back towards Los Angeles. On the negative side, we’ve lost a lot of good men and women – including our militia commander and the love of my life, Chris Young.
Not everything is rosy.
We’re stuck in a constant state of war. Despite our best efforts to fight against the threat of Omega – and drive back a five million-man army coming from China – we still have a long way to go. Our communication with the rest of the country is limited, and besides rumors, what’s going down on the east coast is anyone’s guess. Nothing is completely clear, and that adds to our frustration. The enemy we fight is mostly a mystery. Where did they come from? How did they invade so quickly?
We may never have all the answers.
As for me, I watched one of my dearest friends die last night.
Jeff Young, Chris’s younger brother, was shot in the neck. Derek and Sophia survived, but there’s still no sign of Max or Uriah. Alexander Ramos – a gruff Lieutenant and a friend of Chris’s – went MIA before the battle even really began.
So many people have died.
So many bad things have happened.
But we continue to fight, to survive, because none of us are willing to give into Omega. They’ve killed so many innocent people. Wiped out the cities with chemical weapons, nuked the urban epicenters on the east coast, slaughtered the innocent civilians on the west coast in concentration and slave labor camps. They have had no mercy on us, so we cannot afford to have any on them.
It’s fight or die these days.
My father, the Commander of the Mountain Rangers in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, remains with his men to defend the rural and mountain population. Those of us who chose to combine our forces with the National Guard to fight Omega were stationed for some time in Fresno, California, before deploying to the Chokepoint – where we are right now, at the base of the Tehachapi Mountains in southern California.
I am a Lieutenant in the militia, in charge of a platoon of snipers. My Commander is Chris, and my fellow officers are my friends. We are here purely on a volunteer basis, and although Colonel Rivera can give us orders, our loyalty ultimately lies with Chris.
Chris, who may be dead, and without whom I would not be alive.
The man that I will find, whatever the cost.
Chapter Two
“What did they see?” I ask.
I am the first one to reach Manny. I clutch his forearm, desperate for good news. He gently squeezes my shoulder, a moment of kindness. Of comfort.
“I’ll let them report,” Manny replies. The door is still open. A wet and bedraggled man walks in, and I recognize him instantly. Uriah. He’s alive! My first instinct is happiness – yet another one of my comrades survived the fight. And then I’m angry. Because the last time I saw Uriah, he was abandoning Max on the battlefield in order to save his own skin.
Uriah is beaten. His uniform is in tatters, he is covered in mud and his eyes are red. His gaze meets mine. A relieved smile touches his lips.
I don’t return the gesture.
“Lieutenant True,” Colonel Rivera says. “Your report?”
He nods, nearly collapsing on the floor. Someone helps him into a chair. He is clearly exhausted and needs medical help. But we need this information now.
“I saw… them,” he pants, chest heaving. “They were… loading trucks… with prisoners of war.”
“Did you see Chris?” I ask, stepping closer. “Uriah? Did you see him?”
“It was hard to see anything in this weather,” Uriah replies.
“Where were they? Where were you?”
“I was unconscious in the mud,” he says, unflinching. My unspoken accusation hangs heavy in the air: You left Max to die. You left all of us to die.
“I was dragging my butt back to camp when I saw the trucks,” he continues, never taking his eyes from mine. “They were taking prisoners. Mostly officers. I didn’t see Chris, but I would assume that if he was alive, he would be with them.”
I take a deep, steadying breath.
So. The possibility remains: Chris could be alive.
“Are you sure?” Manny presses.
Uriah flicks his darkest, most menacing glare at him.
“I’m positive.”
I glance back at Colonel Rivera.
“We have to go after them,” I say. “I’ll take a platoon up the interstate and we’ll stop the trucks.”
“We’re not stopping anything,” Colonel Rivera snaps. “Our forces are in bad shape. We need to regroup and reorganize.”
“Chris Young has been taken captive!” I reply firmly. “We don’t have time to reorganize. We need to act now.”
“I will not compromise any more lives for the life of one Commander,” Rivera answers, a sour expression on his face. “Regardless of whether or not it’s Young or any other officer.”
“We need Chris,” Manny interjects, keeping his hand on my shoulder. “There’s an enormous amount of loyalty to him in the militias, and he’s a damned good friend of mine.”
“The answer is no,” Rivera says.
“You can’t sentence him to death!” I yell.
I am furious. Once again, Rivera is denying us help when we need it most.
“We are all at risk,” he answers gravely. “This is a war.”
“We’re fighters. We can’t just give up.”
“I am preserving the men we have left.”
“You’re hiding! We have to go after those trucks!”
“We will not.” Rivera slams his cigar on the table, color bleeding into his cheeks. “We will regroup and pull back.”
Pull back? God, is he insane?
“But we pushed them out!” I counter. “Omega is on the defensive. We’ve got the initiative, and we should keep pressing.”
“Our mission is done.” Rivera folds the biggest map. “This discussion is over.”
“I won’t leave him to die,” I say, placing my fists on the table.
“He’s probably already dead.”
I press my lips together, burning with cold anger.
“You don’t want to do this,” I warn quietly.
Vera leans forward, frowning. Angela is frozen.
“It’s done,” Rivera answers.
There is no regret in his voice.
I say nothing. I glare at him, and as he continues folding the maps, I turn around and look at Manny. His expression is difficult to read – then again, my eyes are full of tears, so it’s hard to see straight. I push my way through the crowd inside the restaurant – all of them, and me – full of resentment, disappointment and frustration. When I step outside, the cold air is sharp against my cheeks.
I inhale slowly.
Keep it together. Don’t let them see you cry.
So I don’t.
The old Jack in the Box that we’ve been using as a medical center is packed. Soldiers are crammed into every square inch of space, and the medical staff is working overtime. The building stinks of blood and sweat and pain. I sit on the curb outside the front door, listening to the moans and tortured screams of injured men.
It’s horrible. I want to run away and be free of it, but there is nowhere to go.
“I’m sorry, Cassidy.”
I raise my head slightly. Uriah is exiting the building. His hand has been bandaged and his wounds have been cleaned. He looks better.
“Sorry for what?” I say quietly.
“For what happened to Chris. And Jeff.” He swallows. “And Max.”
“What happened to Max is your fault,” I say simply.
“I didn’t leave him behind on purpose,” he answers.
“You ran away.” I stand up. “You abandoned him. All of us.”
“I was doing what I had to do to stay alive,” he counters.
“This isn’t about individual survival, Uriah,” I say. “This is about keeping the team alive. We’re all a part of the team. Or did you miss one of the three million times Chris pointed this out to us?”
“It was a mistake,” Uriah replies, his jaw tight. Dark eyes flashing. “I said I was sorry, and I’m not going to apologize again.”
“Good. Don’t.”
He sighs heavily.
“Look, Cassidy—”
“—That’s Lieutenant Hart to you,” I snap. “Go get some rest, soldier. You need it.” I shove my hands in my pockets and begin to walk away. Uriah catches my shoulder. I push his hand off and turn around, dangerously close to doing something violent. Tears still burn at the edges of my vision, blurring the world.
“I know this is difficult for you,” Uriah says, grabbing my shoulders. “I’ve watched friends die, too. I understand.”
I don’t move.
“Are you going to let Rivera get away with this?” he whispers.
I raise my chin.
“He’s not getting away with anything,” I answer.
I take a step back, giving him a warning look. I size him up. He’s a good six feet, black wavy hair, olive complexion. A strong soldier and a capable sniper. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he did just make a mistake in the heat of the battle.
Or maybe not.
But he has a point: Am I going to let Rivera get away with leaving Chris?
No.
“Are Sophia and Derek okay?” I ask.
“They’re fine,” Uriah replies. “Minor injuries. Nothing compared to what happened to you…” He trails off, sadness in his voice.
I don’t want to hear anymore.
“Meet me at D2 at oh-eight-hundred,” I state. “Don’t be late.”
He looks curious. D2 is what we’ve been calling the empty coffee shop at the edge of the rest area. The D stands for Dugout, which was what we used to call the lounge area back at Sector 20, the National Guard Base in Fresno.
He nods. I walk away.
Uriah is right. I’m not going to let Rivera get away with this.
–
D2 was a nice place, once. The coffee bar is now cracked, patched with spare plywood. Chairs and tables are makeshift or broken. The soldiers that are gathered inside the small building are standing or sitting cross-legged on the floor. There are more here than I expected. Familiar faces. Uriah. Vera. Sophia. Derek. Manny.
Unfamiliar faces, too. New men and women. About thirty in all.
I’m standing on the other side of the bar.
It’s dark, cold. A gas lantern glows orange against the far wall.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, steadying my voice. Surprisingly, I am not nervous. I am hollow, except for the fiery coals of anger and frustration burning inside of me. Talking to a group of thirty does not scare me: losing Chris scares me much more than this. “You may have heard rumors about why I called this meeting.” I clear my throat, glance at Manny, and continue. He dips his head slowly, assuring me that I’m doing fine.
“As you know, Commander Young went MIA yesterday,” I continue. “According to intelligence reports, he is being taken, along with other militia officers, in Omega trucks. Those trucks are heading south on the interstate. South is where Omega is strongest. The epicenter of their western front is based in Los Angeles.”
I pause before continuing.
“Our Commander and several other officers are prisoners of war,” I state. “You all know how Omega operates. They capture, interrogate and kill. Colonel Rivera has refused my request to send a rescue unit to stop the trucks and bring them home.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Derek says sharply. He is sitting near Sophia, who is regarding the entire situation with a solemn expression. She has hardly spoken to me since she’s returned from the battlefield.
“Because he’s a Colonel,” Manny drawls. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: politics. It’s all about the politics.”
“What politics?” Derek demands. “This is a battlefield.”
“He’s trying to save his own skin and his own men,” Manny shrugs. “If the militias fall by the wayside while he does so, it’s no skin off his nose.”
“But it is,” I interrupt. “He’s just doing what he thinks is right.”
I am surprised to hear those words come out of my mouth.
Why should I cut Colonel Rivera any slack?
“Look, I didn’t call you here so you could argue,” I say. “I called you here to ask you a question. I want to bring those men back. Chris Young is the best leader the militia forces have ever had and ever will have. I’m asking you to volunteer to join my rescue unit.” I take a deep breath before going on. “I have received no authorization from the Colonel and we can expect no support from the Guard. It’s dangerous. The chances of all of us coming back alive are slim. But I believe it’s worth the risk. We all swore an oath to leave no fighter behind, and I want to uphold that promise.”
I look around at the faces in the room. Battle-tested, hardened individuals.
“Who’s with me?” I ask.
Manny leans lazily against the wall, raising his hand. I nod at him, holding his gaze in silent thanks.
Uriah lifts his hand, along with Derek. To my shock, Vera raises her hand, as well. The rest of the soldiers don’t look so certain. Silence fills the room, and I realize that I need to step up my game.
“Here’s the thing,” I say, wiping my hands on my jacket. My palms are sweaty. Apparently I am nervous. “This is a volunteer mission. Nobody is making you go. Colonel Rivera is pulling our forces out of the Chokepoint tomorrow morning. We’ll be back in Fresno by nightfall. If that’s what you want to do, go for it. If you’re loyal to Chris and the militia and everything that he’s fought for, stay here. Help him and the other officers. We need Chris. He’s one of the biggest reasons we’ve had so much success as a military force.”
“How do we know Chris isn’t a traitor, too?” Sophia replies.
I stare at her. Her hands are curled into fists on her knees. A tight, resentful expression lights her dark features.
“What are you saying?” I grit.
“Don’t you think it’s convenient that at the exact same time that a chunk of our militia betrayed us, Chris conveniently went missing?” she accuses. There is no sympathy in her eyes. Only pure, boiling anger. “Who’s to say that he didn’t orchestrate the entire thing?”
“And I guess he orchestrated Jeff’s death, too,” I snap. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Sophia replies coldly. “It doesn’t add up.”
“Chris Young would die before he betrayed us,” Uriah says, turning his dark gaze on Sophia. “You’re a fool to think otherwise.”
“There is no one more loyal to the militias than Commander Young,” Vera agrees. She glances at me. “Cassidy is right. We need him.”
I shake myself. This is a new twist:
Sophia is attacking and Vera is defending me.
What is happening to my world?
“I’m in,” a young man says. I remember him. Andrew. Tall and lean, dark hair and a great shot with a rifle. He has always been dependable on the battlefield. I nod, thankful for his support. More than half of the soldiers in the room raise their hands. That’s twenty-five.
“This will be considered desertion, you know,” Manny interjects. “Going against Rivera’s orders…pulling back to track those trucks while he takes the National Guard back to Fresno. He’s liable to throw quite a fit.”
“We’re here on a volunteer basis,” I say. “We’ll do what we want.”
“There will be consequences when we return,” Vera points out.
“We’ll deal with them.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Sophia presses. “It’s not worth any more people dying to go after one man.”
I swallow a slew of stinging retorts and steady my emotions.
I will deal with my anger at Sophia later.
“This is a war,” I say, echoing Colonel Rivera. “People die.”
“How are we going to assemble a rescue team without Rivera finding out?” Uriah asks. His gaze is deep, intense. It makes me a little uncomfortable. “He’ll go ballistic if he finds out what we’re planning.”
“He won’t find out.” I smile slightly. “Our convoy is massive. We’ll pull out of line, let the others pass, then turn around and head up the interstate.”
“We can’t just drive into Los Angeles like a bunch of tourists,” Derek says.
“We won’t.” I glance at Manny. “Manny’s got connections.”
“I will scout ahead,” he replies, illustrating a plane in flight with his hands. “It’s elementary, really. The fat cats like Rivera head back to Fresno, I go ahead and meet you at a rendezvous point with friendly militia Underground operatives, and you meet me there. Simple, easy and effective.” He winks.
“What will we do when we get to the rendezvous point?” Vera asks.
“Manny will arrange transportation to get us into Los Angeles,” I say.
“What kind of transportation? If we have vehicles, why not just take those all the way into the city?”
“Because the city is infested with Omega forces,” Derek replies. “We won’t be able to get close enough without being detected.” He looks at me. “Right?”
“Correct,” I agree. “And the Underground operatives will have information we’ll need to find Chris.”
“I thought you were going to track trucks,” Sophia snorts.
“We are.” I give her a stern, warning look. “But remember that those trucks are long gone now, probably already back in Los Angeles. The Underground will know where they would take POWs like Chris.”
“Like Chris?”
“High level officers.”
I clasp my hands behind my back.
“So,” I say, resolved. “We have a plan of action and we have volunteers. All we need is a Commander. I say we take a vote.”
Manny laughs.
“It’ll be a landslide,” he chuckles. “My vote rests on you, my girl.”
“So does mine,” Uriah says.
“Me too,” Derek shrugs.
“But… I’m not a field commander,” I say, shocked.
Yes, I am organizing a rescue unit to save Chris, but I am not a commander. Not like him. I’m a Lieutenant. A sniper. I was planning on someone else being in charge.
“You have the battlefield experience we need,” Uriah points out. “Besides, we trust you. You’ve been leading the militias as long as Chris has. And if Chris trusts you, I do, too.”
He holds my gaze for a few moments, turning to the others.
“Does anyone here disagree?” he asks.
Silence.
Everyone in the room slowly raises their hands. Manny smiles with satisfaction, almost smug. I lick my lips, fear creeping into my heart.
What have I gotten myself into?
I am no longer a Lieutenant. I am a Commander.
I am in charge. And I’m scared.
