Текст книги "State of Pursuit"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

“Where’s Halo Point?” Vera whispers.

“It’s a Way House in the central valley,” Andrew explains. “One of many.”

“We’ve got the situation under control here,” Manny answers. And then he grins.

“Operation Angel Pursuit was a success,” he says.

“Thank God,” Arlene laughs. “Tell Alpha One that we’re happy to have him back. I’ll pass the news along. The militias will be thrilled.”

The ghost of a smile plays across Chris’s lips.

Manny explains our situation to Arlene. The color slowly returns to his face, and I realize how incredibly relieved he is that Arlene is alive. It makes me curious…

I share a glance with Chris.

Everything is changing, I think. The game has shifted again.

“Get the horses into the stables,” Chris commands. “Gather your gear and transfer everything to the vehicles. Armor up, guns up. We’re heading home.”

Manny continues to talk with Arlene for a while. Chris takes me aside in the house and asks, “What’s Manny’s relationship with Arlene?”

“He won’t tell me.” I shrug. “Either he’s in love with her or they’re just really good friends.”

“Huh.” Chris plays with the ends of my hair. “Cassie, if Mexico and this Pacific Northwest Alliance are fighting Omega, that means we could actually stand a chance of winning this war.”

“I won’t believe it until I see it,” I say. “But it’s a nice thought.”

“Ah, ever the eternal optimist.”

“I’m being realistic. Omega’s got a million soldiers and chemical weapons,” I say. “Who’s to say that they won’t just get a nuclear bomb and kill us all?”

“Because something must be stopping them.” He knits his brow. “The threat of retaliation, possibly.”

“From who? Us? We practically have no military left.”

“I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.”

I press a kiss against his cheek.

“Let’s find out together.”

He grins.

When he smiles, I’m reminded of what Vera told me back in Los Angeles – about Chris having been married. I get nauseas just thinking about it. I want to know if the story is true or not. But I am afraid to ask.

Because I’m afraid of what his answer might be.

“Commander,” Manny says. He steps inside the house. His hair is as wild as ever. His leather duster is stained with blood and mud and grease. He’s a sight to behold – and I realize how much I appreciate this man. This crazy, brilliant pilot from who-knows-where.

“We’ve got a situation,” Manny continues.

My heart sinks.

Another situation?

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Sector 20 is radio silent,” he says. “Either Colonel Rivera never made it back to base or they packed up and moved.”

Colonel Rivera. The chief officer of the National Guard unit in Fresno.

I grasp the wall, dizzy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I gasp.

“Easy, Cassie,” Chris warns, hooking his arm around my waist. “Have you tried contacting other Underground radio outposts? They might know.”

“Yes,” Manny replies. “Sector 20 just disappeared. If you ask me, that’s not a good sign.”

Obviously.

“What do we do?” I ask Chris, looking up at his face.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he says,

“We go back anyway. And we find what we find.”

I hope it’s better than what we found here.

Chapter Fifteen

“Light bulb!” I exclaim.

I sit up straight, breaking the monotony of the sound of the engines. I’m sitting in the front seat of an armored Chevrolet Suburban. Chris is driving. Manny and Vera are in another vehicle. Uriah and Derek are in a Humvee, and Andrew is in the backseat, along with a ton of technological supplies and weaponry. We have been driving for two hours, and we have finally broken out of the Tehachapi Mountains. The valley is beautiful this evening, glowing with the orange and pink colors of the sunset.

“What are you talking about?” Chris asks.

“You said Harry was talking about going up north to some kind of a meeting,” I say. “Sacramento. That’s where he was going.”

“You don’t think there’s some kind of parley going down, do you?” Andrew comments. “Because who the hell would want to parley with Harry Lydell?”

“That makes sense,” Chris agrees. “But if Sacramento is a militia stronghold, he shouldn’t be anywhere near there.”

“What if the gathering isn’t just a meeting…?” I say. “What if it’s a negotiation?”

“That’s more likely.”

“And if Omega is negotiating, that means they’re getting weaker.”

“Which means we might be gaining the upper hand.”

I hope so. Either that, or Omega is stalling, waiting to make another move.

We don’t arrive in Fresno until early morning. It takes hours to rumble through Bakersfield and the surrounding towns in our convoy. As we travel through the darkness, I glimpse flashes of neighborhood subdivisions and shopping centers that have been destroyed in showdowns between militias and Omega. Scout vehicles and motorcycles have been sent ahead to clear the districts for us, but that doesn’t put my mind at ease. I close my eyes and try to sleep, anyway.

It doesn’t work.

When we arrive in Fresno, I instantly sense something different as we rumble down familiar boulevards like Blackstone and Ashlan. The distant sounds and echoes of gunfire are non-existent. I roll down my window a few inches. Nothing. The dead streetlight at the corner of Herndon and Blackstone has been knocked over. Two buildings have been totally destroyed.

“Something definitely went down while we were gone,” Andrew says.

“It wasn’t good,” I reply.

By the time we reach the entrance to Sector 20, I am expecting the worst. Andrew has been staying in radio contact with the rest of our team in the other vehicles, and their reaction to the current state of Fresno hasn’t been good, either.

The chain link fence around the base is broken. I swallow thickly. I haven’t seen this place since before we deployed to the Chokepoint to face down Omega’s five-million man army. Honestly, I never thought I would see it again.

I figured I’d be dead.

“The base has been compromised,” Chris states, stepping on the brakes. A huge chunk of the building is missing – blown apart. We stop the convoy near the front gate. I open the passenger door and walk to the property line. There isn’t a soul in sight.

Chris follows me to the gate.

“This was an attack,” he says.

“The base is probably still intact inside,” I surmise.

“Probably.”

“So what do we do?”

“We can’t stay here. Rivera is gone.”

“Where the hell would he go?” Alexander states, slamming his car door. “Why would he leave?”

Chris takes a moment to answer.

“Our best bet,” he replies, “is to keep moving.”

“And go where?”

“Sacramento.”

“Do you think that’s where Rivera went?”

Chris props his boot on the fence.

“There seems to be a correlation, don’t you think?” he asks, smiling faintly. “Sacramento is the place to be.”

“We don’t know what it’s like up north,” Andrew points out. “It could be totally hostile territory.”

“No,” Alexander replies. “The Pacific Northwest Alliance – whoever they are – has taken San Francisco, and Mexico is fighting their way from San Diego. I think our chances are better up north than here, actually.”

“But who’s going to defend the valley?” I say.

“Maybe that’s what the gathering in Sacramento will decide,” Chris answers. “We need to move now. Every minute we sit here is a minute wasted.”

I consider this.

“I agree,” I say. “I think we should go, too.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that no one argues with the decision. With Sector 20 abandoned, what else can we do? It’s the only logical option that I can think of.

So we get in our trucks, our SUVs and our Humvees.

And we leave Sector 20 behind.

Again.

–

The northern part of California is uncharted territory, as far as I’m concerned. Fresno is as far away as I’ve gotten from Los Angeles since the EMP hit last year. As we drive beyond the city limits, a feeling of anxiety takes hold of me. I realize that without Sector 20, my dad will have no way to find out what happened to me or where I went. Likewise, I’m traveling away from him.

Although I am obviously able to function without my father these days… the fact remains that I am being pulled even farther away from my dad – and the Youngs, and little Isabel. How will Chris’s family even know that Jeff died?

They’ll probably guess when he never comes home.

But what if we never come home, either?

We take the old Highway 99. It runs parallel to the main highway, which is piled high with debris. In some places, the wreckage has been cleared away by Omega troops so they can get their vehicles through. But today everything is silent. There is no troop movement as far as I can see. As we drive closer to residential areas and small towns like Chowchilla and Merced, I see signs of civilization. People on the overpasses, lurking in the shadows. But no military presence.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“If Sacramento is anything like Los Angeles,” I say, “then we’re going to have a heck of a time getting inside.”

“It’s not like Los Angeles,” Andrew answers. “It’s a rebel stronghold, remember? We should be welcomed with open arms.”

“You’re forgetting something,” I point out. “We deserted the National Guard to form this rescue unit, remember? Colonel Rivera isn’t exactly going to be pleased to see us.”

“What are they going to do?” Chris interjects. “Refuse our help? They need all the help they can get.”

“Plus, you are Alpha One,” I wink.

We hit the city of Ripon. It has taken us four hours – far longer than it would take for a regular traveler. But weaving through backstreets and avoiding potential gang areas takes time. The giant water tower near the edge of the freeway is blackened with smoke. The overpass near the rest area is cracked in two pieces, obstructing the southbound lanes. The drive-in restaurant and gas station looks like they got bombed. There’s hardly anything left besides faded signs and piles of rubble.

“Well, isn’t this cheery?” Andrew remarks.

“Check in with the others,” Chris says.

Andrew snaps his radio on and contacts the other vehicles. So far, so good. Everyone’s still here and we haven’t run into any trouble. I mean, except for the fact that everything in the state is a freaking garbage dump…yeah. No trouble.

Ripon is only one hour away from Sacramento – driving at freeway speeds. Unfortunately, our travel time is at least double that. As we get closer to the city, the old Highway 99 becomes more difficult to follow, until we have to abandon it altogether. We use maps to navigate through surface streets, getting lost repeatedly in the little towns of Ceres and Lodi.

The scenery here is quite a change from the myriad of dead orchards and hot urban cityscapes of the central valley. Miles of moist marshlands and grazing territory for cattle spread from here to the mountains. The sky is a deep blue. The temperature is cooler.

“I see it!” I exclaim, pointing.

Sacramento is clearly visible in the distance. The skyscrapers gleam against the late evening sunlight. It seems ethereal. A stark contrast to the ravaged skyline of Los Angeles.

“Now that’s a nice city,” Andrew comments.

“From a distance,” Chris replies, untouched.

I study his hands on the wheel. The scars are still there, angry reminders that just over a week ago, he was in a very bad place with very bad people. If anybody has reason to be skeptical, it’s Chris.

“So do we just drive in on the freeway or what?” I ask.

“There will be checkpoints leading into the city,” Andrew replies. “They’ll want us to identify ourselves and our destination. We should be fine. We’re militia, not Omega. We’re welcome here.”

“Welcome is such a relative term,” I mutter.

Chris pats my knee. We roll off the side road and hit the freeway. There is no wreckage here. Everything is wide open and clean. The houses along the freeway are abandoned. The bushes and weeds are ridiculously tall.

“This is creepy on so many levels,” Andrew says.

We drive beneath a series of overpasses. We are the only vehicles on the road. It is creepy, I have to agree. The closer we get to the city, the more tense I become. A city means people and people means trouble.

“Chris,” I whisper. “Roadblock.”

The freeway is blocked up ahead with two flipped semi-trucks and berms of earth. Military trucks, towers, and personnel as far as the eye can see. A fence around the city limit. Chris and I are in the lead Humvee. Guards in camouflage uniforms monitor our approach. An American flag is flying from the top of the first guard tower.

“Easy, Cassie,” Chris says, tapping my cheek with his finger. “They’re on our side.”

The suburban rolls to a stop. Chris turns off the engine. He opens his door. He keeps his hands up – a sign that he means no harm, I guess. A soldier comes out of the guard tower. I open the passenger door and step outside, mimicking Chris’s movements, walking toward him. The fence line buzzes with activity. I watch the soldiers. They are eyeing us curiously, but they don’t have the expression of men who are alarmed. And I know that look.

Chris exchanges a few words with the head guard. I’m on the other side of the car, and his voice is too soft for me to hear above the sound of engines and the wind whipping my hair into circles. In the distance, I hear the sound of a helicopter.

It makes me a bit queasy, given my recent experience.

“And this is…?” I hear the guard say, pointing to me.

“Commander Cassidy Hart,” Chris replies. “One of my best.”

He flashes a quick, wry grin in my direction. Then he’s all business again.

“Well, it’s good to see you, Alpha One,” the guard finally says. “Tell you the truth, rumor had it that you and your entire militia was dead. If you listen to Rivera tell it, you were dead the day you left.”

“Rivera is here?” I say. I walk around the front of the suburban. The rest of the militia remains in their vehicles, waiting for a signal from Chris. A confirmation that we can move forward.

“Yes, ma’am.” Closer, the guard is young. Maybe high school – maybe younger. He’s barely big enough to carry the rifle in his hands.

Then again, the same goes for me.

“He came through here with his forces, then?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies. “Two weeks ago, ma’am.”

“We’ve heard that there’s a rebel meeting going on downtown,” Chris tells the guard. “What do you know about that?”

“Well, sir,” the boy replies, “they’re having a big meeting down at the Capitol Building pretty soon. Rivera, Wright – all the militia commanders and National Guard leaders. Something big is going down. Ever since Mexico and Canada started pushing against the invasion, things have been getting more organized.”

Canada, eh?

“How do we get to the Capitol?” I press.

“Follow this road,” he says, “and take the third exit.”

He continues to give us the rest of the directions.

“You’ll have to go through several checkpoints, sir,” he tells Chris. “We’ll notify the outposts via radio that they should expect you. I can tell you that there’s going to be a lot of people that will be happy to hear that you’re still alive.” He grins at me. “And you too, ma’am.”

I feel my cheeks warm and turn toward the city. One skyscraper in particular reflects the sunlight beautifully. The entire building is made of glass that acts as a mirror – almost completely disappearing into the sky. The gates around the roadblock are pulled back. The guard salutes me and walks back to the guardhouse.

“Cassidy…” Chris says, raising an eyebrow. He’s standing next to the hood of the car. “Are you ready to do this?”

I meet his strong, steady gaze.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”

And for the first time in a long time, I feel as confident as the words that come out of my mouth.

Chapter Sixteen

I feel like I’m staring down a long, lonely walk at high noon. We’re waiting inside the suburban on the other side of a yellow bridge. We have already been through checkpoint after checkpoint. A roiling, muddy river sweeps under the bridge. It has broken the banks at some points, flooding sidewalks and pathways paralleling the river.

Across the bridge, there is a ragged collection of damaged skyscrapers and boulevards, abandoned metropolitan electric rail tracks and empty riverside restaurants. It’s the sad remains of civilization. A sick joke. There is nothing here but a military presence and the desperate hope for the return of a civilized society.

We slowly begin moving across the bridge, having already checked in with security at the guardhouse. American flags seem to be everywhere, fluttering from windows, trees and lampposts. People are trying to keep their morale up. They’re reminding themselves that this is still America.

I mean, I think it is.

Time will tell.

No one has spoken since we began crossing the bridge. The radio – constantly filled with chatter and code words and updates – is now silent. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels the solemnity of what we’re doing. Somewhere deep inside me, I can sense it:

This is going to be a whole new ballgame.

When we roll onto the pavement of the long avenue of Sacramento’s Capitol Mall, the Capitol Building and its glittering dome is gleaming white and pure against the dusky evening sky. Somehow it has escaped the effects of the war’s devastation. It’s lit up like a Christmas tree, glowing with interior lighting. There are blockades and concrete barricades in security rings around the building itself. Soldiers are patrolling and snipers are on top of every building on the strip.

“You think we did the right thing, coming here…?” Andrew whispers.

“Yes,” Chris answers. Firm.

There is no hesitation in his answer, and I draw strength from that. As we reach the end of the street, we stop at another checkpoint. The guard there asks for our names and identification. They have been expecting us, and we are directed to take our vehicles to a large building on the north side of the park. We roll into the loading area and get out of our vehicles.

“This is a hotel,” I state, looking up at the pretty edifice – there are too many stories for me to count.

“It was,” Chris corrects. “Now it’s a fortress.”

And he’s right, of course. There are soldiers everywhere. The lobby is huge inside, with shiny flooring and a concierge desk that is being manned by a woman in a National Guard uniform. The sound of phones ringing and the electric lighting inside the building are jarring. It’s as if we have stepped into the past – back when things like this were normal. Our team is assigned rooms on the upper floors. Vera looks pleased with the arrangement. I stare at the paper hotel room map that the man at the front desk gives us. He is dressed in uniform, like we are.

“I’m Commander Chris Young,” Chris offers. “And this is Commander Hart and our team. We’re here for a meeting at the Capitol Building…?”

He leaves the sentence as an open question.

“Yes,” the man replies. “It’s an honor, sir.” He smiles at me. “The negotiations will be held tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. You’ll want to find the Senate Chambers – that’s where the other militia leaders will be.”

“Thank you,” Chris says, nodding. “We’ll be there.”

Andrew, Uriah, Alexander and Manny are studying their hotel maps. They, like me, are scanning for exits and entrances. What is the fastest escape route? Funny how our minds are always on the defensive.

“The elevators are to your left,” the man says, pointing.

Chris and I glance at each other.

“Elevators?” I echo.

I follow his line of sight and stare at a row of several elevators. Vera pushes the call button and it lights up. We gaze at it like fascinated children. Andrew is the first one to make a smart remark.

“Look at us,” he says, “staring at the pretty lights. You’d think we’d never seen any before.”

“Not like this,” I reply.

“It’s been a while,” Uriah agrees.

The elevator arrives. By the time our entire team makes it to the fifteenth floor, we are so in awe of the clean, beautiful surroundings that we are moving in total silence. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the mission taking its toll. Or maybe we’re just really suffering from that much culture shock.

I open the door to my room. It’s at the end of the hall, across from Chris’s. Inside, there is carpet, a bed, and a window that overlooks the street and Capitol Park below. As the rest of the team checks out their new temporary living quarters, I close my eyes and heave a great sigh.

We are safe.

For the time being.

–

I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and look around. The room is airtight. Clean, white walls, blue carpet and a gray bedspread. It smells fresh. I stare at my feet, comfortable and laced into brand new combat boots. Dressed head to toe in black – pants, shirt, jacket – I am the epitome of what a sniper should look like. Minus the red hair, of course. That is pulled back in a tight military style bun.

I take a deep breath.

It’s quiet. No birds, no wind, no gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. I am alone, and I don’t like it. I stand up and walk to the window. Six stories up, I have a perfect vantage point of the street. I could easily kill anyone before they even had a chance to reach the front of the building.

And it frightens me a little – that I think of things like this. That the first thing I see when I look out a window is a tactical opportunity.

“Cassie?”

Someone knocks on the hotel door. I turn my back on the window and look through the peephole, even though I know who it is. Chris. I open the door. He’s standing there, wearing a black outfit, same as me. He has cleaned up well. He looks professional and handsome. Every bit the model commander.

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure,” I reply. A little bit too fast.

“Maybe I should ask again.”

“Don’t. I’m fine.” I take a step backward as he moves into the room, closing the door behind him. “This is no big deal. It’s not like we’re walking into a firefight, right?”

“No,” Chris says. “This is a different kind of fight.”

I lean against the wall, exhausted and afraid.

“What good is this going to do?” I whisper. “Sitting around and talking about everything is just going to make people mad at each other. Remember when we talked about rebuilding the government at Camp Freedom? My dad was about ready to throw punches over the difference in opinion.”

“At some point, it has to be discussed,” Chris shrugs. “I’d rather do it now than later. If we wait, we may not have the chance.”

“I guess.” I sigh. “You handle the talking, okay? I’ll mess it up.”

“Don’t be naïve, Cassie,” Chris replies. “You won’t mess anything up.” He places one hand on each side of me on the wall. “You can do anything. You’re strong.”

I press my lips together.

“It’s different,” I insist.

“No. It’s not.” Chris kisses my forehead. “Just relax.”

“Right. Because it’s so easy to relax.”

He smiles a little.

“No. Because it’s healthy,” he says.

He presses his lips against mine. I slip my hands behind his neck and melt into him, his strong hands gripping my back. He tastes like coffee. I pull back for a moment.

“We’re in this together,” I say. “We’re a team.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He gives me a puzzled look. “And we act like one.”

I nod. And I kiss him again, heady with his scent and his touch. There is no place in the world I would rather be – regardless of the apocalypse. A few moments later, Chris holds me at arm’s length.

“I’m proud of you,” he states. “No matter what happens.”

“Ditto,” I grin.

I take one last look around the hotel room before we walk out the door. There are no sounds as we take the elevator to the bottom floor. The lobby area is heavily guarded with troops. I ache to hold Chris’s hand as we walk here, but it wouldn’t be professional. Outside, there are vehicles and guardhouses. Armed soldiers. Checkpoints and more checkpoints. It feels good to be on the inside of this steel ring of protection – rather than the other way around.

I almost feel safe.

Almost.

We cross the street. Capitol Park is beautiful. The grass is green again and the hedges have been trimmed. The American rebels have wasted no time in cleaning up the place. The sparkling white exterior of the Capitol building itself is stunning, reminiscent of a Greek temple or an amphitheater – white pillars and marble statues. The bronze Great Seal of the State of California is preserved in concrete in front of the building.

A long canvas tent is pushed up against the entrance. Chris and I walk inside. There are enough guards to form a small rescue unit inside. We go through the checkpoint and enter the building.

In wartime, we are allowed to keep our firearms.

It’s one of those necessary things.

“Which way?” I whisper.

We stand at the mouth of a long hallway. White flooring. Glass cases are set up against the wall. Each case displays miniature scenes of different counties in California. Cities, agricultural communities, beachside resorts. How it used to be.

“Can I help you find something?”

A guard approaches us. He’s young and handsome.

“We’re looking for the Senate Chambers,” Chris states. “We’re here for the negotiations.”

“You’re Commander Young,” the guard states, staring. “And you’re Commander Hart.”

Chris nods slightly.

“An honor, sir,” the guard says. “Um, yes, sir. The Senate Chambers are up these stairs here and on the third floor. You’ll see the people.”

“Thank you, soldier,” Chris replies.

We climb the stairs and enter a hallway full of echoes. I lean in closer to Chris and whisper, “How do people know who we are?”

Chris gives me an amused look as we follow the curve of the hallway. I tilt my head up and marvel at the inside of the capitol dome. The sunlight is shining through the windows, illuminating the colorful design. A massive marble statue of Queen Isabella of Spain and Christopher Columbus sits in the center of the rotunda, surrounded by velvet ropes.

“Fancy,” I comment.

“The Capitol was a museum, too, before the EMP,” Chris tells me.

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I came here before the war. To meet the governor.”

“Why?”

We find the staircase. It wraps around both sides of the rotunda, lined with red carpet.

“Chris?” I press. “Why did you meet the governor?”

“I was…honored for my service overseas before I was discharged,” he says.

“You must have been some soldier.” I smile. “I’m not surprised.”

Chris doesn’t look happy about it.

We climb to the third level. There are people here. Many of them are dressed in business suits – but most are dressed in whatever clothes they could find. Chris and I are not the only ones here wearing a uniform. There are others. Giant, wooden double doors lead into a seating area that wraps around a room two stories below. The Senate Chambers. The seats are packed. It looks like a Roman courtroom.

“You’re in the wrong part of the Capitol, Commander.”

I turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Angela!” I exclaim.

I throw my arms around her neck in a hug. A hug of complete, utter relief. She’s wearing a green uniform, her hair pulled back. She straightens her spine, startled by my expression of emotion.

“Good to see you back, Commander Young,” she breathes, smiling. “Thank God you’re here.”

Um, hello. I’m here, too.

“Thank you,” Chris replies, ever the gentleman. “Good to see you, too, Angela.”

“You two are militia officers,” she says. “You need to be downstairs inside the Senate Chambers, not above it. This area is for civilians.”

“Where’s Colonel Rivera?” I ask.

No sense beating around the bush.

“He’s with the officers, of course,” she replies. “Follow me, please.”

She turns on her heel and we follow her back down the staircase.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been back here, hasn’t it?” Angela asks Chris.

As always, she makes a point of ignoring me. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.

“A few years,” Chris replies.

Angela keeps walking. I lower my voice, anxiety curling in the pit of my stomach as we get closer to the Senate Chambers.

“Vera told me that you knew Angela when you were stationed in Coronado,” I whisper. “Is that true?”

Chris says nothing. Then,

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t seem necessary.”

A couple of the guards allow Angela to pass through some heavy double doors. We follow suit and step into a foyer. Green carpet is everywhere, and so are ornate carved pillars and velvet curtains.

“She told me something else,” I continue. My hands are trembling. “She told me you were married, Chris.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about it for days… but I couldn’t…”

Chris’s face remains unmoved. Expressionless. He is the picture of calm. The only hint of an emotional reaction is the muscle that ticks in his jaw.

Angela whirls around suddenly and we stop.

“When you enter this room,” she warns, “be on your guard. Everything that you say will be scrutinized. The rebel leaders gathered here want to hear what you think. We must be united.” She turns her steely gaze on Chris. “Understood?”

Chris doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to.

Of course he understands.

She leads us through another pair of doors. The room is wide. It’s an open floor, dotted with dozens of desks. The desks are empty – no computers, no name holders. Just paper and notepads. Rebel leaders dressed in a variety of different uniforms are sitting down. It’s similar to a courtroom setting. Three seats at the front of the room are on a raised platform. A man with gray hair and a handsome, weathered face is sitting there, dressed in a suit and tie. He watches Chris and I enter. There is a woman that I do not recognize on his left, and on his right… is Colonel Rivera. He’s dressed in uniform. When he sees me, his expression freezes.

He is not angry.

He is furious.

And when he realizes that Chris is with me, I’m pretty sure a vein starts to bulge in his forehead. I swallow a nervous lump in my throat and absently follow Chris’s hushed command to sit. It dawns on me that everyone in the room – above and below – is staring at us.

Cassidy Hart and Chris Young.

Maybe we’re more infamous than we think.

I grasp the handles of the wooden chair and stare at the desk. Chris is beside me.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “You’ve got this.”

“Shall we call this meeting to order?” The man speaking is sitting in the middle chair on the raised podium. He looks very distinguished.

I look around me. Men, women. Uniforms that I recognize, uniforms that I don’t recognize. And most of them are staring at us. I vaguely realize that Vera, Uriah, Manny, Andrew and Alexander are sitting above us in the spectator seats. Uriah nods, never taking his eyes from me.