The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel

by Joanne Macgregor

  “I have,” she says. Though I wonder. “From tonight we’ll all be packed and on standby to bug out at a moment’s notice.”

  “Zonia, let’s just talk about this,” Quinn pleads.

  “We’re beyond talking. The order has come from High Command,” she says.

  “I. Won’t. Do it,” I say, enunciating every word.

  “If you won’t follow orders,” Zonia says, her voice cold and flat, “then we need to reconsider if you are any use to this group. If you are even loyal to the rebel cause.”

  “What, now you’re going to court-martial and execute me?” I take a step towards her.

  “Stop! Just stop this,” Quinn says, grabbing my shoulder and tugging me back. “Zonia, just cool it. You can’t make Jinxy shoot Hawke.”

  “Oh, can’t I? Just try me,” she says, closing the gap between us. “Besides” — she gives me a contemptuous look — “I don’t know what you’re making such a big deal about. You shot Nicky easily enough.”

  I fly at her, striking the side of her face with all my strength. She gasps, outraged, and Darius pulls back a fist, ready to send me flying, but Quinn steps between us, and the blow lands solidly against his chest. Quinn manages to land a punch on Darius’s jaw before Ross tackles him to the ground. Darius and Ross climb into him, landing fists and feet against his stomach and shoulders. Zonia steps around her protectors, drawing the Glock from the waistband of her pants and pointing it at me. Swiveling from my hips, I strike her arm, sending the weapon flying. In less than a second, I’ve grabbed her wrist and flipped her hard, face-first into the dirt, where she lies, winded. I reach over to where Quinn lies curled on the ground, protecting his face with his arms and kicking out at his attackers, and snatch the knife from his belt. I pull Zonia’s head back by the hair and hold the blade to her throat. She’s gasping, trying to catch her breath.

  “Stop!” I yell at the pair working over Quinn. “Back off, now!”

  Darius and Ross freeze, then step a few paces back.

  “You okay?” I ask Quinn as he rolls, groaning, onto all fours. His bottom lip is split and bleeding.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Glad to hear it,” comes an unfamiliar, deep voice from behind me.

  I let go of Zonia’s hair, and her face thuds into the dirt. I spin around, knife outstretched to defend against the new threat.

  The man drops two big, black duffel bags and holds out his hands placatingly. He has brown hair and is thin, stooped, and hollow-eyed. He’s young, I know he is, but he looks old.

  Connor O’Riley has returned.

  Chapter 41

  Blood and water

  “Connor!” Quinn leaps up and runs over to his brother, locking him into a tight bear hug.

  “Quinn.” Connor’s voice is muffled from where his face is mashed against Quinn’s shoulder.

  I knew Quinn was taller than his elder brother, but Connor seems smaller even than I remember. I notice the fingers of the hand which holds Quinn close. They are red and swollen and stick out at strange angles, like they’ve been smashed, broken and set wrong.

  “Connor!” Quinn says again when they break apart, but this time his voice is shaded with concern rather than relief.

  And I can see why. Connor looks like a wreck of the man I saw on the O’Rileys’ porch back in May, and on the sidewalk just six weeks ago. His shirt hangs loosely on his hunched frame, his cheekbones stand out sharply in his thin face and there are shadows — dark as bruises — under his eyes. There’s a deadness to his face.

  “I thought the O’Riley boys always fought together, or not at all,” Connor says with a tight upward turn of his lips, a forced smile that doesn’t touch his dark, burning eyes. He turns to face the rest of the rebels, who have come running up the path and are hailing him like a returning hero.

  “Welcome back, man,” says Mark.

  “We really missed you,” adds Evyan.

  Ross and Darius stand on either side of Zonia, and none of that trio looks enthusiastic at their leader’s sudden reappearance.

  Rotating on the spot, Connor greets his fellow rebels one by one until at last he faces me again. He frowns at me, perplexed, for a second, and then recognition hits.

  “You!” His voice is heavy with loathing. The last time he saw me, I was facing him square on, shooting a tranq-dart into his neck.

  Quinn steps up beside me and takes my hand. His hand is warm and large and firm. It calms and steadies me. I could do anything if Quinn was with me, holding my hand. I could take on the whole world.

  “Connor, I’d like you to meet Jinxy James,” Quinn says.

  I stick out my right hand to shake his, but drop it when Connor looks at it like it’s a dead rat and says, “The ASTA operative who shot me and got me taken to the detention center?”

  “The rebel who gave us the information to spring you free,” Quinn corrects. I give his hand a grateful squeeze.

  Connor shoots a dark look at our entwined hands, and then says to Quinn, “So you’re with her, now?”

  “I am.”

  “And you trust her?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.” Behind Connor, Evyan sniggers. “Faith, and here I was thinking blood was thicker’n water.”

  I glance up at Quinn. He looks like a kicked puppy, but before he can respond, Connor has stepped past him to greet Zonia.

  “Welcome back,” she says, without warmth. Her face, I’m happy to see, is smudged all over with dirt, and there’s blood on her chin.

  “I come bearing gifts,” Connor says, withdrawing some folded pieces of paper from an inner pocket of his jacket. “These are from High Command.”

  “Ah.” Zonia opens and reads the first one, then says to me, “Congratulations — you’re on your way to hitting America’s Most Wanted list.”

  “What?”

  “Sought for questioning in connection with suspected involvement in a string of terrorist attacks across the nation,” she reads the phrase.

  “No way!”

  “Seems the whole of the Southern Sector is out looking for you, young lady. APB’s to all police stations, the armed forces, probably even the president’s own guard.”

  I hold a hand out for the paper — I want to know exactly what it says — but Zonia gives me an as-if look and stuffs it into a pocket.

  “Speaking of the devil, is he here?” asks Connor.

  “He will be, if the intel was good,” says Darius. “We have a three-day window of opportunity starting tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps we can put my second gift to good use, then.” Connor squats down on his haunches and unzips one of the big duffel bags.

  “Suh-weet!” says Darius, and Zonia smiles wider than I’ve ever seen her do.

  Inside the bag are several semi-automatics and ammo magazines.

  “This is a surprise,” says Zonia. “I would have expected you to bring some pamphlets or information posters, or something.”

  “That was the old Connor.”

  “There’s a new Connor?” Quinn asks. He looks worried.

  “When you go through what I went through in that place, you learn a few things about yourself. And the true nature of your enemy.”

  Zonia looks at him curiously, but there’s a smile building behind the questions in her eyes.

  “I’m beginning to think you were right, Zonia. I no longer think words are going to cut it.”

  “Yeah!” She holds up a hand for a high five, but it’s awkward because Connor has to use his undamaged left hand to slap hers.

  “So, do you think we can get close enough to Hawke to eliminate him with these?” Connor asks, standing again.

  “We don’t need to,” Zonia replies. “We now have a better plan. Safer, neater and sure to have fewer casualties on our side than a full-on, face-to-face firefight.”

  “Oh, yeah?” A flicker of excitement animates Connor’s face.

  “Come on, I’ll tell you about it. Ross, stow these
in the weapons locker, will you?”

  The rest of us head back down the path to the campground.

  Zonia leads the way, walking beside Connor. Quinn follows close behind his brother, reaching out a hand to squeeze Connor’s shoulder or ruffle his hair every so often, as if to reassure himself that Connor is truly here, alive and well. More or less. Quinn still holds my hand, so I keep pace with him, which allows me to hear Zonia’s conversation with Connor — as she no doubt intends me to.

  “So what’s this new plan for taking down Hawke?”

  “As you may have noticed, we just happen to have an honest-to-God expert sniper in amongst our collection of rebels, and a sniper’s rifle in our collection of weapons.”

  “You’re going to get her to shoot Hawke?”

  No, she is not. I grind my teeth together to keep from speaking, but I keep listening.

  “You bet I am. She’s not keen — she’s suddenly developed a bunch a scruples now that she’s being asked to shoot the enemy rather than innocent civilians — but she’ll come around. I’ve seen her shoot, Connor — she could take down Hawke with a single bullet. ‘One shot, one kill’, isn’t that their motto?”

  “So you trust her, too?”

  “It’s not a question of trust — way I see it, she doesn’t have much of a choice. If she stays, then she needs to follow orders, same as everyone else. And if she leaves — hell, where would she go? Not back to ASTA, not home to her family. You read the intel memo — they’re searching for her everywhere, no place is safe for our Miss Jinx E. James.”

  When we get to the camp, Quinn grabs the other duffel bag from his brother. “Here, I got that. Let’s get you settled. We moved the tents to back in the trees, this way.”

  I figure this means Connor gets his tent back now, and I’ll need to move. Will Quinn share with him again? I have no right to feel put out. Connor was here first, and he’s family, I remind myself as I tag along behind them, listening.

  “How are Mum and Da?” asks Quinn. “Have you seen them? Are they okay?”

  “No.” At Quinn’s look of alarm, Connor clarifies, “I mean, no I haven’t seen them, but they’re fine, apparently. They were questioned, but not interrogated. I guess the authorities think they don’t know much, which isn’t far from the truth.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I’ve got a letter for you from Mom, and a message from Kerry. She says to tell you she loves you, and her new front tooth is coming in.”

  Quinn’s face softens into a smile, and he exhales a relieved sigh. I can see how much his family means to him, how much he misses them, and how his fear for them all — especially Connor — has been weighing on him.

  “Faith, but it’s good to have you back.” Quinn’s Irish lilt is stronger when he talks to his brother.

  “It’s good to be here. I don’t mind telling you that there were moments when I didn’t think I’d make it,” says Connor.

  Maybe this reminds him of me, because he spins around and gives me a dark glare.

  “Was there something you wanted?” he asks. His eyes are cold, judging.

  “Uhm.” I swallow hard. “I need to get my bag and stuff from your tent.”

  “Oh, right, yeah,” says Quinn. “Sorry, Jinx, do you mind? I’d love to catch up on all the news.”

  “It’s no problem. I’ll move in with one of the others, or move to the van or something.”

  No way will Zonia allow me to bunk down with the weapons cache. I’ll have to move in with Evyan.

  In Nicky’s old spot.

  I grab my backpack and the few of my things which lie loose in the tent and walk off, leaving Quinn and Connor together, wondering if this is a sign of things to come.

  Chapter 42

  Snake eyes

  It’s an unseasonably chilly night, and I don’t have my own bedding. Quinn pops in to see me before bedtime and offers me his sleeping bag, but I refuse. He manages to scavenge some blankets from the others, and I sleep under these, with my backpack as a pillow. Evyan does her best to make me feel utterly unwelcome, and seizes the opportunity to get in a few more digs.

  “What — no room for you at the O’Riley inn? After Connor’s had a nice long chat with his kid brother, Quinn won’t want you at all, not even as his camp skank.”

  I wake up in the middle of the night, shivering with cold, to find both my blankets lying outside the tent, gathering dew. Thanks, Evyan.

  Next morning, after breakfast, Zonia calls for a minute’s silence to commemorate all the victims who have died in this war — the victims of the plague and, she insists, especially of the corrupt government.

  “I am pleased to tell you,” she announces, “that sometime during the next three days — today, tomorrow or Sunday — we will complete our vital mission here and move on.”

  Everyone cheers, except Connor, whose face remains immobile, Quinn, who looks troubled, and me. I wonder if my face looks as mutinous as I feel.

  “I want us ready to bug out at a moment’s notice,” Zonia continues. “Everyone is to pack all their belongings, roll their bedding and attach it to their bags and backpacks, and pile it all under that tree.” She points at the pine nearest the fire pit. “After each meal, the team on duty is to pack all provision boxes and collapse the tables. When the time is finalized, I’ll give the order, and most of our rebel unit can move out in advance. The operative, and one or two others” — her eyes stray to Quinn — “will stay to complete the mission. They can rejoin us afterwards.”

  In that moment, I understand her true intention. I’m disposable. So is Quinn, probably. He’s way too much of a pacifist for her liking. She means to get the two of us to climb the mountain and assassinate Hawke while she and the rest of the rebels make their escape. If, after completing our “mission”, we manage to evade our pursuers and catch up with them, she will have lost nothing. But if we’re killed or captured, then it will merely look like I, Jinx E. James, wanted dissident and fugitive, went off the rails and together with my lover took vengeance on the sector’s president for my treatment in the detention center.

  Zonia knows what I’ve been through, that I’ll do almost anything rather than surrender myself up to that again. So Quinn and I will be conveniently killed in the crossfire, and the government will have caught its assassin with no need to look any further. She plans to kill the president and get rid of me and Quinn, who is now her chief opposition, in one fell swoop. Talk about snake-eyes.

  I look at Quinn to see if this train of thought has occurred to him, but he’s too busy urging Connor to eat all his breakfast to analyze Zonia’s motives.

  “Kate, Ross and Kirsty, you’re on surveillance detail. Connor, Darius, let’s go,” commands Zonia. “You, too, Jinx.”

  “I’m not killing the president. Not now, not ever,” I state.

  “I was just going to ask you to demonstrate your skills for Connor here — he has some doubts. Surely you don’t object to shooting at a piece of paper.”

  I’m so relieved that she’s not planning on dragging me up the mountain to murder the president right at this moment, that I find myself nodding.

  “I’m coming with,” insists Quinn.

  “Of course, I know the two of you are a unit,” says Zonia, prickling my suspicions again.

  In the clearing where we’ve practiced shooting, I plug a dozen rounds in a close cluster into the center of the head of the target silhouette.

  Connor, who scans the area constantly and jumps at any loud sound, remains unimpressed. “She’d be shooting across a distance of close on a mile.”

  I want to defend my skill, to tell him that snipers have taken out targets at distances of over one and a half miles, but I stay silent.

  Zonia takes the rifle, points it through a gap in the trees in the direction of the pig farm in the valley and peers through the scope. “There. See that massive oak that’s turned completely red? There’s a dead tree to the left of it, with some kind of a bird’s nest in the
V of the branches. Hit that.”

  “I’m not shooting a bird’s nest,” I protest.

  “For God’s sake, you’re as bad as Neil. Shoot the branch below it, then.”

  I take back the rifle and find the dead tree through the powerful scope. I don’t see any birds, but there might be eggs in the nest. I estimate that it’s about a mile away. I bend down, grasp a handful of dirt and let it trickle through my fingers. There’s a very slight crosswind, and I’ll be shooting from a high angle, down the mountain. It won’t be an easy shot. And the one targeting Hawke would be even harder.

  I grab the sandbag from the rifle case, lay it on top of a nearby boulder and rest the barrel of my rifle on it. I dope my scope for windage and elevation and then settle myself for the shot, aiming the intersection of my reticles at a bulge in the branch below the nest. I still my mind, loosen my shoulders, and take a few deep, calming breaths.

  Then I let my breath trickle out one last time against the stock pressed to my cheek, and gently squeeze the trigger.

  I hear the muffled crack of the rifle before the shot hits the branch.

  “Damn,” I say, clambering back to my feet and handing Zonia the rifle.

  “You missed?” says Connor.

  “No, I didn’t miss. But the impact knocked the nest off anyway.”

  Zonia and Connor take turns checking through the scope. I go to sit with Quinn. For once he’s not throwing knives — he’s staring at his brother with deep concern. I follow his gaze. Zonia is holding forth passionately, probably about the need to commit murder and treason, and Connor nods in agreement as he returns the rifle to its bag.

  “I thought when he got back, there would be a fight for leadership, but it looks like they’re on the same page now,” I say.

  Quinn nods sadly. “He’s changed. I mean, I understand that he’s really angry and bitter and wants revenge, but even so, he’s not the same as he was before. It’s like something broke inside him. I just feel so guilty.”

  “You? You feel guilty?”

  I figure the guilt is pretty much all mine, and I’ve been lugging it about since I first saw the state Connor is in. I may not have been the one to torture him, but there’s no getting away from the fact that I helped capture him. If I hadn’t darted him, maybe he and Quinn would have got away. Probably not. But maybe.