by Kyla Stone
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 her 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 bulle
t 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.
Her cheeks flushed again at the memory of his words. She ducked her head so her hair—freshly washed and brushed—fell across her face.
“Earth to Willow,” Finn said with a crooked grin. “I have something to help you feel better.”
With a flourish, he lifted two bowls with his left hand and set them on the picnic table in front of them. They were filled with an oozing dark brown substance, a single, lopsided candle at the center of each bowl. “You didn’t think I’d forget to celebrate your birthday, did you?”
She had no idea what to say. Warmth filled her from her toes to the top of her head.
“So it’s brownie batter, not a cake.” Finn nudged the candle that was slowly sinking into the batter. “I tried to sneak into the kitchen to make an actual cake, but I’m about as sneaky as a bull in a china shop. The chef caught me. He wouldn’t give me any oil, and they didn’t have eggs. But he did let me steal the box of brownie mix I’d stuffed under my shirt. Turns out, if you mix in a tad of water, it’s phenomenally good.”
She took a bite, closing her eyes in pleasure as the sweet, gooey chocolate melted on her tongue. It was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.
Finn mounded the batter on his spoon and shoveled it in his mouth. “Scrumptious, right?”
She ate some more, every bite a luscious explosion of delectable sweetness. “Benjie will love this.”
“Don’t worry. I saved some for him.”
Several crows flew low, black shapes carving through the cobalt sky. They pecked at the popcorn strings strung around the pine tree the kids were decorating, black wings flapping. A dozen children shrieked in alarm and waved their arms, looking like little birds themselves.
She thought of Benjie’s wooden carving. She thought of Raven. They’d promised to meet her. Was she still there, skulking in the woods, Shadow by her side as she watched the highway, waiting for them? She put down her spoon. “I’ve been thinking about Raven.”
Finn wiped a smear of chocolate from his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Me, too.”
“She said she’d watch I-575 for us. The town of Ball Ground, exit 27, remember? But we aren’t there. She’ll think we didn’t make it. Or that we abandoned her. Neither of which are true.”
“I’m sure she can handle herself.”
“I know. But still.” The girl had seemed perfectly capable out there in the forested wilderness with her wolf. Raven was a survivor. Willow still felt crappy about it, like she was breaking her word. Besides, she’d be far more comfortable with Raven than these enigmatic New Patriots.
“Willow, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” Finn moved his bowl aside. His gaze dropped to the table, then lifted to meet hers, his expression suddenly uncomfortable, even embarrassed. “I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking, and—”
Everything fell completely silent. Abruptly, she was very aware of his large, masculine hand resting on the wood picnic table inches from her own.
Panic seized her. She shoved off the bench and brushed fiercely at the snow crusting her pant legs. “I forgot I’m supposed to meet Silas to go over choke-holds and neck-punches.”
“Willow—”
“I’ll see you at dinner!” She forced brightness into her voice, though she felt like biting her tongue in half. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Finn probably thought she was an idiot.
She strode across the yard, forcing her head up and her shoulders back. Her skin prickled, sure his eyes were on her, judging her. She’d just acted like a complete moron. And for what?
It was Finn. Big, goofy Finn. Her constant. Her rock.
What was she so scared that he would say? Or maybe it was what she wanted him to say. What she was afraid he never would.
In a world where you counted yourself lucky to even be breathing, wasn’t it hubris to long for something more? She’d done her best to keep those thoughts locked out of her head.
She didn’t think about the adorable gap in Finn’s front teeth. She didn’t think about how it made her chest expand to see him with Benjie. She didn’t think about how warm and secure she felt curled up next to him every night. How, no matter where they slept, he would always be there. And she certainly didn’t think about how it felt to be wrapped in his strong arms, pressed tight to his burly chest, his heart beating steady against her ear, reassuring her that it was all going to be okay.
She couldn’t think those thoughts because it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. The world was ending and even if it wasn’t, she was still just a poor Filipina girl from the slums. Just plain, chubby Willow. Not beautiful and captivating like Amelia or Celeste.
Finn thought of her like a kid sister, or at best, a good friend. Just like everyone else.
All she was really good at was injuring people on purpose. Not exactly a romantic draw. In a fight, she wanted people to underestimate her, to ignore her, to not even see her.
In real life, it sucked.
35
Micah
“We’ll do it,” Cleo said with a scowl. “But you haven’t made any friends with these unreasonable demands of yours.”
The New Patriots had made them wait three days before agreeing to mount the rescue mission, perhaps hoping they would back down. They didn’t. Micah adjusted his glasses. “We don’t need friends. We need allies.”
“Those either.” She rested her hand on the butt of her holstered pulse gun as they walked. Cleo was giving Micah and Gabriel a tour of the grounds. She’d wanted only Gabriel, but his brother had insisted he join them.
The day was crisp, the sky a rich cobalt blue. A breeze rustled the giant pines towering around them. Tree limbs drooped, fattened with heavy, wet snow. Several children Benjie’s age played tag between the buildings, stomping through melting drifts.
Adults crisscrossed the grounds, some directing hover carts full of vegetables harvested from the hydroponics farm, others working on repairing the metal roof of one of the barracks. Some were families strolling in the fresh air; others hardened soldiers—or maybe criminals—grim, armed, and heavily muscled.
Behind them, Wildwood Mountain cast a long shadow. The north end of the compound was pressed up against a sh
eer rock face that towered a good sixty feet above the single-story buildings. Sugar Spring River snaked along the east flank. The compound was surrounded by thousands of acres of dense woods that made up the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest.
“We leave Christmas morning before dawn,” Cleo said. “Two days from now.”
Micah nodded. He’d forgotten all about Christmas. He’d been too busy trying to stay alive.
He followed Cleo and Gabriel along the concrete pathways that wound through the old prison. Most of the compound consisted of squat, concrete buildings painted in dull brown and puke-green to blend in with the natural surroundings. The buildings spiraled off a large, snow-trampled rec yard in the center. Because it was a low-security prison built on theories of rehabilitation and community, there were few fences on the inside.
Cleo showed them the east and south barracks, which were the same as their own west side accommodations. The New Patriots called them barracks, but they were really just long rows of prison cells. Each concrete square allowed a dresser or bookshelf and a cot padded with an actual mattress.
“How do we know you won’t withhold the cure once you get it?” Cleo asked abruptly. She wheeled to face them, her expression cold and suspicious. “We’ve already rescued you people at great personal expense, housed and fed you, and treated your injured. Now, we’re going to fight a battle for you, all before you do a thing for us.”
“A fair point.” Gabriel’s jaw bunched, his shoulders rigid. “Instead of joining the mission to infiltrate the Sanctuary, I volunteer to remain behind.”
A slow, sly smile contorted the burned side of her face. “As a hostage, you mean?”
Gabriel’s expression was pained. “If Amelia does not return, you may do with me as you wish.”
“Gabriel, no—” Micah started, but his brother held up a hand to silence him.
“Is that a promise?” she asked carelessly, but he could tell it was an act. There was nothing careless about Cleo Reaver.
