by Summer Lane
And then I’ll kill him, like I should have long ago. I should have seen this coming.
I slip out the back of the building, swathed in black, as silent as a breeze. I am just about to cross over the boundary of the property when I hear footsteps, and I turn.
“Don’t do it,” Uriah says. “I won’t let you.”
He is a mere shadow against the moonlight, and my heart aches.
“Do what?” I ask.
“You know what.”
“Just let me go. I’ll be back.”
Uriah takes a step closer, and I instinctively grab the gun on my hip, holding it level with his chest. Desperation makes me do this – desperation and near delirium, the knowledge of our impending doom and the absolute necessity of my mission.
“Let me go,” I warn again. “I mean it.”
“Cassidy, put the gun down. You’re not going to shoot me.”
“I might.”
“Doubtful.” He lifts his palms up. “We’re comrades. You can’t shoot me.”
“I can wound you.” I lower the muzzle of the gun, pointing it at his leg. “And you know I won’t miss.”
I won’t shoot him – but I want him to let me go. He has to.
“I don’t think you’ve ever taken a bad shot in your life.” Uriah takes a step closer. “Cassidy, listen to me. What you’re about to do…you don’t have to do it alone.”
I lick my lips.
“Banner has to die,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I have to be the one to do it.”
“No, you don’t. Let me go with you.”
“NO!”
My voice comes out broken, like a cry for help.
“It’s my burden to bear!” I say, trembling. “Nobody else can know. They wouldn’t believe it. He has to die quietly. And they can’t know it was me.”
“You know I would gladly do this for you. All you have to do is ask.”
“I know you would! But I’m not asking you to.” I shake my head. “Uriah, Banner has to die, and I have to be the one to do it, because he’ll never see it coming. And because I want to kill him. Don’t you get that? It has to be me.”
In some twisted way, killing Banner will avenge Chris’s death, and it will avenge the death of the militiamen who have died up and down the state today at the hands of Sector 13’s forces, and General Beckham, who gave his life protecting his country.
Uriah doesn’t look convinced.
But as he stands there, etched against the dark sky, forever my friend in the shadows, I realize that he is not going to let me go. He’s never going to allow me to simply walk away…unless I convince him that he must. I holster my gun and, heart pounding against my ribcage, I cross the distance between us and slide my hands over his jaw, slipping my fingers behind his neck, pulling his mouth to my lips. I kiss him fiercely, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, and then I feel his arms embrace me. He returns the heat of my kiss like a man who has been drowning and is given the opportunity to breathe again. He locks me in and digs his fingers into the skin of my hips, and I know that I am giving him something that he has desperately wanted for years.
There is power in his touch, and the longer we kiss, the more dizzying it becomes. I am overwhelmed with the intimacy of it. He is not gentle with me – he’s rough and forceful, passionate, and I fall into it. This is a kiss worthy of a blood-soaked battlefield, a kiss born out of tragedy and misery and death and loss. A kiss that has been long in the making, one that I have strenuously avoided, and he has torturously waited for.
At last, after what seems like hours, I rest my nose against his and I can feel his thundering heartbeat against my breast.
“Let me go,” I tell him. “Let me do this my way. I’ll come back to you. I promise.”
He says nothing for a long while, tracing his finger on the soft skin of my bottom lip.
“I must be a fool,” he murmurs. “I’m so in love with you, I’d step in front of a moving train if you asked me to.” He slowly kisses my forehead. “I’ll let you go. But if you’re not back in two days, I’m coming to find you.”
The war could be over in two days, I think grimly.
“I’ll be back,” I promise.
“You’d better be.” He kisses me again. “When this is over…”
“No. Don’t think that far ahead.” I place my finger on his mouth. “Just hold down the fort here. We’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here. Okay?”
He nods.
I feel a swell of affection and gratitude. Uriah True. The only man who fully understands what I need to do, and why I need to do it. The only man who would allow me to bring to fruition the awful task that has fallen into my lap.
I kiss him one last time. I savor the taste of it, and I admit something.
“I love you,” I whisper.
I say the words because they are true, and because I’m afraid that I am not going to make it back alive, and I would never forgive myself if I died without telling Uriah that I do, in fact, have feelings for him. I don’t want him to survive here on this earth without knowing the truth.
He smiles – and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen him do.
“I know,” he replies. “You always have.”
Have I?
I lick my lips, and then I slowly step away.
“Two days,” he says.
“Two days,” I repeat.
He watches me leave, flushed with color, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. I vanish into the darkness, leaving Uriah behind, and for the first time since Chris’s death, I feel neither guilt nor pain nor fear.
I simply feel focused.
If Uriah is still alive when I return – if Omega does not destroy us all…
I stop myself from thinking ahead.
I follow my own advice, and I push thoughts of tomorrow away.
I pick up the pace and I head out of the city.
I head toward the mountains, the place where I am most at home, and the place where I will end President Banner’s life like he ended Chris Young’s.
Chapter Twenty-One
On the edge of the city, I commandeer a truck and take off toward the mountains, driving through the night, my fingers firmly clamped around the wheel. As the Sierra Nevada Mountains come into the view, I can see the snow-capped peaks rising above the clouds. I feel a small sense of peace then, passing abandoned orchards.
Home. This is my home.
More my home than Culver City or Los Angeles ever was.
This is where it all started – where I learned to fight and love and lead.
As I drive, I find myself passing through several abandoned towns – there are no traces of survivors. Unlike when I first began fighting with the militias in Squaw Valley, the refugees are now gone, cleared out. Most of them are either dead or on the coastline with the militias, part of the push to keep Omega out.
I come to a screeching halt in front of an empty school. It’s an elementary school, barbed wire fencing erected around the perimeter. The fencing is destroyed and the school itself is blackened and abandoned.
Kamaneva’s labor camp, I think, chilled.
God, the last time I saw this place, Sophia and I were being rescued by the Freedom Fighters…I look at the orange trees surrounding the school, overgrown and disheveled, weeds growing taller than my head.
The windows have been broken, and the very road where Kamaneva almost executed me is filled with piles of rotting trash. I bite my lip, and then I smile because, on the exterior of the administration building, I see the handiwork of the Freedom Fighters.
The militia name is spray-painted on the wall in massive lettering. It faded from sunshine and rain, but it is still there. It reminds me that in the scheme of things, my time here really wasn’t so long ago.
I look at the school for a few moments longer and then continue, somewhat jarred by seeing it again. So many memories…where I first met Sophia Rodriguez and Harry Lyde
ll. Both of them my friends at one point…both of them traitors…and now, both of them are dead.
I stop to siphon gas from vehicles scattered alongside the empty country roads. I keep my eyes peeled for any signs of movement, but it looks like the area has been completely cleared out. And so I continue on my solitary journey, my chest tightening with every mile.
I think of Chris and I think of my father. I think of Uriah, too. How all of us first connected here – especially in Camp Freedom. It sickens me to think that President Banner – Chancellor Damien Ramses – has corrupted it, and I vow once again to stay strong and be successful on this solitary and perhaps final mission of mine.
As I hit Highway 180, winding slowly into the foothills and looking at the foliage around me, I feel like a young, scared militia soldier again. No rank, no nothing. Just a girl trying to fight back, doing her best to keep up with the guys, and then beating them at their own game.
I see spots along the road as I drive and I smile, memories reeling through my head. I get flashes of laughing raucously with Sophia, of kissing Chris near the creek, of practicing my aim with my rifle by shooting tin cans on rocks…I remember talking with Harry Lydell, trying to forgive him even after he betrayed me to Kamaneva and almost got me killed…I remember how scared he was, and how scared I was, and how I limped back to the hills after he betrayed us yet again, and Desmond nursed my shoulder after being shot in battle.
God, why do I have to remember every detail? I wonder. It’s just so painful to think about. I have to let it go.
Yet I know I can’t. These memories and my history here is a part of who I am now. It’s part of the history of this country, too. Like it or not – win or lose – this place will be known as the birthplace of the militia movement, and it will always feel like home to me.
I gain elevation and I break into the higher mountains, right at the snowline. I ease the truck to the side of the road and hide it in the trees, continuing on foot. The air is cold and crisp here, and the smell of mountain dirt and fresh pine fills me with contentment despite my raw nerves.
It’s nearly sunrise – and the trees are like black statues in the blue-gray of twilight. I breeze through the forest, climbing. Smatterings of snow are piled here and there. I see a few animal tracks, but no real sign of people…yet.
As I get into the higher mountains, it’s easy for me to remember the path to Camp Freedom. The sun slowly rises, but it looks as if it might rain or at least lightly snow. Sure enough, thunder rolls and lightning flashes in the sky. I pull my hood over my head and keep going. It takes many hours, but I finally arrive at the border of Camp Freedom.
I sink into the foliage and note the presence of Sector 13 guards on patrol. There are only a few of them patrolling the perimeter of Camp Freedom. We are roughly one mile away from the camp entrance, and I know that they will be connected to the fort via radio.
I chew on my lower lip and flip my binoculars out of my pack, studying their vehicles. I see three vehicles and six guards. They are talking and laughing. One of them is sitting apart from the rest, looking bored.
I lean against a tree and assess the situation. If I take out the patrols, their failure to check in via radio or return within an hour or so will alert Sector 13’s men inside Camp Freedom that someone is trying to get inside. I have to be smarter than that, because I am only one person, and I can only do so much damage. My goal is to reach Banner alive so that I can at least kill him before I get shot.
If he doesn’t die, this country is in trouble. There will come a point when it will be too late to kill him, too obvious, and nobody will believe that he is a chancellor. So few people understand the depth of Omega, anyway.
Banner must die now. Today.
So I decide to be patient – not my strong suit, but in this situation, I’ll have to suck it up. That’s what Chris would want me to do. I settle in and watch the patrols and pull out some food, forcing myself to eat despite the sick feeling in my gut, the nervous anxiety welling up within me.
I can do this. I will do this.
For once, I need nobody but myself, and I am okay that.
I’m okay with the end.
***
The day passes and I use my time wisely. I rest and I plan out my moves, knowing that I can only plan so much when I have no idea what building I’ll find Banner in…but I have a thought. My guess is that he’s going to be in HQ, where we used to plan militia attacks on Omega. It’s the nicest building in the compound, and if Sector 13 really did rebuild Camp Freedom like Beckham said they did, I’m sure strategically, Banner would want to be located there. It’s central to the action yet hard to reach because it’s out in the open.
So I will wait until night.
As the time drags by, I pray that Monterey is holding up under the second wave of the Athena Strike. I know that Father Kareem can lead the city to victory for several more days before my men tire. I don’t doubt that. But I am worried about my friends, afraid that I will find one or all of them dead upon my return…if I return…which I probably won’t.
What will they think of me, once they find out where I’ve gone?
Vera will be angry. Manny will be angry.
If they find out.
They will wonder why I didn’t ask them to come with me.
Because this one is all on me, I think. This is my job. I have to do this.
Perhaps it’s strange to assume the responsibility, but I feel responsible for Banner’s rise to power. His infiltration is a black mark on my record, and I want it expunged.
Besides, if Chris were here…he’d kill Banner himself. I know he would.
By the time evening arrives, I am antsy to get moving. The longer I sit here, the more anxious I become, and the more imaginary scenarios of failure plague my brain. I check my gear and watch as a new set of patrols arrive to relieve the daytime guards of their duty. I stay tight and low and move swiftly through the forest, lingering in the shadows. I hear them talking as they switch places.
One of the vehicles that will take the relieved set of guards back to Camp Freedom is idling near the trees and I slip inside, rolling under the seat. My cheek is pressed against the floor. Footsteps hit the dirt and then one of the guards sits. His weight presses the seat against my head and I feel like I can’t breathe.
I force my body to remain calm and I survive with small half-breaths as the doors slam shut and someone jumps in the driver’s seat.
“Damn, it’s boring out here,” the driver says. “The patrols have literally nothing to look for. All the action is on the coastline right now.”
“I hear we missed the first wave,” the patrol sitting above me replies. “I guess the militias put up more of a fight than the big man thought. It’s pretty dicey out there.”
“The militias will die out soon,” the driver answers, and the vehicle begins to move. Every bump and brake squeezes the air out of my lungs and I can feel the sweat running down my neck.
“I bet you a hundred bucks the militias are eliminated in the next two days,” the patrol laughs. “They can only stand so long against Athena. I mean, they’re laughably outnumbered.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“Klaus is right. It’s almost too easy.”
“Klaus is always right. She’s smarter than the big man is…”
They continue to discuss the western front as I lay there, barely breathing, feeling as if the drive into Camp Freedom is taking an eternity. I can hear the driver talking to the guards at the front checkpoint, and then I know we are rolling into the fort and my heartbeat fires up.
I’m inside.
The driver parks the vehicle and the engine cuts out.
“Let’s go grab a drink and then hit the sack,” the driver says, stepping outside. “Not like there’s much else to do here anyway…”
The doors slam shut and their voices fade. I lay there for a few minutes, listening to the background sounds outside the vehicle. It’s dark, but that doesn’t
mean somebody isn’t watching.
Finally, after I decide it’s safe enough to move, I slowly inch my way from beneath the seats. I raise my head just enough to peek out the window, and I see the familiar buildings and trees of Camp Freedom. Everything has been rebuilt – or at least most of it has. There are Sector 13 patrols and guards loitering around the general store, but where I am – it’s parked in an unlit area near trees. We are near the staff circle of houses, where Margaret Young and her family lived when we first came to this place, before Jeff and John and Chris were killed…
I shake myself and roll to the other side of the car, slowly opening it. I crawl outside and quietly slip into the trees, fading into the shadows. I hear music in the distance and conclude that the dining hall is open. All in all, Sector 13’s work here is not only sloppy but lazy. While they have a lot of men inside the camp, they are loose and relaxed. They are so far removed from the front lines that they foolishly believe they are safe, and that Banner is well protected.
Or, I think, maybe Beckham deliberately planned for this place to be sloppy, because he planned to kill Banner himself.
This realization makes more sense to me, and I am convinced it’s the truth. I wind my way through the camp, feeling like a stranger in my own memory, like I’m walking through something that happened a long time ago, and I no longer belong here.
I see headquarters. It’s sitting slightly above the rest of the camp, lit from within, powered by a roaring generator. Heavily guarded, I know that this is where President Banner is. I do a quick assessment, realizing that there are roughly one hundred men here at Camp Freedom – all assigned to do nothing except protect Banner.
If I take headquarters, I can kill Banner…but I won’t make it out alive. There are too many men. If I go in, there’s no going out. I’m going to have to be smoother. I have to be able to reach Banner and at least try to give myself a way out.
I look toward the camp entrance: it’s the only way in and out of this place. If I can keep Banner from getting out, I’ll be able to take down a bigger chunk of his men before I actually reach him.
