by Summer Lane
“This is what the world looks like now,” she says. “Give us your allegiance or die.”
There is no amusement in her voice now. She is dead serious.
“There will be no surrender or alliance,” Chris replies firmly. He speaks for all of us—none of want to assimilate into Omega’s forces. Ever. “We will continue to fight until we have defeated you and you leave with your tail between your legs, like a terrified dog.”
Veronica’s lips twitch, and she sets the remote down on the chair.
“You have tested my patience long enough,” she says. “You have chosen death.”
She nods at Harry, then sits down, staring out the window. The guards move to drag us out, roughly grabbing my wrists and yanking me out of the chair.
“Madame Chancellor,” Harry says quietly. “If I may …”
“You may not,” she hisses.
“But Madame, you will incite the militias’ anger by killing them. They’re well-known leaders, public figures …”
“YES.” Veronica rises to her feet, her voice a fevered pitch. “Let the militias know that their foolish rebellion has succeeded in making possible the death of their beloved ragtag leaders. Let them understand that this, too, will be their end.”
Harry bows his head, then turns on his heel and leads us out of the room, back toward the cell block. They return the three of us to the same room, throwing us inside like sacks of flour. I land on my shoulder, wincing, and Harry says, “What is wrong with all of you? You had a chance to save yourselves—and you chose death. You’re all fools.”
“No,” I reply. “We actually stand for something, unlike you. I should have killed you a long time ago.”
Harry winces, then steels his expression.
“You’ve brought this on yourself,” he growls.
And then he is gone, leaving Uriah, Chris, and me in the dim, empty room. Our wrists are cuffed together. I huddle into the corner of the room, strands of hair falling around my face.
So, our execution day has come at last.
We put up a good fight. I am surprised that I am not panicked at the prospect of our impending death. Maybe it’s merely because I am so tired, completely spent. To die simply means to be released from the burden of leadership that Chris and I carry in this war. It simply means that we will no longer have to watch the death of our friends or our families.
You’ll never get married,my mind whispers. You’ll never have children. You’ll never see peace after this war or the hope that the militias’ victory will bring.
I scoff at my own thoughts.
At this point, there is no guarantee that the militias will win.
There is no guarantee of anything.
“So, this is it?” Uriah says, angry. “We sit here and wait to die?”
“If you have any grand escape plans, I’m all ears,” I mutter.
“We can’t go out like this,” Uriah says. “We’re so close.”
I shoot him a warning look. This cell could be bugged—and Omega can never find out about the nukes. Never.
The RV with Admiral Boyd’s chopper,I think. It’s today.
We’re missing it. He will assume we’re dead, unless …
“Have you seen any of the others?” I ask.
“No,” Chris answers. “I think we’re the lucky three that got captured. Everyone else must have gotten away.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
If just one of the team is left on the island, they will get to the RV point and tell Boyd about the nukes, and about what happened.
But they don’t know how much Omega has been watching us,I realize, shuddering. This whole time, we thought we were being smart, slipping through the shadows on the island …
Time passes slowly in the cell. We can do nothing but sit and wait in silence until Judgment Day arrives. Veronica might have us executed today—maybe years from now. It would be just like her, honestly, to drag out our imprisonment for years and years, numbing our existence until death seems to be a blessing in comparison to the stale life we are living in a cell.
Chris sits close to me, and I lean my head on his shoulder.
The warmth of his body and the steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath reminds me how very much alive we are—and how very much death will change everything.
I am ready to die,I think. I have suffered enough. I can accept this.
I feel a peaceful stillness in my heart.
This is something I can’t survive. But it is something I can accept.
***
I am sitting on the edge of a patio chair, looking across a green, manicured front lawn. A car sits in the driveway—shiny and new. I balance a chubby, cherub-cheeked toddler on the tip of my knee. He laughs and nuzzles his small face to my chest. I smile, feeling warmth and happiness inside me, as Chris gets out of the car wearing a slick blue suit.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Good. The baby keeps saying ‘Daddy.’” I roll my eyes. “Such a daddy’s boy.”
“Of course.” Chris hoists the toddler into his arms, and I fall in love with him all over again. There is something about seeing the man I love with my child that fills my heart to the bursting point with contentment.
Chris sits on the chair beside mine, and we look across the quaint neighborhood. People are walking their dogs, sprinklers are watering flowers, trees sway gently in the wind with the slight breeze.
It is a beautiful dream.
It is a fantasy that is not meant to be.
***
I snap out of the dream. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and I quickly smear them away. The harsh truth of death beats down on me all over again as I recount the dream in my head over and over again.
Even if we were to survive, I realize, our lives would never be so picture-perfect. The world has been destroyed. No one lives in cute neighborhoods anymore. Nobody worries about which school district they should move to for the sake of their newborn children. Chris would never work a normal nine-to-five job.
And me … a mother?
I shake the thoughts away. Thoughts of things that will never be.
The door opens, and I steel myself. Chris and Uriah snap awake, and I feel Chris tense beside me. Harry walks into the room, and his expression is grim.
“It’s time,” he says.
I swallow the fear that rises up in me, and I stand between Chris and Uriah as guards appear to whisk us out of the room.
My heartbeat. It thunders. I break into a cold sweat.
I feel sick.
Suck it up, Cassidy, I tell myself. This is not how a warrior goes to her death.
We walk in a single-file line, Chris in front, me second, and Uriah last. We are flanked by guards on all sides, led by Harry. We streak down the hallway outside, and I assume they are bringing us on deck for an execution in front of the other Omega troops onboard.
Why not? It’s in Veronica’s blood to make everything dramatic.
We climb rows and rows of metal stairs until, at last, we break onto the deck. I am shocked by the sheer size of the vessel. It is an aircraft carrier, but it is twice the size of the Roberta. Omega fighter jets and choppers line the deck. Omega troopers scurry around like ants. Some of them slow to watch us pass, some of them make snide comments—all in Chinese—and others ignore us altogether, focused on their current tasks.
At the top of the control tower on deck, a large Omega flag flutters in the breeze.
I sense that something is off because I don’t see Veronica, and I know that Veronica would love to see us executed. She’s the kind of woman who revels in the long, drawn-out kill. The kill that sends a message.
On the edge of the deck, an Omega helicopter is being readied for takeoff. It is black and sleek. It’s Omega’s version of a Black Hawk, but it is faster and smaller—they call it the Phoenix. The guards shove us inside the chopper, chain our wrists to the metal rungs on the floor, and step outside the aircraft.
Harry says something to them, then turns to the pilot.
“We’re all ready here,” he says simply.
“For execution?” the pilot asks.
“Yes. The Chancellor wants them deposited on Scourge.”
The pilot nods. He is a Chinese man, and he glances at us from the cockpit. His expression is impossible to read. Harry climbs into the co-pilot’s seat, strapping himself in. He doesn’t look at us but keeps his gaze straight ahead.
The door slams shut, and we are left alone, chained inside the chopper.
Someone shouts in Chinese outside. The radio begins to go wild.
The pilot yells something to Harry—something also in Chinese—and Harry replies, “Just do it!”
The blades fire up, the rotor wash whipping air across the deck. I crane to see out the small window in the door. Omega troops are rushing toward the chopper, fighting through the pressure of the blades, screaming at the pilot.
I look to Chris. He says nothing, but his breathing has quickened.
“We’re dead already,” Uriah remarks.
The pilot and Harry scream at each other, back and forth, as the chopper rises into the air, clearing the deck. I feel the drop in the pit of my stomach as it happens, and I’m thrown back as the chopper moves quickly through the sky. The sharp metal of the handcuffs slices into my skin, drawing blood.
“Harry, what’s going on?” I yell, demanding his attention.
He ignores me.
Boom, boom, boom.
I feel the beat of the blades and the pockets of turbulence. We are jolted and jostled. I can see the control panel in the pilot’s cockpit glowing red from here, blinking warnings and signals. If this chopper goes down, there’s really no hope for us … we’ll die, chained to the chopper, unable to escape as the crushing depths of the oceans drown us.
“JUST KEEP GOING!” Harry screams, bursting out in English.
The pilot curses him, and we continue into the night. We keep this pace for maybe an hour, demanding answers, Harry yelling at us to shut up, the radio squawking with Chinese chatter, the chopper violently pitching and bumping. And then, I feel the chopper circling—quickly—and losing elevation. I look out the window, but there is nothing but black darkness.
We spiral into a circular landing. I see a blur of stars and black shapes outside, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. I look away and close my eyes, praying, praying, praying that whatever is coming will be quick.
Bam!
The chopper hits something. The ground? We land. It is so harsh and so sudden that the entire aircraft quakes with the impact of it. The blades slow, and there is nothing but the dim orange glow of the interior lights.
I catch my breath, confused and shaken.
“You okay?” Chris asks.
I nod.
Other than my abused wrists, that is. There is a sudden stillness as the blades wind down. Harry rises from the co-pilot’s seat and walks toward us, pale. His forehead is bleeding heavily.
“What the hell is going on, Lydell?” Uriah demands.
Harry smiles.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
Chapter Seventeen
Harry’s words echo in the chopper. The pilot stumbles out of the cockpit. He is a young Chinese man—very handsome, with porcelain skin.
“Talk later,” he says. “Move now.”
Harry flips a key out of his pocket and tosses it to Chris. He catches it with his one free hand. There is no hesitation—not even amidst this massive confusion—and he unlocks his cuffs. I’m next, and then Uriah is free, too. Blood streams down my arms from cut wrists, but they will heal quickly.
I stagger to my feet, still dizzy from the corkscrew landing. The pilot slams the door open and jumps outside. I smell something sweet—almost perfumed. I realize that we are in Hawaii again. I step out onto the dark earth. We have practically landed in the middle of the jungle. Trees tower above us, and the night sky twinkles with stars.
“Move, quickly,” the pilot warns. “They will send the drones. They will be looking for our heat signatures. We have to get underground.”
Chris jumps from the chopper, the picture of calm serenity. And then he turns around, grabs Harry by the throat, and holds him against the door of the chopper. Harry chokes and gasps, struggling to break free, but there is no point. Chris is much stronger than Harry is.
“What is this, Lydell?” Chris grits. “Is this some kind of a trap?”
“No!” Harry chokes. “Please, let me explain. I’m begging you … this is … an escape …”
“Chris, let him talk,” I interject.
“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” Chris says. “Just one.”
“Because I just saved … your … lives!” Harry gasps.
The eerie similarity to something that happened between Chris and Harry so long ago, during the early days of the Freedom Fighters, looms in my memory.
Chris, holding Harry by the throat … threatening to kill him. Me, begging him to have mercy, even after everything Harry had done to Sophia and me in Vika Kamaneva’s cruel labor camp …
Life repeats itself.
“Chris, let him explain,” I say.
Even my burning hatred for Harry Lydell is not enough to overcome the thirst to understand why we are here—why an Omega pilot would partner with Harry Lydell, disobey orders and smuggle enemy prisoners to safety.
Chris holds Harry there for a long moment.
He drops him.
Harry hacks and coughs on his hands and knees, looking up at us.
“I’ll explain everything,” he says hoarsely. “But we have to keep moving. Ling is right—they will come for us. They’ll waste no time.”
The pilot looks expectantly at us, shedding his Omega equipment, crushing it underfoot.
“They can track us,” he says.
He takes a knife from his boot and slices the corner of his wrist open. He holds a tiny, glimmering disk in his hand. “But not anymore,” he continues.
He smashes it under the heel of his boot.
A chip tracker? That’s how they keep track of troop movements?
“Let’s go,” Uriah says. “Now.”
He, like me, realizes that an explanation will come—right now, we have an opportunity to escape, and we need to take it.
So, we do. We plunge into the jungle, not knowing where we are or where we’re going.
“We are near Honokaa,” Ling breathes, hacking through leaves. “We are in the Waimea Valley. There are no survivors here—it’s abandoned. We will be safe.”
“Why did you do this, Harry?” I ask.
Harry struggles to keep up with us.
“Survival,” he replies grimly.
He comes to a total halt. A venomous buzzing roars overhead.
“Quickly, this way!” Ling shouts.
We follow him. I can’t believe that I’m doing it—following an Omega pilot, of all people. But what choice do we have? Besides, he seems to want to get away from Omega as much as we do right now.
So, he takes the lead, and we slide down a steep embankment. At the bottom, there are small cavities in the ground. “Lava tubes,” Ling explains. “Get inside. It will hide our heat signatures.”
I don’t hesitate. I crawl inside the damp, muddy cavern, going as far as I can into the utter darkness. “This is good,” Ling says. “We’re safe, for now.”
“Are you sure?” I breathe.
“Very sure.”
The hissing groan of Omega drones shakes the ground. I close my eyes and find Chris’s hand in the dark. His fingers close around mine, and I pray silently that we will get out of here alive.
“Okay, Harry,” Uriah says grimly. “What’s your story?”
“Veronica was going to execute all of you,” Harry replies. His voice is so refined and controlled—even here, in a wet lava tube. “She had no further use for you. You’ve caused her nothing but trouble, after all.”
“And?” Chris demands.
“Things between the Chancellor and myself have not been easy since San Francisco,” Harry continues. Here, his voice wavers. “She punished me. Thoroughly, as I expected she would. She forced me to do things that I …”
He trails off, then lapses into silence.
Harry Lydell … broken at last? I don’t buy it.
“Get to the point, Harry,” I say, brittle.
“I’ve all but killed myself to regain favor in her eyes,” Harry explains. “But Veronica is as cruel as she is cunning. She was never going to give me the position of District Prefect again … unless. I was promised that I would be made a Governor of the New Order in California if I could locate the Freedom Fighters. We did, of course. We traced you to Hawaii.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Veronica didn’t hold up her end of the bargain.”
“She lied to me again,” Harry replies. “She told me that it was just a test to see how far I was willing to go—how hard I was willing to work—to prove myself loyal.” Harry slams his fist on the floor. “She was never going to give me what I wanted. Not after San Francisco.”
“So, you decided to help us escape?” I ask. “Because your moral compass finally started working again or because you were mad at Veronica for being a lying, deceitful coward?”
Just like you,I think bitterly.
“I want revenge,” Harry says. “This is a good opportunity. Taking you away from Omega will infuriate her—it will make the New Order movement weaker. Her ultimate aim is to kill every militia leader in North America in order to discourage further rebellions. Kill their spirit, you know.”
I can’t see Harry’s face, but I hear frustration in his voice—defeat, even. Harry, so incredibly proud, arrogant, and self-righteous. Even he could not withstand the cruel treatment of Omega without breaking down.
I think on this for a while.
Nothing Harry has ever done has been lacking an ulterior motive. If he is seeking vengeance on Veronica Klaus, you can bet that he believes he can get something out of us, too. Something that goes a little deeper than the old eye for an eye adage.
