Текст книги "State of Alliance"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Chapter Thirteen

I grab Harry by the shoulders and slam him backward against the hood of the Humvee. “How could you do this?” I demand, tears burning in my eyes. “Innocent people are going to die. Good people, Harry!”

Two Omega guards grab my arms and pull me off Harry, forcing me to the ground. One of them slams the butt of his rifle into the back of my neck. I flinch from the pain and hang my head, heaving.

“Good people, bad people,” Harry replies, “what’s the difference, really? We’ve all got bad in us, so we’re all bad. It’s just a matter of who’s stronger.”

“It’s a matter of choosing the good over the bad,” I say defiantly. “That’s what makes us who we are – that’s what defines us.”

Harry shakes his head.

“Take her away,” he commands. “Keep her safe and sound until the moment arrives.” He mock bows. “Pardon me, Senator. I’ve got the rest of Monterey to destroy, and so little daylight to work with.”

The guards drag me away, stuffing me into a different vehicle – a white, retrofitted pickup truck. They surround me. My neck is throbbing from the blow of the guards’ rifle, and I am trembling.

Did they blow up the postgraduate school? Is Chris dead? Is everyone I know gone? They can’t be. They just can’t…

I stop my train of thought, forcing myself to focus. The truck veers back onto the little road, disappearing into the fog. It’s just us. Two guards and the driver. I am in the center seat, staring at the console up front. I keep my hands flat against my hips, slowly slipping the fingers of my right hand into my pocket.

The small pocketknife that Jonas didn’t take is still there. Harry didn’t think to search me again, assuming that Jonas had already taken care of everything. Stupid move. Harry is brilliant in many ways, but he tends to miss the obvious.

The rumble of the engine in the car is enough to drown out the sound of me painstakingly opening the knife with one hand. I swallow when the blade clicks into the upright position, eyes darting sideways. The guards are oblivious, staring straight ahead, guns in their laps.

I curl my right hand around the handle of the blade and casually remove my hand from my pocket, keeping the knife just under my thigh, the flat of the blade against my pants.

This will have to be quick, I think. Very quick, or I’m dead.

Despite the fact that Harry wants to keep me alive – for the sole purpose of hanging my kidnapping over Chris’s head – I know for a fact that these Omega guards won’t hesitate to kill me if I make a move.

So I’ll get one chance, and only once chance.

I realize that the drive to the crest of the hill was only about ten minutes, so I count to sixty over and over again until I reach five minutes. We are in the middle of fog, with no one around us or beside us.

I steel my nerves.

I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on the handle of the knife. I am still buzzing with adrenaline and anger from seeing the missile strikes on Monterey, so I take advantage of the fearlessness that comes from fury. I move quickly. I use my left hand to grasp the head of the guard on my left. I grip his hair, sliding my fingers under his helmet and slamming his head against the seat in front of him. I jam the blade into the base of his skull, where the brain stem connects to the spine. I feel the blade slice through flesh, crunch through bone.

I do it quickly, in a split second.

I pull the blade out as he slumps forward, paralyzed.

The guard on my left is a second too slow. He makes a move to grab the knife, but I turn my body and place my boot on the door of the pickup, using the flat of my back as a sort of shield. I use the leverage I have against the door to push back and turn, thrusting the knife in the back of his neck, as well. It is a painful, horrible injury and he is momentarily frozen with the shock. I jab again, compounding the lethal blow.

My hands are slicked with hot, sticky blood.

I wrench the rifle out of the guard’s hands – the one on my left – and shove the cold, steely muzzle of the weapon into the back of the driver’s skull.

“STOP THE TRUCK!” I command.

He veers off the road, diving into a chain link fence and a grove of weeds. I hit the center console as the truck runs its tires into the dirt and the driver throws the vehicle into park. Heart pounding, I say, “Get out of the truck and throw your weapon on the ground.”

The driver barely manages to stumble out the door, tossing his rifle onto the ground, along with his knife. He heaves and then pukes onto the grass, shaking. I crawl into the front seat and jump outside.

I sling the rifle over my shoulder and grab the driver’s weapon.

“Give me your ammunition,” I say.

He does. He is pale. Sick.

“See this fence?” I say, nodding to the chain link fence. “Put your hands flat against it and stare at the ocean. Count to five-hundred. You move and I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.”

He does as he’s told, wrapping his fingers around the chinks in the fencing, silent. I open the back door of the pickup and drag the dead guards on the ground.

I feel a twinge of guilt, of sadness.

And then it’s gone. I have no room for mercy in my heart today.

I take their guns and clips, too. I kick the side of the first guard’s boot.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” I say, turning to the guard grasping the fence. “The people with the stronger forces don’t win. The people with the stronger spirits do.”

I turn my back on the dead guards and the pitiful driver and slide behind the wheel of the pickup. I look at the fuel tank. Almost completely full. Finally, a stroke of good luck. I throw the truck into reverse and tear away from the fence, screeching onto the road, leaving hot, burnt rubber marks on the asphalt.

I see a sign that reads Cabrillo Highway, Highway 1.

I take the road, racing at breakneck speed through the fog.

My heart is still racing, my breath is short. I am covered in blood. It’s still warm, and it makes me sick. Sick that I have to kill people to save my own life. Sick that I have to kill people to save the lives of others.

I have so much blood on my hands.

The image of the Virgin Mary and the crucified Jesus flashes through mind.

“I’m not a murderer,” I whisper aloud. “I’m a soldier.”

I repeat those words until I believe them.

I hit the city limits of Seaside, just minutes away from downtown Monterey. I know that I am out of enemy territory when I see the United States Military vehicles driving down side roads. But the atmosphere is different, now. The calm structure of safety is gone. Black smoke is rising from the shorelines, smearing the sky with darkness. There are sirens. A pall has been cast over the city.

We are no longer safe. We are under attack.

We were never safe in the first place, I think.

I take the first exit, Del Monte, and floor it down the boulevard, around the corner. I reach a checkpoint and slam on my breaks. I’d forgotten about the checkpoints. Being blown up, kidnapped and barely surviving an escape rattled my brain a little more than I’d like to admit.

The checkpoint is made up of a barrier of sandbags and roadblocks. There is a guardhouse. Two National Guardsmen exit the building and walk to the window, weapons held tightly in their hands.

“Cassidy Hart,” I say. “Commander, Senator. I don’t have identification, I just—”

“Commander,” the first guy says. He’s fairly young with bright red hair. “We thought you were killed off the coast.”

“I should have been,” I reply.

“We’ll get you an escort into the city,” he replies. “This way, ma’am.”

I get out of the truck, toting the rifle and the ammo magazines with me. I leave the truck running and another National Guardsmen jumps behind the wheel, taking the truck away.

“You need a medic,” the redhead says. “Where are you wounded?”

“This isn’t my blood,” I answer.

He nods.

We walk into the guardhouse. It is a tiny building with a desk and a radio.

“I need you to get a message to Commander Young first,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Tell him that I’m alive, and that I’ll meet him wherever he wants.”

The guy picks up the receiver on the radio.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“That should do it.”

I look at the name tape on his uniform: O’Byrne.

“Thank you,” I say.

“They’re going to be happy that you’re alive,” he replies.

He squeezes the radio set.

“This is Eagle Eye to Home Run,” he says. “Come in, Home Run.”

A woman’s voice answers. It is Vera Wright.

“This is Home Run, Eagle Eye. What’s your situation?” she asks.

“Home Run, we’ve got good news,” O’Byrne says. “I’ve got Yankee One here in the guardhouse with me, alive and ready to get back in the game.”

A pause.

“Unbelievable,” Vera replies, matter-of-fact. “I’ll relay the news to the council and the officers.”

“Yankee One wants to know where she should meet Alpha One and the rest of his unit,” O’Byrne says, watching my face.

“The Wharf,” Vera answers. “Immediately.”

“Over and out, Home Run.”

“Over and out.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Vera didn’t say that Chris was dead.

He’s alive, he’s alive. Good news.

“Is there anyone else I should radio before we take you to the wharf?” O’Byrne asks. “Maybe Costas? He’s been going crazy trying to track you down. He was convinced you weren’t dead – he was even down here earlier this morning, asking us if we’d seen you.”

“Costas?” I repeat, puzzled. “You mean Elle Costas? The bomb girl?”

“No. Manny Costas. You know.” O’Byrne musses up his hair. “Pilot? Crazy hair, long jacket?”

I nod.

“Yeah, I know him,” I reply, distant. “I’ve just… I didn’t know his last name until now.”

“I thought the two were related,” O’Byrne shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t put things together so well. This way, Commander. The city’s under attack, we don’t need to waste time with chit-chat.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I hate chit-chat.”

O’Byrne hops into an armored SUV. I get into the passenger seat.

“We’ll be there in just a few minutes,” he promises. I fasten my seatbelt. It is a habit I have forced myself to keep ever since I survived an IED bombing in a Humvee. Sometimes seatbelts save your life, in more ways than one.

“So how did you do it?” O’Byrne asks.

I watch the scenery flash by. The calm, collected military exterior of the city has vanished. It’s all gone, washed away. Our military forces are no longer in the center of the city – they’re on the coastline, combating Omega’s warships.

But do they know about the five-hundred troops hiding just twenty miles out of the city? Surely somebody must have spotted them!

“Do what?” I ask.

“Escape. I mean, I assume that’s what you did,” O’Byrne clarifies. “They found the remains of the Coast Guard cutter. Searched everywhere for your body. Couldn’t find you among the dead.” He shrugs. “They assumed you’d either sunk to the bottom or survived, somehow. Commander Young took a SEAL team into the bay and dived during a search.”

My chest tightens.

Oh, Chris. Doing everything he possibly could to bring me back.

This is why I love him. Well. One of many reasons, but still.

“I was rescued by a fisherman,” I say. “How random is that? His name was Jonas. He turned me into Omega for the reward, I guess. Who knows what Omega gave him in exchange for me.” I shake my head. “I got lucky, saw an opportunity to escape. I took it, and now I’m here. That’s really all there is to it.”

O’Byrne glances at the blood on my clothes.

I know what he is thinking: There is way more to the story than that.

He’s right, but I’m not in a storytelling mood.

We follow Del Monte Road and curve past the iron bars of the Naval Postgraduate School. We take it down to the harbor, but instead of going through the tunnel and onward toward Cannery Row or the Presidio, O’Byrne hangs a right into a parking lot. There are small fishing boats and yachts anchored in the bay here. Some of them have been pulled into the parking lot and ripped apart. Militia men and woman are busy, hard at work. No more than a mile away, a fire is blazing in Cannery Row.

“What are they doing to the boats?” I ask.

“The ballasts are made of lead,” O’Byrne says. “A couple of tons of lead, actually. It’s a great way to get bullets.”

“Are we that low on ammunition?” I ask, worried.

“We’re in a state of war,” O’Byrne replies. “And every little bit helps.”

What a great non-answer. He should be a politician.

O’Byrne halts the vehicle at the beginning of a walkway. The path leads to a pier, The Fisherman’s Wharf. It is a faded, rustic old tourist attraction. There are military vehicles gathered here, and lots of soldiers. Many of them are splattered with mud and blood, like myself. They look tired. Scared.

I can feel the tension in the air. It’s thick enough to cut with a knife.

I get out of the car.

“Cassidy!”

Chris is standing on the edge of the walkway, with Vera, Uriah, Andrew, Sophia, and Elle. I walk quickly, too tired to run, and throw my arms around his neck. He smells like seawater and gunpowder – an interesting combination, to say the least. He crushes me to his chest and pulls me into a long, lingering kiss. I am too relieved to be embarrassed or to care what anybody thinks.

“Chris,” I whisper. “We’re in trouble.”

“Thank God you’re alive,” he says. His eyes are red. It looks like he’s been… crying? No. Not Chris. Chris never cries. “You’ve been missing for two days, Cassidy. God, I can’t believe it.” He embraces me again, afraid to let me go. “Are you hurt? Is this your blood?”

“No,” I reply. “You have to listen to me, Chris.” I place my hand on the side of his cheek. “Harry Lydell is here. He’s planning a surprise attack from the north side of the city. The cruise missiles are a distraction. He wants to get inside Monterey.”

Chris’s face turns to stone.

“He’s here?” he asks.

“Yes. And he’s hell-bent on revenge and destruction.”

“Cassidy.” Uriah approaches from behind. I kiss Chris’s hand and embrace Uriah, happy to hug a familiar, friendly person. Uriah slightly shakes my shoulders. “We’re so glad you’re alive,” he says.

Judging by the flush in his cheeks, he’s almost as happy as Chris.

Andrew greets me. Vera does not smile. She doesn’t say a word. She merely squeezes my shoulder, and that is enough. Coming from her, that means something.

“Good to see you alive and well, Commander,” Elle grins, holding Bravo by the harness. “Thought you were a goner for sure.”

“Me too,” I smile.

I look at Sophia. Her expression is placid, cold. She nods, and I notice the tears in her eyes. “Sophia,” I begin, but she won’t look at me. I decide to drop it.

We are out of time.

There is a building near the wharf. It was previously a museum, used for housing relics of the past, like old lighthouse bulbs and sailcloth. The items are still inside the building, but they are covered in dust. It has been abandoned since the EMP, and we are meeting inside. We stand on the second floor. There are wide, open windows overlooking the bay. Omega’s warships are clearly visible on the horizon. Four tiny dots. Harbingers of destruction.

“We can’t stay on the shoreline,” I say. “They could send another cruise missile our way.”

“They could send a cruise missile anywhere,” Chris corrects. “And they’re close enough for guns, now.”

“So we have nowhere to escape to.”

“The Alliance has cruise missiles of its own.” Devin May climbs the stairs to the second story. I haven’t seen him since we met at the Aquarium. “We will retaliate if pushed too far.”

“It’s a distraction,” I say again. “Omega knows that most of our manpower and weaponry is hidden in the city, and they can’t get to that with a missile, because they don’t know where it is. The missiles are meant to draw us to the shoreline so that Harry can bring his troops in through the back door.”

Chris nods.

“Exactly,” he agrees. “I’ve notified every unit in the entire city, and they’re setting up a steel ring. The National Guard and the Army units here are rolling out every available man they have. Omega has ceased fire.”

“Why would they do that?” Vera demands.

“Because the Alliance is negotiating with Omega,” Devin responds. “They’re trying to avoid a slaughter.”

“I’m on the council,” I say. “I should be negotiating along with them.”

Besides. I thought we didn’t negotiate with Omega.

“You’re also a Commander,” Chris replies, “and you just survived a bombing and a hostage situation. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

I shake my head. This entire situation is beginning to get away from me.

I want my sniper team. I want my militia.

I want to get back in action right now.

“We can’t stand around and talk about this anymore,” I say. “I’m taking my team and going to the north side of the city. I’m going to help stop Harry’s forces from getting into the city. He’ll be bringing them in fast because by now, I can guarantee you he’s discovered that I’ve escaped, and he knows I’ll tell you everything I saw and heard.”

“My only question is,” Vera suddenly says, “how in hell did we miss five hundred troops hiding in the dunes twenty miles outside of the city limits? How is that even possible?”

My mind flashes to the heavy fog, and how our limited air support probably had trouble seeing through it. Even then, that’s no excuse.

“Who does the perimeter patrols?” I ask.

“Militias,” Devin replies.

“Which militias?”

Devin shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “The Coyotes, the Seahawks. This week the Freedom Fighters have actually been helping while they’re here.”

“Who’s been on those patrols?” I pursue. “It hasn’t been anyone on my team, has it?”

We brought about twenty of our own men and women from the Freedom Fighters into Monterey, but as far as I know, none of them have left the Naval Postgraduate School. Their purpose was to provide security for the Negotiations.

“Well, actually—” Devin begins, but he is cut off by Elle.

“Um, excuse me,” she says, pointing out the window. “But what’s that?”

I follow her line of sight. An Omega Humvee is pulling up in the parking lot. It is flanked by United States military vehicles and soldiers. I glance at Chris.

“Devin?” Chris asks.

“This leads me to my next bombshell,” Devin shrugs. “Omega sent a courier into the city. Apparently Harry’s got a message for us.”

My blood boils.

Screw Harry Lydell and his stupid games. I want to fight.

I turn away from the window and hurry down the stairs. Everyone is hot on my heels, Chris just behind my shoulder. We walk outside. O’Byrne, the guard from the checkpoint, is the first and only face I recognize among the group of soldiers.

“We’ve got an Omega scout,” he says. “He came here willingly, under a flag of truce. He says he’s got a message for all of us.”

“Let’s hear it,” I snap.

The soldiers open the door and an Omega trooper steps outside. He is tall and European, an aristocratic sneer on his lips. He reminds me of Harry, minus the devastating good looks and curly hair.

“Greetings, officers,” he says, his voice heavy with a German accent. “Commander Hart, Harry Lydell wanted to make sure that I congratulated you on your daring escape. He was most impressed.”

I’m sure he was. Impressed and enraged.

“Go on, soldier,” I say. “What’s your business here?”

“Harry Lydell, District Prefect and General, sent me here to give you a fair warning,” he continues. “Our forces surround your city. We have four warships in the bay, waiting to fire cruise missiles at a moment’s notice. You really have no chance of survival if you choose to engage in combat. A peaceful surrender will be met with gracious mercy. We will not kill… all of you.”

“Surrender is not an option,” Chris states. His voice is steely – his determination apparent for all to see. “Tell Harry Lydell that I when I see him on the battlefield, I’ll kill him myself.”

Vera, Devin, Uriah, Andrew, Sophia and Elle say nothing.

I fold my arms across my chest, glaring.

“You’re wrong,” I say. “We have a chance. If we didn’t, Harry wouldn’t have bothered to send you over here to negotiate. He’s scared, and you know it.”

The messenger blinks, taken aback for a moment.

“I’m just here to relay General Lydell’s message,” he says. “Do you accept his offer or not?”

“Let’s take not,” I answer.

“You’re digging your own graves.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, thanks.”

“Harry will stop negotiating with the Alliance. This will mean war on Monterey.”

“We’re already at war,” Chris says, stopping him. “There’s nothing you can do to stop that now.”

The messenger nods weakly, turning his back on us.

As he gets back into the car, I lock gazes with him. I can see the fear in his eyes, ill-concealed under a façade of bluster and dramatics. He knows that we mean business, and so does Harry.

As the escort leaves, I turn to Chris and Devin.

“Tell the Alliance we’ve engaged,” I say. “Omega’s already made the first move by bombing the coastline. We need to hit back, fast.”

“But we don’t have the numbers or the manpower to stand up to—” Sophia begins, but I cut her off.

“Fight or die,” I say, looking toward the horizon. “Choose your side.”