by Kyla Stone
Willow, Finn, and Celeste were being treated in the infirmary for their wounds. Willow had awakened shortly after their arrival. She had several lacerations, a deep cut on her forehead, and a possible concussion, but she was lucky. She’d sustained no serious injuries from the explosion. Celeste had received a blood transfusion and stitches. Finn was still being examined.
“I know you would probably like nothing more than a good meal and a full night’s sleep,” General Reaver continued. “And I assure you, you will soon enough. However, Cleodora and her partner, Chen Li Jun, made great sacrifices to bring you to us. Chen willingly gave up his life. I hope you will respect those sacrifices.”
“Of course,” Amelia said demurely. Her short, choppy hair was tucked behind her ears. She sat ramrod straight, with perfect posture though she had to be as weary as Gabriel. She was as elegant as ever. “We are incredibly grateful to them both for saving our lives.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” said a man to Amelia’s right. His skin was distinctly olive-toned, with thick black brows connecting in the center of his forehead like a caterpillar. He was in his fifties and heavy, his jaw blurring into his neck, his plump belly bulging against his sweater vest.
“This is Colonel Patel Reid,” General Reaver said by way of introduction. “He oversaw the East Coast before the collapse.”
“You were on the Grand Voyager mission,” interrupted a second woman. Her dirty-blonde hair was cut into a harsh bob, and her skin was the pallor of mayonnaise. Deep lines around her mouth and eyes told of a hard life.
“This is Liza Willis,” General Weaver said. “A long-time solder recently promoted to colonel.”
“You served under Simeon Pagnini,” Willis said.
“Yes, I did.” He felt Amelia’s eyes on him. What was she thinking? Was she judging him, hating him? Remembering all over again every terrible thing he’d done on the Grand Voyager? How he’d betrayed her?
His mouth went dry, shame flooding him. He tried not to flinch, to keep his expression even. Whatever he personally felt for Simeon Pagnini, he knew better than to show it here.
The people around the table were nodding in admiration. “He was a good man,” the woman said gruffly. “Very committed.”
“He was,” Gabriel said, then hesitated. “He taught me everything I know.”
“He taught you well,” Cleo said from the corner, a hint of admiration in her voice. She tapped ash from her cigar and blew out a circle of smoke. “This one’s a hell of a fighter.”
The blonde woman grunted, her gaze lasering in on Gabriel, appraising him. “Surely we’re not here just for him.”
“You’re here for me,” Amelia said calmly. “I’m immune from the Hydra virus.”
Willis shrugged. She didn’t wear gloves or a mask. “Many of us still left are.”
“I am immune because I already had the virus.”
The room fell completely silent. Her words fell into the silence like stones. He could almost see the ripples vibrating the air around them.
“That’s impossible,” Willis scoffed.
“It’s not,” Micah said. “She got sick, and she almost died. I saw the blood coming out of her eyes. It was the Hydra virus. Then she woke up the next day and she was cured.”
“Cured,” Colonel Reid breathed, like the word itself was a miracle.
“And why should we believe you?” Willis’s eyes narrowed, her tone distinctly chilly.
Amelia squared her shoulders. “Because I am the daughter of Declan Black, chairman of the Unity Coalition, founder and CEO of BioGen Technologies.”
There was an audible gasp.
“I’m sure you’ve seen vlogs and newsfeeds of me standing beside my father at numerous galas and press announcements. You may take a retinal scan to verify my identity if you wish.”
Colonel Willis’s eyes lit with recognition. So did General Reaver, whose gaze narrowed. “An elite,” she spat.
“There’s no place for you here,” Colonel Willis said with a scowl.
Colonel Reid, however, smiled broadly. He exchanged glances with the man next to him. “The daughter of the most powerful man in the country. Maybe we can find some use for you.”
Gabriel tensed, his hand going to his gun. “If you think—”
Amelia shot him a look, stilling the words in his throat. Her expression was calm and determined. She didn’t hesitate. “My father was taken by terrorists on the Grand Voyager. Any of the elites who may have considered me an asset are now likely long dead. My only value to you or the Sanctuary is in the cure that may reside inside me.”
Colonel Reid frowned, seemingly disappointed.
“Then we have no need for her,” Colonel Willis said, her voice dripping with disdain. “She and her corrupt kind can find their own way down the mountain.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Or maybe we dispose of her in a more…permanent fashion.”
The air crackled with tension. The hostility emanating off the New Patriots was palpable. Beneath the table, Gabriel’s finger twitched for his gun.
General Reaver pursed her lips. “And what of the cure?”
“A ploy,” one of the women at the far end of the table said in a mocking tone, “to save her precious skin.”
This conversation wasn’t going well. This was a bad idea. They needed to get out of here. Gabriel needed to pull his gun and get Amelia and Micah out of here before things got really ugly.
“I believe her.” Cleo pushed herself off the wall. “And so did Moruga. She did not volunteer this little nugget to try and save herself. One of her own group turned traitor and divulged the information.”
General Reaver raised her brows, still skeptical.
Cleo sauntered to the head of the table next to her mother. She pointed her cigar at Amelia. “Someone somewhere had to survive this damn virus. Why not her?”
“Even if it is true, what are we supposed to do about it?” Reid asked.
“Send her to the Sanctuary,” Cleo said. “Their labs will find the cure. Then she smuggles it out to us.”
“We have a lab here,” Reid said.
“Not a good one,” Cleo said. “And not a research facility.”
General Reaver leaned back in her seat. She glanced at Cleo again before sharing a long look with Colonel Reid. She seemed to respect Cleo’s opinion, even though she was young and hot-headed. Maybe they’d make it out of here in one piece after all.
“They’re right,” the General said finally. “If this information is true, then it is imperative to act on it. The reward is too great not to take this seriously. But we will need the Sanctuary resources.”
“We’ll help get her in,” Cleo said, leaning forward, her voice rising. This was the most animated Gabriel had seen her. Except maybe when she was torturing Willow. “We have a man inside. He’ll help her. Then once their scientists have used her blood to manufacture the cure or whatever, he’ll help her steal it and bring it back to us.”
Amelia frowned. “Why would you need to steal it?”
Every eye turned to her. Their gazes were still closed and suspicious, hostile. Gabriel’s gut twinged uneasily. He could feel the hatred pulsing in the air, all of it directed at Amelia. Because of who she was and everything she represented. He’d felt the same way, once upon a time.
Cleo’s voice turned sharp as a blade. “How else would we get it? Do you think they’re gonna just hand it out like candy?”
“It’s the cure,” Amelia said. “It will save thousands of lives. The world can begin again. Of course, they will—”
“They won’t,” General Reaver broke in. Her voice had gone as cold as her daughter’s. “The Sanctuary isn’t a sanctuary for all. It is only for the elites. Only those they consider the brightest, the wealthiest, the best. The rest are left to rot.”
Cleo’s anger radiated off her in waves. “We’re left to rot.”
Gabriel’s own pulse quickened. Of course, the Sanctuary was too good to be true. The government had created it,
the same corrupt government that destroyed its own country for years, for decades, consolidating all its wealth, power, and resources for the elites, and the elites alone.
Even with the world falling to pieces around them, the elites were still only concerned with themselves. They didn’t care if everything else burned. He no longer hated Amelia, but his hatred for the elites remained, burning inside him.
Gabriel’s jaw clenched, every muscle in his body tense and on edge, his veins boiling. Stay in control. Beneath the table, he dug his fingernails into his thighs.
“I see.” Amelia’s face darkened. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t protest. She didn’t defend the elites like she would have only a few months ago. “I am willing to steal the cure for you. On one condition.”
The men and women in the room stared at her like she’d grown two heads. General Reaver smiled indulgently. “What are your demands?”
Amelia stood up, her chair scraping across the floor. Gabriel couldn’t take his eyes off her. Even with her loose, ill-fitting clothes, she was strong and determined. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation or uncertainty in the firm set of her jaw. She’d never looked so beautiful.
“Last month, my mother was kidnapped by a gang of biker thugs and human-traffickers known as the Headhunters,” Amelia said.
“We are familiar with them,” General Reaver said evenly. “We are sorry for your loss.”
“They trade with the Sanctuary on a regular basis. We have reason to believe they are bringing my mother to the Sanctuary now. I will do as you ask, but I need you to help us rescue her.”
The New Patriots shifted uncomfortably. Someone coughed into their mask. Colonel Reid and Colonel Willis exchanged irritated, disbelieving glances.
General Reaver’s posture stiffened, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry about your mother, but our numbers are critically low as it is. We cannot use manpower and resources—and risk precious lives—to save just one person. Everyone here understands that the mission is the most important value we uphold.
“Chen Li Jun understood that. He sacrificed his own life because he believed your life could bring about a greater good. My daughter risked her life for the same reason.”
“And we appreciate that,” Micah added, always the diplomat. Gabriel half-expected him to argue against Amelia. She was using the threat of withholding the cure—which would cost the lives of actual people—innocent men, women, and children. But he didn’t. “We have also risked a great deal.”
“You must understand,” General Reaver said, her tone patronizing. “We cannot—”
“I need you to understand,” Amelia interrupted. Her voice was hard as iron. “I watched your daughter stand by and do nothing while the man next to her shot and killed one of our own, Ed Jericho.”
General Reaver’s sharp gaze flickered to Cleo, clearly displeased.
Cleo’s scowl deepened. “I did what I had to do. You knew that when you sent me in.”
“Do not tell me the meaning of sacrifice,” Amelia continued. “I know it, and I know it well.”
Colonel Willis frowned. “Disrespect will not be tolerated at this table.”
Gabriel knew how these people worked. They wanted Amelia and the rest of their group to risk everything for the cause, but the New Patriots wouldn’t risk anything in return. He shoved back his chair and stood next to Amelia. Micah shot to his feet on Amelia’s other side. “Then we’ll leave.”
Everyone at the table leapt up, hands hovering over weapons. “Stay back!” Colonel Reid hissed, fumbling for his mask. “Remain outside the ten-foot infection radius!”
There was a long, tense moment of silence as they all stared at each other, sizing each other up, bodies taut, faces grim and wary.
“Are you threatening us?” Colonel Willis asked, bristling.
“You owe me your lives.” Cleo’s cigar trembled in her hand. She was angry. She had a right to be. Gabriel didn’t care. Neither did Amelia.
“I am grateful to you, Cleodora,” Amelia said without missing a beat, “but I will not be manipulated by anyone else, ever again. We made no binding agreement when you chose to release us. I owe you nothing.” She turned back to the table, meeting the general’s gaze with eyes of ice. Her tone brooked no argument. “I have laid out my terms. You may accept them or not. The decision is yours.”
Amelia swept from the room. Micah stumbled from the table, his mouth gaping, and hurried after her.
Gabriel hesitated at the door, fairly bursting with pride—and an urge to laugh. These people hadn’t expected to be outplayed by a young, puny-looking girl, too beautiful and fragile to pose any kind of challenge. They were wrong.
He gazed at each stony face, his own expression just as hard. “I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Let us know when you’ve assembled the rescue team.”
34
Willow
“How’s your head?” Finn asked.
“How do you think?” Willow gingerly touched the squishy white bandage affixed to her forehead. Beneath it, a nasty, two-inch gash was stitched closed. The concussion had left her dizzy for a few days, but there was no lasting damage. “No modeling career for me, I guess.”
She was lucky to be alive. No, not lucky. She thought of Li Jun with a pang. She was alive because of him. He was a New Patriot, the enemy. The people who’d killed her sister and her mother. But he’d helped her—all of them—escape. He’d sacrificed his life for it. For her.
She couldn’t wrap her head around it. Not yet. Things were so much easier when everything was black and white, when she could categorize people as good and bad.
They sat on either side of one of the picnic tables rimming the compound’s rec yard. A handful of kids played soccer with Benjie, kicking the ball into an old, torn net and shouting gleefully in the winter air.
The New Patriots’ base was an old low-security, self-sufficient prison nestled at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Thirty or so miles north of Dalton, the Fort Cohutta Detention and Rehabilitation Center was nestled halfway up Wildwood Mountain. Its twenty acres were bound by a twenty-five-foot electrified fence topped with razor wire. The sheet-metal plates hammered around the bottom six feet of the fence looked new, as did the deep, freshly dug trench circling the compound.
The only road was a single gravel lane winding up a steep, forested hill bristling with pine, maple, walnut, and soaring hemlock and oak trees. The windows and doors of all exterior buildings had been painted black with light-blocking paint and then boarded up to make the place look abandoned from a distance.
But the empty guard towers were armed with automatic machine guns controlled from a command center deep inside the compound. Anyone stupid enough to break in would receive a nasty surprise.
Willow had spent a bit of time exploring, but they’d only been released from quarantine that morning. Christmas was in three days. Someone had planted a pine tree between the cafeteria and the women’s barracks, and several children were decorating it with paper snowflakes, strings of shiny crimson beads, and various ornaments.
Willow glanced back at Finn. “How are you feeling?”
Finn shifted on the bench and winced. His right shoulder was bandaged, his arm in a sling to minimize movement. “A little like I’ve been attacked by a rabid skunk.”
When Willow had woken up in the infirmary three days ago, Amelia told her how Finn insisted on carrying her the whole way—at least eighteen miles on foot, if not more, before the New Patriots had picked them up.
“You giant idiot!” she’d yelled when she found him in his own curtained cubicle in the infirmary, so huge in his hospital bed that his feet dangled off the end of the mattress.
The doctor, a middle-aged woman with short red hair, was scanning his shoulder with some kind of white wand, a 3D reconstruction of Finn’s bullet-damaged shoulder on the holoscreen beside her.
“Hello to you, too,” Finn said amiably, offering he
r his most adorable lopsided grin.
“Don’t give me that!” She whirled on the doctor, her stomach knotting. If he’d done permanent damage to his body by carrying her, she was going to kill him. “How’s his arm?”
“We performed a minor surgery to remove the bullet,” the doctor said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods. I debrided the area, removed several bullet fragments, and doused him with antibiotics, which should stop the infection in its tracks.”
The doctor pursed her lips, scanning the holoscreen. “You’re lucky the bullet missed the subclavian and brachial arteries. However, there is significant damage to your brachial plexus, the large nerve bundle that controls arm function. Neurological deficits due to nerve injuries may heal after a few months.”
Willow’s stomach dropped. She sank onto the edge of the bed beside Finn, careful not to bump him. “Will he lose the use of his arm? Tell us the truth. We can handle it.”
The doctor hesitated, then shook her head. “You may never regain full or even partial mobility, Finn. You need a nerve cell rejuvenation procedure and flesh grafts. Unfortunately, our facilities are a bit…rudimentary. The best we can do right now is keep an eye on it. Keep it immobilized for six to eight weeks, minimum.”
“Lucky I’m left-handed, I guess,” Finn said, trying to sound upbeat but looking sick instead.
“Why’d you do something so stupid?” Willow asked as soon as the doctor left. She hated that Finn was hurting, that she was helpless to do a thing. It made her want to punch something.
Finn adjusted the IV dripping fluids into his arm. He pushed himself carefully into a sitting position, looking embarrassed. “You don’t know how useless I feel sometimes. Everyone fighting and risking their lives to save us. Everyone but me.”
She blew her bangs out of her eyes with a huff. “You’re not useless. Usually.”
“This was something I could do.” He had shrugged like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “You were hurt and you needed me. That was all there was to it.”
She’d had no idea what to say to that. She’d mumbled something about Benjie and gotten the hell out of there as fast as she could.
