Raging Light

by Kyla Stone

  “Hypothetically, we could disarm all the pulse guns within the Phantom’s line of fire,” Logan said. “One person goes in while another provides cover.”

  Micah shook his head, dread filling his gut like lead. “There are still over twenty combat-trained soldiers, most with knives, and a few with regular handguns. It’s nearly impossible—”

  “I’ll do it,” Silas said without hesitation.

  “Silas, no!” Micah said, horrified. “It’s a death wish. It’s suicide!”

  Silas pointed to where the cannon had just fired again. The side of a building several Patriots had taken cover behind was gone, a gaping, smoking crater in its place. At least seven Patriot bodies lay in the rubble.

  “That cannon will win the war all by itself,” Silas said. “I can do this. I can take it down.”

  A fierce, desperate pride rose within Micah. He blinked back the moisture blurring his vision. “Silas, are you in danger of becoming a hero?”

  “There’s never been any danger of that.” Silas shook his head, that familiar insolent smirk curving his lips. “Are you going to help me with this beast or not?”

  24

  Amelia

  Amelia paused at the opened door to her father’s office. Her pulse thudded in her ears. The smooth metal of Micah’s gun slipped in her damp hands. Carefully, silently, she peered between the crack of the frame and the edge of the opened door between the hinges.

  President Sloane was inside. She bent over several opened drawers, their contents spread across the desktop. She held a thumb drive in her palm. Bale stood beside her, feet planted, pulse gun leveled at the doorway, ready to blast anything that moved.

  “This is it!” President Sloane cried. Bale glanced at her.

  This was Amelia’s chance. Maybe her only chance.

  She slipped around the door and stood in the opened doorway, planting her feet the way Jericho had taught her, the muzzle of Micah’s gun aimed straight at President Sloane’s black heart.

  Bale’s gaze snapped to hers. His jaw went rigid. He pointed his pulse gun at her face. “Drop the weapon now!” he barked.

  Amelia kept the gun trained on the president. Her finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t move!”

  President Sloane spun and froze. Her face contorted, a dozen emotions flashing across her face before settling into an expression of mild disappointment. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Amelia! What in the world are you doing?”

  “Drop your gun, or I shoot the president!” Amelia shouted at Bale.

  “Do as she says,” Sloane said calmly. “I’m sure we’ll get this little misunderstanding ironed out in a moment.”

  Bale stared at her, his beady eyes full of venom. Slowly, he lowered his pulse rifle. He took his sidearm from its holster and placed it on top of the rifle. His movements were languid and precise as a panther’s. He never took his eyes off her.

  She repressed a shudder. Just like with any predator, she couldn’t show her fear.

  President Sloane picked up a second thumb drive from the desk. Amelia recognized her own name written on the front in a familiar scrawl.

  Her heart contracted. The gift her father had left for her. He hadn’t lied.

  “I believe that’s mine.”

  President Sloane slid both thumb drives into her pocket. She gave Amelia a beaming, presidential smile. “My darling, you must be mistaken. I know this has been a trying day for all of us, you especially. I think I’ve been more than accommodating. Why don’t you drop that gun, and we can discuss whatever is troubling you?”

  Amelia noticed the shiny black medical cooler on the desk beside President Sloane’s elbow. “What are you doing with that? Haven’t you given yourself the vaccine already?”

  “Of course,” Sloane said with a tight smile. “But you can never have too much of a stockpile. Just in case.”

  “You’re running away.”

  “I’m finding a safe place. As you should too, my dear. I’m heading for the underground emergency bunker beneath city hall until this nonsense is all over. Come with me. You and your mother. You’ll be safe there.”

  “I’m not running. I’m not hiding. And neither are you.”

  Sloane clenched her jaw, struggling to maintain her facade. But the flash of rancor in her eyes betrayed her. “Then why, pray tell, are you here, pointing a gun at your president? An act of treason, I might add.”

  Sloane would order Bale to kill Amelia in a heartbeat and not feel a sliver of guilt over it. “Micah and Silas. My brother. My friend. You told me you would help them. That you would bring them here and give them the cure. Instead, you ordered your goons to hunt them down. You tried to kill them.”

  President Sloane clucked her tongue. “My dear, I’m so sorry to be the one to deliver bad news, but your friends were fraternizing with known dissidents. We’ve been working to pin them down for quite some time. They did this, you know. They blew up the platform. They betrayed you, left you to die. But I swear to you, we will find them. We will bring these terrorists to justice.”

  “I’ve had enough of your lies.” Behind her back, Amelia activated the hovercam, keeping the gun aimed at Sloane with her right hand. The hovercam flitted into the air somewhere behind her. She took a swift step into the office to draw Sloane’s attention to her, not the camera. “Surrender yourself now. No one else has to die.”

  Sloane shook her head with a low chuckle. “I like you, Amelia. I really do. Such verve. Such passion.”

  “You don’t fool me. Not anymore. You’re no different than my father. You wanted me meek and docile. You wanted to control me like a pretty, perfect little puppet. But I know the truth.”

  President Sloane paused, considering her. She raised her eyebrows, trying to maintain a look of disinterested indulgence. But her mask was cracking. The right corner of her mouth twitched. The skin around her eyes was pulled taut. “What truth might that be, dear?”

  “That my father isn’t the only person responsible for the Hydra virus. You’re the true mastermind behind it all.”

  Sloane’s face blanched. She picked up the medical cooler and forced a brittle smile. “I’m not sure what little game you’re playing at, but this is clearly not the time.” She took a step toward Amelia.

  Amelia lifted the gun. “I said don’t move.”

  Sloane’s eyes slid to the right, to Bale. He still stood ten feet from Amelia, or maybe he was closer now. Eight feet? Seven? He was a hulking beast of a man, his muscles straining against his suit coat, his hands flexing, watching, waiting patiently for Amelia to make a mistake, for his chance to lunge in for the kill.

  Amelia wasn’t going to make a mistake.

  If she did, she was dead.

  25

  Micah

  Logan handed Micah an extra magazine. “You’ll need it. As soon as you activate the Phantom, find shelter closer to the tower and cover Silas. It’s your only shot.”

  Micah turned to Logan. “What about you? I don’t want to just leave you.”

  Logan lifted his rifle with a wince. “Don’t worry about me. I told you, I’ll be fine. I’ve got plenty of ammo still. I’ll cover you.”

  Micah and Silas darted out from behind the wall. Bullets and pulse blasts sailed over their heads. They crouched on the right side of the Phantom and shoved it with all their might. It moved half an inch. Sweat broke out on Micah’s forehead. “Again.”

  They heaved against it, muscles straining. The Phantom moved another inch. A bullet pinged against the end of the weapon. Its armor protected it, but every second they remained out here, they were exposed.

  The third time they pushed, the Phantom’s giant barrel lined up with the tower. Micah whispered a prayer as he slammed his fist down on the power button. Please, let this work.

  The Phantom hummed. An invisible wave streaked toward the soldiers, shimmering the air for the briefest moment. The light blinked green.

  Micah pointed to a Humvee carcass fifty yards a
head. Silas nodded. They raced across the grounds, dodging stray bullets and fallen bodies. The soldiers guarding the tower fired at them.

  Nothing happened. Their pulse guns were as useless as toys.

  Micah and Silas threw themselves behind the Humvee, breathing hard.

  “Silas,” Micah started, a tightness in his chest. There was too much to say and too little time. “Thank you.”

  “Tell my sister—” Silas’s voice faltered for a moment. He scrubbed ash and dirt off his face with the back of his hand. He gave Micah a wry smile. “Never mind. She knows.”

  In a heartbeat, he was gone, running full tilt at the soldiers and screaming at the top of his lungs. The soldiers kept firing their pulse guns uselessly. A few just looked at their weapons, confused. Several shouted angrily, pointing at the Phantom. They threw their fried pulse guns aside.

  Silas leapt into the fray, a spinning, whirling dervish of bullets. Soldiers fell around him like sacks of flour. When his rifle ran out, he hurled it at a soldier, knocking him to the ground. He pounced on him, blade in hand, and stabbed him in the stomach.

  A soldier behind Silas jerked a handgun from the holster at his waist. Micah shot him before he could pull the trigger. Silas turned, leaned down, and grasped the handgun from the dying soldier’s twitching hand. In one fluid motion, he spun and took out two more soldiers closing in on him.

  Several soldiers took cover behind a concrete barrier. At least two of them had handguns. They peered over the top and side, popping off shots at Silas. Micah took several slow, calming breaths, braced his rifle against the side of one of the Humvee’s wheels, and adjusted the zoom on his scope. “Come on, come on.”

  A soldier’s head popped up. Micah shot him in the face. He ignored the sickening wrench in his gut, the bitter taste of shame on his tongue. There was no time for empathy now.

  Silas whirled and took out the second shooter before he could get off another shot.

  One soldier discarded his pulse gun, jumped over the concrete barrier, and raced for a semi-automatic rifle lying next to a dead Patriot several yards away.

  Micah aimed and fired a five-shot burst, but in the smoke and haze and swirling snow, the bullets sailed harmlessly over the soldier’s head. The soldier grabbed the rifle and ran toward Silas, who had his back turned. He was busy hacking his way toward the metal door leading to the rampart.

  “Silas!” Micah screamed.

  Silas ducked. A bullet grazed the side of his head. Micah saw blood.

  He sucked in his breath. How badly was Silas hurt? There was no time to worry. A precious second passed. The soldier aimed at Silas, about to take the kill shot.

  Micah fired again. The first bullet smashed the soldier’s helmet. The second and third hit him in the small of his back. He went down.

  Micah peered around the Humvee’s wheel well, searching frantically for Silas. There were so many bodies. So much blood. He couldn’t see through all the smoke, dust, and snow.

  “Watch out!” Logan cried from far behind him.

  Micah jerked back behind the vehicle as a pulse blast struck the hood above his head. A cannon blast rattled his teeth. He edged the muzzle of his rifle around the front grill and looked through the scope.

  A lone figure stood in the swirling smoke. The figure was stained with dirt and blood. It leaned down, grabbed a downed soldier, who was moving slowly, mortally wounded but alive. The figure dragged the soldier to the door, lifted him with one arm, and slapped his palm against the biometric scanner.

  The door swung open.

  The figure turned, flashed Micah the finger, and slipped inside.

  26

  Amelia

  “Offer these people the vaccine,” Amelia said to President Sloane, forcing her voice to remain calm, controlled. “That’s what they want. You can end this right now.”

  Sloane’s lip curled. Gone was the sweet but authoritative grandmotherly vibe. Her expression was hard as stone, her eyes vicious. “I wouldn’t give the cure to those terrorists if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You turned them into this. You made regular people desperate. You caused this.”

  President Sloane raised her chin. “I have only had the best interests of my people at heart.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “No, dear. You’re the one who’s wrong. My only concern has always been the citizens of this great country. I love them like my own children. Unlike your father.”

  “You knew about the vidfeed. You let Micah and Silas break into the network and release Declan’s confession.”

  President Sloane offered a slick, oily smile. “Of course, dear. Nothing happens in the Sanctuary that I’m not aware of. Nothing.”

  Amelia sucked in her breath.

  President Sloane made a flicking motion with her finger. A blur of movement streaked out of the corner of her eye.

  She didn’t even have a chance to feel afraid.

  Bale lunged at her. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle plowed into her, knocking her off her feet and sending her sprawling against the tile floor. Sparks of pain exploded against her skull. Her gun skittered away.

  Bale’s enormous hands closed around her throat. It felt like he was cracking her bones, snapping tendons, crushing her windpipe. She couldn’t breathe. She punched his arms and chest with her fists. It was as useless and futile as striking a mountain.

  “My dearest girl.” President Sloane squatted down beside her. “I didn’t want this. I never wanted this. I tried so hard to help you. I treated you like a princess. I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me? With betrayal?” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Bad blood begets bad blood. You are your father’s daughter. He betrayed me, too. Somehow, he got to you.”

  Bale lessened his vice-like grip on her neck only enough for her to stay conscious, so she could hear every poisonous word. She heaved a raw, strangled breath. Darkness hovered at the corners of her vision.

  Sloane tilted her head, her eyes filled with pity. “This never had to happen.”

  “I—know—what—you—are,” Amelia rasped.

  Sloane’s face hardened. “You’re just a child. You don’t know what it takes to lead.”

  “I know—what you did.”

  President Sloane sniffed. “We only did what we had to do. The Coalition could only do so much behind the scenes. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t working. The country was falling to pieces. State and federal governments pulling their police and military resources out of rural town after rural town. Abandoning them to the thugs and gangs and warlords—to the terrorists.

  “The inefficient handling of the crop blight crisis. The bungling of the bat-flu epidemic. Something had to be done. New leadership had to arise, or there would be nothing to fight for but ashes.

  “Revolution is always bloody, my girl. The people were almost ready to beg us to take over. To give them the promise of safety they were desperate for. To return America to her former state, a bastion of power and strength and glory. Almost, but not quite.”

  Bale’s fingers were steel talons gripping Amelia’s throat. She clawed at his hands, ripped at his flesh, but there was no give. He simply stared at her impassively. Neither empathy nor pleasure shone in his dark, beady eyes.

  She was nothing to him. Her life was nothing. Neutralizing threats was his job. She was simply a threat to dispose of.

  “So you see,” Sloane continued, “we had to show the people what they needed. They needed us. They needed safety, unity, strength. They needed a savior. The Coalition did what we had to do. The Hydra virus was a means to an end. There are always unexpected, unfortunate side effects. In this case, the collateral damage was steeper than anticipated. But this country is nothing if not resilient.”

  Her lips formed a cold, calculating smile. “We will save not only this country, but the world. And we will rule over it all. All because of you, Amelia. America thanks you for your service.”

  Sloane rose gracefully to h
er feet. Her heels clicked across the tile floor. Amelia watched her stride toward the door with dimming vision. A sickening sensation spread up her arms, flooded her belly.

  Sloane paused, half-turning. “We have dozens of samples of her blood and tissue. The girl is no longer an asset.” She spoke as if from a great distance. “Kill her.”

  27

  Gabriel

  Gabriel raced across the square in a crouch to make himself less of a target. He dodged between transports, the burning husks of fallen drones, and smoking buildings. He almost slipped several times on the thin layer of snow filming the flattened grass. The veil of falling snow only made it more difficult to see. The bitter cold stung his face and throat.

  He took cover behind a parked transport, squatting behind the front right tire to slap in a fresh magazine. He wasn’t headed for the capitol. He was headed for BioGen.

  He knew Amelia. He knew she would rather die than hide away while her friends risked their lives. She’d told Micah that Sloane was the key. It didn’t matter what she’d promised Micah; Gabriel knew she’d gone after Sloane herself.

  “Sir!”

  He half-turned, gun rising, heart in his throat. A young guy—Gabriel vaguely remembered him from the Patriots’ compound, Bao Nguyen—limped toward him, blood leaking from a bullet wound in his thigh. He was in the open, far too exposed.

  “Get behind cover!” Gabriel shouted.

  Gunfire erupted to his right. A dozen figures materialized in the haze. Enemy soldiers rushed toward them.

  Gabriel whirled and popped off several shots. Three soldiers crumpled. He fired another short burst, taking down two soldiers invading his western flank.

  Incoming fire drove him back behind cover.

  Nguyen still stood there, in the middle of the battlefield, stunned and frozen.

  “Nguyen!” he shouted, gesturing wildly. “Duck!”