Renegades of PEACE (Secrets of PEACE Book 2)

by T. A. Hernandez

  Zira drew in a sharp breath. “This isn’t a game, Aubreigh. If Ryku finds out you’re trying to spy on him—”

  “I know. Relax—I’m not stupid, and I don’t have a death wish. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks.”

  Zira nodded, but Aubreigh could tell she didn’t entirely believe her. That was okay; Aubreigh could take care of herself, too. And maybe it would give Zira a greater appreciation for all the worry she’d put Aubreigh through when she was an E-2 operative.

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when the car pulled up to a 24-hour mini mart in a small town about two hours north of the compound. Zira’s limbs were stiff from the drive, but she almost wished it had been longer. Aubreigh had boosted her spirits in a way no one else could, and now that their short time together was coming to an end, Zira was already starting to miss her. She didn’t know when they’d see each other again—if they’d ever see each other again. Of course, that was what she’d thought when she first left the compound, so maybe there was some hope.

  Aubreigh shut off the engine and dug a key out of her pocket, which she passed to Tripp. “The car is about six blocks east of here next to some old railroad tracks. It’s gray. The doors stick a little, but it runs okay.”

  Tripp nodded. “It sounds perfect. Thank you.”

  Aubreigh reached over and gave Zira a tight hug. “I’m really happy you’re not dead.”

  “Me too,” said Zira. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Yeah, same to you. And I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

  They all got out of the car. Zira waved to Aubreigh one last time, then turned and followed Tripp down the street. “I like that friend of yours,” he said as they walked.

  “She’s the best,” Zira replied.

  “She’ll be okay. Chase and Seth will look out for her.”

  Zira hoped he was right, though after talking with Aubreigh, she did feel a little better about her friend’s involvement in the rebellion. At least she was being smart about it.

  They found the car next to the tracks exactly as Aubreigh had said. Tripp had to yank on the door a few times before it opened, but once they were inside, the engine started without any problems. Even better, the back seat was stacked high with cans of vegetables and sacks of beans and rice. Zira tried not to think too much about all the risks Aubreigh might have taken to arrange all this. “Where to?” she asked.

  “I think we better keep heading south,” said Tripp. “Put a little more distance between us and those officers in the Mid Pacific.”

  “Right past the compound?”

  Tripp shook his head. “We’re already too close for comfort. We’ll take a little detour first.” He shifted the car into gear and they rolled away into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Three sharp knocks woke Zira early one chilly, winter morning a couple weeks later. On the other side of the room, Tripp’s eyes snapped open. “I’ll get it,” she said. “Probably just Sonny.”

  Tripp mumbled something and pulled his jacket over his head. Zira got up and fumbled her way through the small, dimly lit apartment in Austin that had been their home for the past two weeks. She looked through the peephole on the front door. A middle-aged man with a scruffy, gray beard and a frayed coat stood on the other side. She twisted the lock and pulled the door open just wide enough to talk to him. “Hey, Sonny.”

  “Hi hon. Just making the rounds.”

  “Well, unless you have shoes or medicine, you know we’re not interested.” Neither of them were sick or injured, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared, and the rebels were always looking for drugs and medical supplies.

  “I’ve got these,” Sonny said, his eyes bright and hopeful. He rummaged through a canvas bag on the floor and pulled out a pair of heavy work boots.

  Zira took one and turned it over in her hands. It was worn, and probably a little too big for Tripp, but a far cry better than the ragged, holey sneakers he’d been wearing since before she met him in Grayridge. “What do you want for them?” she asked.

  “Food,” he said. “Five cans of whatever you’ve got.”

  Zira would have given him five cans of food for the boots without complaint. She and Tripp had enough to last them at least two months now, and Sonny looked like a walking skeleton. He’d told her once that he suffered from some kind of mental illness that made him ineligible for standard employment through unit C. Disability benefits were woefully insufficient, however, and aside from his monthly rations, Sonny didn’t get much else to live on. To survive, he’d turned to “scavenging”—which Zira suspected involved a fair amount of theft—and traded his findings to other people in the neighborhood. He was harmless, and despite his scruffy appearance, there was a certain charm in his easy smile and the laugh lines around his eyes that made Zira like him instantly.

  So she would have traded him the five cans readily, but she also remembered Tripp’s lecture about not giving the impression that they were better off than anyone else in the building. This was a harsh neighborhood full of desperate people, and generosity was a good way to invite unwanted attention. “Five’s too much,” she said. “I’ll give you three.”

  “Wilson downstairs will give me two and a pair of pants. You gotta do better than that.”

  Zira sighed and made a show of thinking about the offer. “Fine. How about two cans of tuna and two of vegetables?”

  Sonny shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. “I dunno. Those were some pretty nice pants.”

  “You already have pants,” Zira reminded him. “What you need is some protein. You’re skinnier than that stray dog that hangs around by the garbage out back.”

  Sonny laughed long and deep. “You got me there. Bring it out here and you’ve got a deal.”

  Zira shut the door and made her way back to the small pantry where she and Tripp had stacked up all the food Aubreigh had given them. She grabbed two cans each of tuna and mixed vegetables and took them back out to Sonny. “Pleasure doing business with you,” she said.

  He handed her the boots and made a slight bow. “You too. See you tomorrow.”

  Zira walked back towards the sole bedroom she and Tripp shared. He sat up and stretched his arms as she came in. “Look what Sonny found for you,” she said and tossed the boots at him.

  He grinned as he put them on and tapped the insides of his feet together a few times. “They’re perfect. Thanks, kid.” He pulled the computer out of his backpack, turned it on, and began his usual routine of checking the news. Zira went to get them something to eat, squashing a cockroach under her boot on her way to the pantry. When she returned with a can of peaches and some corn from the night before, Tripp was watching a live broadcast.

  “An independent team of analysts released a report yesterday showing a significant drop in crime rates since October, when Chairman Ryku assumed leadership of all units of the PEACE Project.” The line graph on the display reflected what the reporter was saying, then switched to video of a man in a suit. The text overlaid in front of him read, Sean Watkins, Criminal Statistics Research Institute. “We don’t know yet whether these findings are a direct result of the chairman’s influence,” Watkins said, “but there definitely seems to be a strong correlation.”

  “Can you think of anything that might explain this correlation?” the interviewer asked.

  “Chairman Ryku has done a tremendous amount of work to enforce some of the old laws and policies that were never really addressed before—at least not on such a large scale. He’s tough on crime, which does two important things. First of all, it gets criminals off the streets, which directly impacts the safety of our communities. Secondly, I think it deters people from committing crimes in the first place, and we’re certainly going to see the larger benefits of that as time goes on.”

  “And what would you say to those who think the chairman is too tough on crime?”

  Watkins thought about that for a moment before responding. “Well, the numbers don’t lie. Look, I
think it’s fair to say that we all want our children to grow up in a world where they don’t have to be afraid of someone breaking into their house, or kidnapping them, or murdering their parents on the street. The PEACE Project has always made efforts to take us in that direction, but Chairman Ryku is actually doing it. He’s taking dangerous people out of our neighborhoods and protecting the safety and security of ordinary, law-abiding citizens. As far as I’m concerned, that’s something we should be celebrating.”

  The broadcast transitioned to a story about a man being hailed as a hero for providing information that had led to the arrest of half a dozen radicals. “You think those numbers are real?” Zira asked Tripp. “Has the crime rate really dropped that much?”

  He sighed. “It’s hard to say. This huge push he’s made to punish even the littlest things—I can see how people would think twice before they did anything that might put them on the Project’s radar. On the other hand, he might have just manipulated the numbers to encourage more public support.”

  Arrests and fines for breaking the law had been increasing steadily since Ryku took over the Project. Zira and Tripp hadn’t seen much of it before, but in an urban area like Austin, it was hard to ignore. People talked about neighbors who had disappeared overnight, about families who were fined so heavily that one parent might have to work double their weekly hours for a year just to cover the expense. Most of them weren’t dangerous. They hadn’t hurt anybody, hadn’t stolen anything. In many cases, their only crime was making some public complaint about the Project.

  And that was the other problem: it was easier than ever to identify the naysayers now. Zira doubted Ryku even needed his informants anymore. He’d turned everyone in the country into an informant so that he had eyes and ears everywhere. A new program he’d initiated encouraged people to report their neighbors for any suspicion of wrongdoing. Advertisements appeared on every street corner with slogans such as, “Help us keep your family safe” and “Don’t just suspect—report.” Rewards for such reports varied based on the nature of the so-called crime and the extent to which it could be proven. They might include a slight increase in rations, or perhaps a note in an individual’s file that could make them eligible for better job or education opportunities. A single report might not be enough to make any major difference for a person, but ten or twenty might, and there were a lot of scared, desperate people out there.

  Tripp didn’t think they had to worry about being reported here, though. At least, not as much as they might have in a suburban area or even a rural one. It was one of the main reasons they’d chosen this city and this neighborhood. Their building was full of some of the most disadvantaged members of society, and there was a sort of solidarity in that. Many of them, like Sonny, were ineligible for official employment for one reason or another and struggled for the most basic necessities. Others, like Zira and Tripp, were just looking for a place to crash that was mostly off the Project’s radar, often because they were involved in illegal activity of some kind. Everyone had their own problems, and nobody was going to snitch. It was an unspoken code—us versus them—and a mutually beneficial one for all parties involved.

  Tripp polished off the last of his breakfast. “Good peaches,” he said, scraping the last of the juice from the can. He licked the back of his spoon, another one of Sonny’s useful scavenging finds. “My dad loved peaches. We used to have a tree in our backyard, and my mom would can them every summer. I got sick of them, but my dad could eat a whole jar in an afternoon.”

  Sometimes, Zira forgot that Tripp had had a life before the Project recruited him. He’d never talked about his parents before, and she hadn’t given much thought to the fact that he’d once had a real family. “Did you ever try to go back to them after you left the Project?” she asked.

  Tripp shook his head. “I didn’t want to put them in danger, and I knew Ryku was looking for me. Turns out, it wouldn’t have mattered. He killed them all anyway.”

  A chill went down Zira’s spine. She should have known by now just how ruthless Ryku could be, but sometimes his atrocities still rattled her. “He killed them?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t say anything for a few more seconds and just stared at the empty can in his hands. “He made it look like some kind of freak car accident. The autopilot malfunctioned and sent them right over a bridge into the river. My mom, my dad, my kid sister. Just so he could remind me he’s the one in control. He can do whatever he wants and no one will stop him.”

  Unsure of what else to do, Zira tentatively put a hand on his shoulder. She’d never been good at handling other people’s emotional pain, or her own, for that matter. It was easier to just ignore it. If Tripp had been bleeding, Zira might have been able to help him, but as a comforter she was useless. The wounds that couldn’t be seen were often the hardest to deal with. “We’re going to stop him,” she said.

  Tripp looked over at her with a strange, sad smile. “You kind of look like her, you know. Alison—my sister.” Zira wasn’t sure how to respond, but it occurred to her that might have been part of the reason why he’d saved her life in Grayridge, or why friendship had grown so easily between them when it was usually hard for Zira to connect with anyone. The familiar, mischievous glint returned to Tripp’s eyes, and his grin widened. “Of course, she was a little more fun,” he said. “Not so pissed off and serious all the time.”

  “I’m not pissed off all the time.”

  “Well you aren’t exactly bursting with joy, either.”

  Zira shrugged. “We’ve got too much to worry about. There’s no time for fun.”

  “There’s always time for a little fun,” Tripp said. “Life’s too short, and you’re too young to walk around frowning all the time.”

  Zira grunted. “I’ll have more to smile about after your rebels take Ryku out of power and all of this is behind us.”

  “Cheers to that,” said Tripp, and he raised an imaginary glass.

  * * *

  The next morning, Zira woke gradually, with the nagging sense that something wasn’t right. It took her a few minutes to figure out what was wrong. It was too quiet. And too late, judging by the way the shadows in the room fell. For two weeks, she’d been awakened each morning by the sharp crack of Sonny’s knuckles on the door. Not today. He hadn’t come.

  She rolled over and hissed at the huddled figure across the floor. “Hey, Tripp. Wake up.”

  He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “What’s wrong? What time is it?”

  “Late. Sonny never stopped by.”

  Tripp sat up and stretched his arms. “He probably just took the day off.”

  Zira shook her head. See you tomorrow. That’s what Sonny had said yesterday after trading her the boots. He wouldn’t just take the day off; he couldn’t afford to.

  “Relax, kid,” said Tripp. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Sonny did not show up the next day, though, nor the day after that. The tap in their apartment had recently started pumping out water tainted brown, so Zira took a walk to a vacant unit a few doors down to fill a bottle. On her way there, she got up the nerve to speak to the young woman who often stood by the window at the end of the hall to smoke. “Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know what happened to the guy who used to come around here trying to trade with people for food?”

  The girl’s eyes widened, and she peered down the hall as if to make sure no one was listening. “You should be more careful asking questions around here,” she hissed.

  “Sorry. I just want to know what happened to him.”

  “He owe you or something?”

  “Something like that,” said Zira.

  The young woman nodded like she understood and took another long drag of her cigarette. “He’s gone. Disappeared.”

  Disappeared. A euphemism for what happened when the Project took someone with no warning. Most likely, no one knew whether he was dead or had just been shipped off to a labor camp somewhere. Zira nodded to the girl and tried not to let on how much
the news crushed her. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  “Eyes and ears everywhere in here,” the girl mumbled. “You got to stay on your toes. Stay smart.”

  Zira went back to her own apartment with the water and told Tripp what she’d learned. He was sympathetic, but not surprised. “I guess it was only a matter of time,” he said. “He was probably stealing half of that stuff, and begging for food undermines the Project’s claims that they take care of everyone.”

  Zira had seen the same thing during her stay with Mei in Grayridge. She shouldn’t have been so shocked, but she was—shocked and infuriated and dismayed by how sheltered her life in the compound had been. She’d had no comprehension of the bleak reality normal citizens faced on a daily basis. Seeing it firsthand like this made her hate not only Ryku, but the entire Project. A small but growing part of her was even starting to believe in the rebels’ mission to take the country back.

  Chase contacted them the next day with a new job. “That’s weird,” Tripp said when the request to set up a video call came in. “He wants to talk to us face to face. It must be something big.”

  The rebel leader’s image appeared on their computer display a few minutes later. He looked exactly like Zira remembered him, but the tired, pinched look around his eyes gave his face a harsher appearance. “I’m glad to see you both safe and sound after that incident with Trinity’s escape,” he said.

  “Us too,” said Tripp.

  “She arrived here last week. We’ve put her to work with our outreach team trying to recruit new supporters to our cause.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Tripp. “But I hope the next job you have for us isn’t quite so intense.”

  Chase gave them a thin, forced smile and a curt nod. “We’ll get to that in a minute. I assume you’ve seen the numbers on arrests and crime rates since Ryku took control?”

  “Just what the Project has released.”