Текст книги "State of Rebellion"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Chapter Six

Fear surges through my veins.

Sirens.

The last time I heard sirens was when I was imprisoned in a slave labor camp. I flinch and stand up, a sudden silence falling over the room. Angela freezes. Even Dad appears to be caught off guard.

“What does that mean?” I breathe.

Angela leans back, a slight smile on her lips.

“Manny’s back.”

“Manny? Who’s Manny?”

Angela tilts her head.

“Vera, take Cassidy to meet Manny.”

She nods. I don’t move, confused.

“Wait… where am I going?”

“Just go with Vera.” She tilts her head. “Go on. Enjoy yourself.”

Enjoy myself? Seriously?

Chris starts to stand but Angela places a hand on his forearm.

“No, you need to stay,” she says. “We need you in this discussion.”

But apparently they don’t need me.

Vera heads towards the door.

“Come on, Hart,” she says.

I sigh, locking gazes with Chris as I exit. When we step onto the porch, I chew on my lower lip, self-conscious standing next to Vera in the sunlight. Where I’m covered in scars and freckles, she’s perfect. Where my hair looks like the TV commercial for a chia pet, hers looks like a salon advertisement for Vidal Sassoon.

Figures I’d get stuck with her.

I take a deep breath, suck up my pride, and say,

“So where are we going?”

“To meet Manny.” She walks down the steps and I follow, cutting a beeline across the entrance road. The siren has stopped, and I notice quite a few people heading in the same direction that we are.

“Who’s Manny?” I press. “And why does he have a siren?”

“He doesn’t have a siren,” Vera snorts. “It means he’s coming.”

“In what? A tank?”

She gives me a weird look.

“It’s a joke,” I say. “I was making a…. never mind.”

Vera takes a right, heading towards the barracks.

“So…” I begin, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

“So nothing, Hart,” Vera snaps, whipping around. Her blue eyes are sparking, her cheeks flushed with color. “This is my home, and you are not going to take it away from me.”

I blink a few times.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, surprised.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She folds her arms. We’re both standing in the middle of the road. An epic stare down. “There aren’t any female leaders in the camp besides my mother and I. Don’t mess with us.”

“I’m not here to mess with anybody.”

“I’ve heard all about you, you know.” She does a quick once-over of my appearance. “I was expecting somebody a little more…intimidating.”

Tiny but mighty, I think, remembering a long-ago conversation I once had with Chris about my height. What is her problem?

“I didn’t come here to challenge anybody’s position of authority,” I state, fighting the urge to land a good kick to her chin. That would be very unladylike. “I came here because Omega killed a lot of our men and we needed a place to stay. Period. If you think otherwise then you’ve got a problem.” I walk around her. “Let’s go see Manny.”

Dead silence. A few beats later she yanks on my arm, jerking me to a halt. I instinctively spin and snap her arm into a painful wristlock. I’ve lived in a warzone far too long to react in any other way. She glares at me, wincing. I release her arm and take a step backward, raising my hands.

“You’re not on edge, are you, Hart?” she grits out.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I state.

“I will be watching you,” she warns. “Both of you.”

“Leave Chris out of this.”

“Chris?” She rolls her eyes. “I was talking about Sophia Rodriguez. Chris is another story. How you two ended up together I’ll never know.”

I feel my cheeks redden as I whirl around, following the line of people. I don’t have to take this. Common bullying tactics. And I’ve always hated bullies. What Vera Wright has against me I have no idea, but she’s going to have to forget it. Or regret it. I don’t have time to engage in petty playground drama. We’ve got a war to fight – and if she has any brains, she’ll realize that, too.

When I reach the meadow, Vera is walking behind me. She says nothing. Neither do I. The long stretch of cut grass is left wide open, and in the distance I can hear the low stutter of an engine. I strain my eyes, searching the meadow for the source of the noise.

“Look up,” Vera says, annoyed, a hand on her hip.

I ignore her tone and do as she says, searching the skies. The engine noise gets louder, and suddenly a shape appears against the blue sky. An airplane. A small dark blue biplane with a red and white stripe on each wing. I gape openly at it.

I haven’t seen any aircraft since the day passenger planes fell out of the sky in Los Angeles the night the EMP struck.

“Say hello to the air force,” Vera deadpans.

I gauge her expression. Cold. Icy.

She’s serious.

I squint against the early morning sunlight, watching the old biplane totter across the sky, barely seeming to move at all. It curves toward the meadow, the engine roaring louder as it descends. The aircraft dips down and settles into a graceful landing on the short, manicured grass.

It trundles along for a moment, coasting into a wide U-turn. Finally it rolls to a stop, the engine cutting out. The spectators around the edges of the meadow don’t look nearly as shocked as I am to see an operating airplane in the middle of the High Sierras. They start cheering as the pilot jumps out of the open cockpit, removing a cap and oversized goggles. He’s a tall, thin man wearing a leather duster. His hair is gray, hanging in overgrown strands to his chin. As his feet hit the ground, he lets out a whoop of victory.

“Welcome back, Manny,” Vera says brightly, approaching him.

So cheery and sweet. What an act.

“Good morning, my girl. Good morning,” he says, shutting the door. Hoisting a black satchel over his shoulder. “How goes life at Camp Freedom?”

“Same as always.”

I come up behind Vera’s shoulder.

“I’m Cassidy,” I blurt out. I’m not waiting for an introduction from Vera. “Who are you?”

Manny assesses me, looking surprised.

“Well, now,” he says, a lazy smile lighting his wrinkled features, “what have we got here? What’s your name?”

“Cassidy Hart. I’m…new.”

“I can see that.” Manny starts strolling across the meadow, and Vera and I follow. “You come alone or with soldiers?”

“I’m with the Freedom Fighters.”

“Ah.” He pauses. “The population of redheads just went from zero to one.” He winks at me. “I’m Manny, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. Now where’d you get a biplane?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Are you going to answer my question?”

Vera sighs dramatically, casting me a weird look.

“Air support. Hello.” She falls into step with Manny and I. “Manny’s plane is how we can keep a better handle on the mountain region. He’s our eye in the sky.”

“You’re a scout,” I say.

“Scout, soldier, pilot, and incredibly good looking.” He starts laughing at himself. “That plane is a good friend of mine. Belonged to my granddad originally. Figured I’d use it for something worthwhile.”

He takes a turn at the main road, heading toward the Headquarters building.

“You reporting to the Commanders?” I ask.

“That’s the general idea, yes.”

“What did you see when you were scouting?”

“Trees. A hell of a lot of trees.” He laughs again. “They’re everywhere.”

I frown. Vera is studying my face closely as we approach the building again.

“Well, come on, ladies,” Manny says, climbing the steps. “Let’s tell the head cats what I found.”

“What did you find?” Vera asks.

“Something. Come on.”

“He’s a little different, isn’t he?” I say.

“He can hear every word you’re saying,” Manny replies. “And yes. I am.”

By the time we reach the Headquarters building again, Vera has succeeded in reapplying her fake, friendly façade. Angela and the others look pleased when Manny steps inside. He slams his satchel down on the table and crows, “I’m back. What have you birds been doing while I’ve been gone?”

“Nothing much,” Angela replies. “Welcome home.”

Chris glances at me, raising an eyebrow.

I shrug.

Don’t look at me.

Manny kicks back on an empty chair, propping his boots up on the table. Vera practically dives for the seat next to Chris, leaving me as the only person in the room without a chair. I glare daggers at the back of her head as I lean against the wall.

“Well,” Manny says, toying with a loose pen, “I hate to tell you this, folks, but we may be in for some trouble.”

“That’s supposed to be news?” I mumble.

“What kind of trouble?” Chris asks, shooting me a look.

“Huh.” Manny leans forward, rubbing a hand over his chalky stubble. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Manny, this is Alpha One of the Freedom Fighters. Chris Young,” Angela explains. “Frank brought them back with him.”

Dad is sitting across from Chris, and I notice that he’s not in a good mood. I guess the previous argument isn’t sitting well between them…Dad’s lips are pressed together, his arms folded across his chest. He looks at me, frowning, and turns his gaze to Manny.

Maybe he’s mad that I sided with Chris during the argument.

Well…I can’t be neutral all the time. I have to make my own choices.

“And you’re who?” Manny asks me, turning. “Cassidy Hart. You’re a Freedom Fighter, too? What?”

“Codename Yankee,” I say simply.

Manny smiles.

“Ah. I’ve heard of you.”

“Apparently everybody but me has heard of me.”

“Apparently.” Manny flips the pen in neat circle, catching it in the palm of his hand. “We, ladies and gentlemen, are right in the path of a decent-sized mechanized enemy force.”

“A convoy?” Angela asks, alarmed. “Explain.”

“Not a lot to tell. From the air, there’s a convoy coming in our direction. I couldn’t get too close, but they’re definitely military, and they’re well armed.” He shrugs. “But my advice would be to get ready for their arrival at any rate.”

“How many vehicles?” Chris asks. “How far away are they?”

“I’d say one day,” Manny answers. “The lighter trucks are scouting ahead. And a big line of armored transport trucks are in their wake. Older ones. I could be wrong, but they were moving steadily this way, and they were coming up.”

“Nobody knows about this camp,” Commander Buckley snorts.

“Nobody but other militias,” Angela corrects. “And you never know when information might leak.”

True. Look at what Harry Lydell did to us.

“It could be Omega,” Chris says. “Or it could be someone worse.”

“Who the hell is worse than Omega?” Commander Jones demands.

“Pirates, gangs, mafias, cartels. Anybody.”

“He’s got a point,” Manny replies. “We should be ready for this. Very ready.”

“Every able-bodied man or woman that can pick up a gun should be preparing for a fight,” Angela nods. “Boys? See to it that your people are ready. I want you back here in an hour for mission planning. That will be all.”

Nobody objects. So that’s what happens. We leave and head towards the barracks, gathering our militias together. As we walk back to the meadow, a single thought floats through my mind:

There is no such thing as safe anymore.

We’re running high on anticipation around here. Anticipation, of course, is just a jacked up version of adrenaline. And in my case, it’s tinged with plenty of raw fear.

A convoy? Coming here? Did Omega somehow track us?

No. That can’t be. That just can’t. Nobody was following us.

You don’t know what happened to Harry Lydell, a little voice says. Maybe he followed you.

Again, no. He couldn’t have made the trek back down the mountain that fast. It took us four days to get up here. He would have had to make it back in one. And that is impossible. Unless he got a ride somehow, and that’s unlikely. So there must be another explanation.

Quit worrying about the hows or whys, the voice insists. Just hope for the best and get ready for the worst, like you always do. Remember?

I remember.

Our forces have gathered on the meadows, each one grouped into sections according to their commander. The Freedom Fighters, Mountain Rangers and Legion are here. Commander Thomas, Buckley and Jones are on the other side of the camp. There isn’t enough room for all of us in one spot.

The militia leaders are giving frag orders, preparation instructions, for the likely impending attack. I stand to the side, seething. Vera is right there in the middle of it, engaging in conversation with Chris and my father. Sophia is standing next to me, silent. And I’m burning with embarrassment. More than anything in the world, I’d like to walk over there and contribute to the conversation, but something is keeping me rooted to the spot. Usually I have no problem offering my opinion. Maybe I’m just afraid.

“Don’t feel bad,” Sophia says, hugging me from the side.

“What makes you think I feel bad?”

“Um, I don’t know. The fact that you’re staring over there like you’re going to shoot everybody?” She grins. “You’re kind of easy to read.”

“Well…” I sigh. “Don’t you feel a little left out?”

“You can go over there if you want.”

“I’m not going over there unless they ask me to come.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

‘Then I’m staying here.”

A few beats of silence tick by, and I realize how stupid our dialogue is. What is this, high school? What am I afraid of? Rejection? Embarrassment? Am I jealous of the attention Chris is giving Vera?

Flushed, I suddenly feel angry for allowing myself to be this petty.

I square my jaw and march over there, standing behind Chris’s shoulder. He acknowledges me with a nod – and a slight smile. I immediately feel better. How hard was that? All I had to do was walk across the meadow.

“…There will be contact on the main access road,” Dad is saying as I walk up. He’s turned, talking to Vera and Angela. “There will probably be scouts far ahead of this convoy. We’ll stop them before anybody gets too close to camp.”

“I’ll go,” Vera volunteers, casting me a quick, sour glance.

“So will I,” I say.

“No, you’re not going,” Dad replies, frowning.

“Yes. I am.”

“Frank, how many men will you be taking with you?” Angela asks.

“The road is already well secured,” Dad answers, flicking his gaze to her. “I’ll just bring my scouts.”

“And mine,” Chris adds.

Silence.

Chris says, “Commander Jones and Commander Buckley will also be accompanying us. We expect the military convoy to send out scouts, and there will be a leader among them. Frank and I are coming in case we need to parlay.”

“Very good, gentlemen,” Angela says. She nods at the group. “Be careful out there.”

Late morning is fast approaching. The temperature is warming up. Glorious white thunderheads are climbing into the sky, spiking the humidity level. A summer storm may be on its way.

“Stick with me,” Chris mutters to me under his breath, turning towards the Freedom Fighters. He gathers our scouts – a group that includes Jeff, Sophia, Max, Derek and Alexander – and we head towards the main entrance to the camp. The plan is simple. We, along with Dad and his scouts, will meet the convoy on the main access road. If they’re anything like us, they’ll have scouts out, too. We’ll talk to them. Find out what their purpose is. Take the necessary measures to keep them out if they end up being unfriendly.

Yes, here we go again, I think. Meeting new and interesting people…and then killing them. What has happened to my world?

I shake off the thought.

“My dad is still mad at me,” I comment in a low tone.

“He’s not mad,” Chris replies. “Just frustrated. Wartime environments are hard. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m taking sides with you over him.”

“Aren’t you, though?” Chris gives me a thoughtful look. “What you said back at HQ…didn’t you mean that?”

I nod. “Yeah, but—”

“—Don’t be afraid to have your own opinions, Cassie. Go with your gut.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Chris shrugs. “People get mad sometimes.”

True. I should know that by now.

Dad is approaching the main gate with his cadre of scouts. The rest of the militia will remain behind to protect the camp in case something happens while we’re gone. Desmond is waiting with the Rangers, his odd hair, weapons and medical kit all contradictions of each other. Manny is standing between the two groups.

“You’re not a scout,” Dad grumbles, adjusting his hat.

Manny squints at him. “I’m a born scout. Done recon all my life. Who was the one who alerted you to the convoy in the first place? It sure wasn’t any of your Pony Express boys in the Underground.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his duster. Jaw set. “I’m coming with you.”

Dad doesn’t argue the point. Manny is a scout. An air scout.

“Very well. You’re with my unit, squad one.”

Desmond nods to me, pulling what I think is a pine needle out of his unruly beard. I don’t think I want to know. “Feeling okay, Hart?” he asks. “No abnormal pain or discomfort?”

“Nope,” I grin. “I’m sore but I’m fine.”

“Good. Hey, I’ve got some killer herbal tea for you.”

“Uh, thanks…”

“What happened to you?” Manny asks.

“I got shot.”

“Ah.” He looks me up and down. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I’m a born scout, too.”

Manny smirks, his sunburned face crinkling into a thousand lines and wrinkles.

“You know, Doc,” he says to Desmond, “you medic boys have your hands full around here.”

“Yeah,” Desmond shrugs.

Manny jerks his thumb at Desmond’s long, wild hair threaded with beads and feathers. “Looks like a bird made its nest on your head.”

Desmond blinks.

“Respect the hair, man.”

I pull my hair back from my forehead, torn between being annoyed or amused. We retrieve our weapons and leave the compound on foot. Chris forms up the detail.

“Open formation patrol from here on,” he says, “Derek, you’re on point. Everybody buddy-check your gear.” Derek draws himself up to his full height, taking the forward position, his white-blonde hair like a homing beacon to follow. As we quickly check each other’s gear and set-ups, a bubble of anxiety swells in my chest. Whenever I leave on a mission, I realize anything could go wrong. I could die. My friends could die. It’s this knowledge – this fear – that sharpens my senses and gives me an adrenaline boost every time.

Chris says, “Okay, boys. Everybody go weapons hot.”

We lock and load our rifles. The sharp sound of metal against metal, of bullets being loaded into an empty chamber is an ominous sound in a quiet forest. I hang behind Chris with Vera, Manny and Desmond. Dad is out front. Alexander is with Chris, and Jeff is sticking close to Sophia as we work our way down the main road with Derek and Max. No sounds. No unnecessary noise. The realization that we may or may not be meeting Omega on the road puts everyone in a cautious mood.

We move along the trail, checking our sectors of fire, keeping our weapons ready. We reach the blockaded road. A platoon of rough militiamen is guarding the area. They know we’re coming. “Any activity?” Chris asks the head of the platoon – the same guard we met on the way in, Uriah.

“No, sir,” he replies. “Not yet.”

“Good. Carry on.”

We stake out in the thick foliage. I settle in next to Chris while the rest of our detail disperses. “What if they don’t come down the main road?” I ask.

“They will.”

“But what if they don’t? What if they just go around the road and hit the camp?”

“They won’t.” Chris gives my arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “From what Manny described, this is a military convoy. They will send out scouts ahead of them.”

“What if they’re Omega scouts?”

He doesn’t answer. Because we both know the answer to that question.

They can’t be allowed to return.

“They’re not Omega,” Chris says.

“The convoy?” I ask.

“Right.” He leans against a tree. “According to the latest scouting reports, this is a United States military convoy.”

“Do we know that for sure?” Manny raises an eyebrow.

“Conspiracy theorist,” Desmond mutters.

“Oh, right. I’m spinning conspiracies,” Manny grumbles. “It’s not like we’re not living in one already.” He straightens his jacket, digging around in his pocket for something. He pulls out a metal flask, pops it open, and takes a drink. Alcohol? Great. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, shoving the thing back in his pocket.

“Gotta keep the spirits up, somehow,” he shrugs, noticing my glare of disapproval. “Want some?”

“I’m young, but I’m not stupid,” I comment. “You shouldn’t drink that.”

“I’m not a drunk.”

“But you’re drinking.”

“Darling, there’s a difference between drinking and being drunk. This is medicinal.”

“Medicinal, my foot.”

“It does help with foot pain. Also the liver.”

“Quit making things up.”

“Relax, guys,” Desmond interjects. “Arguing is never the answer.”

“Hippie,” Manny states.

“Drunk.”

“Tree-hugger.”

“Blind as a bat.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes.

So. The United States military. If this is true, then why are they sending a convoy up to the mountains? What are they looking for?

They’re looking for us.

Hmm.

After an hour the sound of truck engines can be heard in the distance. I tense, swallowing a lump in my throat. This is the moment of truth. The militiamen take their positions at the blockade. Snipers are posted. Hunter-killer teams are ghosting through the trees. Dad is on the other side of the road with his Rangers. The convoy rumbles up the road. Only three vehicles, all bristling with heavy weaponry that anyone in the militia would love to get their hands on.

The Humvees are tan. They look bulletproof and dangerous. A lot different than the makeshift retrofitted military jeeps and farming pickup trucks we’ve been using. They roll to a halt, the lead vehicle coming to a stop about one hundred feet away from the blockade. The door of the lead vehicle opens, and out steps a tall, burly man in uniform. He’s got an American flag in one hand, a white flag in the other. A cigar is jammed between his teeth. He looks unmoved – irritated, even – at the array of weapons pointed his way.

“California National Guard,” he says. Gravelly voice.

Chris and Dad move cautiously to the center of the blockade, coming forward to meet the man. I wait near the blockade, my fingers wrapped around my rifle. My crosshairs resting on the man’s chest. Just in case.

“Colonel Richard Rivera, National Guard,” he states.

“What brings you up here, Colonel?” Dad asks.

The Colonel looks Dad and Chris up and down.

“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” he says.

Dad and Chris share a glance before Chris says, “I’m Chris. This is Frank.”

I guess they’re canning the codenames for now.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Colonel Rivera replies. “And we’ve been looking for help. I’m here on a recruiting mission. We need red-blooded, able bodied men and women to join us in the fight to save the United States of America.”

Oh my gosh. Dramatic much?

“Where are you based?” Chris asks.

“Right outside of Fresno.”

“How did you find us?”

“It’s no secret that there are militia groups in the high mountains.” He lowers the white flag. “We were bound to find you eventually.”

“What exactly do you want, Colonel?” Dad says.

“We’re here to ask you to help us fight.”

Chris glances back at me. I nod and signal to Uriah to have one of the guards bring one of our jeeps from behind the blockade.

“We’ll talk,” Chris says, “but not here. You can come with us.”

“Sounds good.”

Colonel Rivera rolls up the flags and hands them to his sergeant, following Chris and Dad to the jeep. I get in the backseat as the rest of the militia leaders get in. Colonel Rivera sits in the front between Dad and Chris. Chris slides behind the wheel, gives a couple of orders to Alexander and the others, and then we’re off. We drive onto a hidden, overgrown logging road. After about five minutes of driving over washouts and debris, we stop in the woods, at a cabin. The roof has partially caved. The siding is covered in moss and vines as nature slowly reclaims what belongs to it.

This is the secret meeting place.

We get out of the jeep, Angela leading our group inside the cabin. Chris follows, and I in turn follow Chris. Wherever he goes, I go.

We walk inside the cabin. Broken furniture has been shoved to one side, and it looks like someone used the cabin as a living space. Commander Jones and Commander Buckley stand to one side, Dad stands by the door, and Chris and Angela are in front of the Colonel.

“Let’s hear it, Colonel,” Angela says. “You’re here to recruit soldiers. What’s in it for us?”

“Plenty,” Colonel Rivera replies. “I’ve got a National Guard base in Fresno equipped with weapons, ammunition and food and supplies. Medicine, a safe place to stay. The situation is like this: we’ve got more guns than we’ve got men, and I need every available man or woman who’s willing to fight to do just that.”

“What’s happening with Omega?”

“Something big.”

“You’re gearing up for the second wave of the invasion,” Dad states.

“You’ve heard about that.”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that New York was nuked?” I ask.

“What does the east coast look like?” Commander Jones presses.

“We have radio communication with other friendlies across the country,” Colonel Rivera answers. “Some of the satellites are still working. The east coast was hit hard during the first wave of the invasion. Washington D.C. and New York are little more than a heap of smoking rubble.”

“So it was nuclear?” I say, my heart sinking to my stomach.

“Whatever it was, it was big,” he continues. “There is an enemy naval fleet sitting right outside of Long Beach. They’ve been there for a couple of weeks, sending recon teams ahead. We anticipate the main body of the invasion will be arriving shortly. The National Guard is still in the fight, although our forces are depleted. The invasion force is coming from China. Ships have been spotted off the coast of San Francisco and Los Angeles, two cities that have been destroyed with a chemical weapon. From there they’ll swarm the state. We’re all that’s left to protect the Central Valley.”

“So Washington D.C. is completely gone,” I say, my mouth dry.

“The government is essentially nonexistent,” Colonel Rivera confirms, tapping his cigar on his knee. Placing it between his teeth again, continuing, “Or if it does exist in some form, it’s ineffective. Each state is doing what it can to protect itself. We’re on our own.”

“What about the Navy?” Chris asks, arms folded across his broad chest. “And the Air Force? If the National Guard survived, where’s the rest of the military?”

“They’re fighting,” Colonel Rivera says. “Their forces are concentrated on the east coast. They’re trying to stop the knife in the gut, so to speak, that Omega’s pushing towards the west. The west coast is ours to defend, and we need your help.”

I lick my lips, my worst fears confirmed.

The east coast is gone. Omega is coming.

“You want us to come to Fresno,” I say.

“Yes. We need you.”

I look at Chris. What do we do? Haven’t we been waiting – no, praying – for help from the United States military? I didn’t expect them to be asking us for help.

Silence. No one says a word. Angela appears to be thinking very hard about the Colonel’s words. Dad and Colonel Buckley look at each other. I try to gauge Chris’s expression, but he’s impossible to read. And then there’s me. What do I want to do?

What do I need to do?

“I’m in,” Chris says solemnly.

“So am I,” Angela adds.

“I’m not,” Commander Buckley interjects. “Our first priority is to keep the mountains secure, not to mention protect the mountain community.”

“I agree with Buckley,” Commander Jones says. “Frank?”

Dad stares at the floor for a long minute.

“I can offer some of my men, but I’ll stay,” he says at last. “My duty is to protect these people, and to protect the mountains. That’s why I started the Rangers.”

“We will all contribute,” Angela clarifies, turning to Colonel Rivera. “But not all of us. Chris and I will join you. Jones, Buckley and Hart will remain here.”

I shift from foot to foot. Nobody asked me, did they?

“I’ll go,” I say.

Dad looks up sharply.

I bite my lip. Was that impulsive? No. The National Guard needs our help. The country needs our help. And that’s what I’m going to do.

I look at Dad. His face is grim. He looks down and away.

And then it dawns me.

If I leave, I’ll be separated from my father.

Again.