“Get in, assess the situation, find out how involved each clan is in the rebellion, and then report back to me. We’ll take it from there.”
Greg would be an informant. Not great, but not horrible either. It beat serving on the front lines where he’d have to kill illegals, rebel or not, adult or not.
Standing, McCormick started pacing his office. “The fact that you’ve been branded as a traitor will only add to your credibility. It’s perfect, really. If any rebels suspect you’re one of us, flash your scars and let them know how much you hate us. You wear your hatred like a badge. They won’t suspect a thing.”
A pit formed in Greg’s stomach. The commander really was going to exploit Greg’s past. Get in, chant some anti-Rigsby rhetoric, flash a scar or two, and single-handedly bring down the rebellion. Nobody would suspect a thing. President Rigsby would probably reward Greg for it, too. With little effort, Greg could propel himself up the political ladder, earning money, titles, and power.
He scratched his beard to remind himself of who he was and what he refused to become. They had branded him for a reason. He wanted nothing more than for the new regime to topple until it was ashes. There had to be a way to work this new position in the rebellion’s favor. Knowing he’d be the one to decide which clans were harmless or not, which were targeted or not, meant he could sway things whichever way he wanted. He just had to do it in a way that wouldn’t get his family killed.
Up until this point, he’d had one goal in life: save his loved ones. Now he had two, because one way or another, he had to save the rebellion. As he considered this, his fat lip pulsed, reminding him of the practice room.
His eyes snapped up.
“With all due respect, sir, if you’ve been waiting for somebody to refuse that station, why give the order for the attack?”
McCormick smiled. “Your fellow comrades are heading to positions of authority. You didn’t follow an order. They needed to see it punished. As far as they’re concerned, you’re in here getting a verbal lashing. Officially, I’m placing you on probation with the understanding that one more incident will land you in prison. That way when I send you on this mission, they’ll think you’ve been locked up.”
Greg nodded slowly. So not even McCormick’s guys would know there were spies, ensuring less chance of exposure.
“What happens to the others once they finish training, sir?” The ones who shot the fake three-year-old.
“They’ll become federal patrolmen,” McCormick said. “Technically, that will be your title, too, just under this special operations umbrella.”
Greg eyed the commander’s black uniform. “And…what’s the difference between federal patrolmen and regular ones?”
“So many questions.” McCormick paused as if debating how much to say. “The short answer is that federal patrolmen aren’t restricted to laws the same way regular ones are. They aren’t restricted to Illinois either. They go wherever President Rigsby needs them. You walked from Raleigh to Illinois, giving you experience in several states. I’m sure Rigsby will exploit that soon enough, but not until I’m through with you. For this particular assignment, you’ll stay in this area. We believe the center of activity is coming from a group of clans on the southern outskirts of West Chicago, ten or so miles north of here.”
North.
Not quite northwest, but close enough that Greg hatched a plan. If there was any wiggle room in this new assignment, he’d sneak home and check on his mom, see Carrie, and warn his own clan about potential government spies.
“And if I refuse this assignment?” Greg asked.
McCormick grabbed a file from the desk with Greg’s name typed across the top. He didn’t have to open it for Greg to understand the threat. It held the names and information about his family. “You won’t.”
Greg frowned but said, “Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m counting on you to be smarter than the others who haven’t made it back. This isn’t going to be easy. Don’t let me down and don’t come back in a body bag.”
Greg nodded numbly. “How soon do I leave?”
“You and your partner will leave on—”
“Partner?” Greg cut in. “Sir, I can handle this on my own.”
McCormick gave a mirthless laugh. “You might be the perfect fit, but I don’t trust you, Pierce. Not one bit. I’m guessing a guy like you could turn invisible and disappear on me in a flash—or worse, undermine everything we’re doing. No. You’ll have a partner every second of every day. Your partner, Lieutenant Ryan, is one hundred percent loyal to me and this cause. The two of you will be virtually linked at the hip, so don’t get any ideas.”
Greg’s hopes plummeted. How could he swing things in a clan’s favor with some guy following his every move? How could he sneak home and warn everybody?
“Lieutenant Ryan has infiltrated other clans with great success, so you’re in good hands,” McCormick said. “I’ll inform the lieutenant we’ve spoken, and the two of you can work out the details with the goal of leaving by the end of the week. You’ll be living off the land, traveling with little more than the clothes on your back, but I have a feeling you’re more comfortable that way. Once you and Ryan sketch out a rough idea of how to attack this thing, get back to me for final orders.” He reached out to shake Greg’s hand. “I expect big things from you, Pierce. If we don’t nip this skirmish in the bud, we could be on the brink of a second civil war. You’re doing your country a great service.”
That was what he was afraid of. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good. Now go back to your quarters with your tail between your legs. You’ve been severely chastised for disobeying a direct order.”
It wasn’t hard for Greg to look downtrodden as he left. Until he met this Ryan guy, he had no way of knowing what he was in for or if he was about to do exactly what McCormick hoped he would:
Sway the war in the president’s favor.
thirty
OLIVER HOVERED OVER THE map of Shelton with his two young partners, explaining why he had organized the sweeps like he had. The map was laminated so they could mark days and times with erasable marker, but no matter how they mapped out next week’s schedule, it was too much area to cover, even if they worked eighteen-hour days.
“What if we fit the northern part of Sugar Grove in on the same day as Shelton?” Oliver said. “Then we don’t have to…”
He trailed off as David Jamansky walked in.
“What’s going on here?” Chief Jamansky said, eyeing the maps. “Why are all of you standing around? Get to work.”
Oliver gripped the marker. It was all he could do to speak civilly to the new chief anymore. Oliver was older than Jamansky by eight years. He should be the commanding officer, not the other way around.
“We’re just going over our areas, chief,” Portman said, “calendaring our next week.”
Jamansky pointed out a spot in Sugar Grove. “Those are my old areas. I had them whipped into shape, so you better take good care of them.”
Oliver’s whole body felt on fire with a need for revenge. It had been this way for a month. He couldn’t endure much more.
Jamansky pointed to a far corner of Shelton. “When is this section being patrolled?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, sir,” Bushing said. “So far there aren’t enough hours to—”
“No sections are to be ignored!” Jamansky snapped. “Do you have any idea what’s happening in the country right now?”
Bushing ducked his chin. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Oliver kept a firm grip on his marker, breathing deeply to keep from punching his arrogant boss. If only he could come up with a way to extort that arrogance…
Thinking, he searched the map. Jamansky hated him almost as much as he hated Jamansky. But Jamansky hated Chief Dario even more. Maybe enough to…
“Sir,” Oliver said suddenly, “Portman and Bushing thought that maybe we should split up.” His partners’
heads snapped up with terror at being mentioned, but Oliver plowed on. “They say we could cover twice the area in the same amount of time, but…but I think it’s too dangerous. Chief Dario said the three of us should stay together to stay safe. He gave me explicit orders never to work alone again.”
“Safe?” Jamansky said, turning. “Are you a sissy girl, Simmons? What happened to you doing patrols on your own?”
“It’s just that with everything going on,” Oliver said, keeping his eyes downcast while his insides jumped with possibility, “it’s not safe for me to be alone anymore.”
Jamansky leaned across the table and yelled in his face, “This is no time for cowards, Simmons!”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Oliver said softly.
“Portman, Bushing,” Jamansky barked, “from now on you two are together. Simmons, you work alone. No more complaining about hours or covering all the sections. I expect your jobs to be done with accuracy like I did mine. Am I understood?”
Outwardly, Oliver worked to look dejected while inside he did a back flip. He was alone again.
“What about a car?” Portman asked. “We all share one right now.”
“Not my problem,” Jamansky said. “Use Simmons’ car when he’s off duty or walk to your patrols for all I care. Just figure it out.”
That might complicate things, but Oliver was too thrilled to let it change his mood.
He’d won.
“Portman and Bushing,” Jamansky said, tracing a line on the map, “you now have the northern quadrant. Simmons, you take the southern.”
In a flash, Oliver’s joy disappeared. Shelton was in the northern quadrant. Logan Pond. Carrie. Oliver couldn’t lose Shelton.
Think. Think!
Using the same strategy, he moved around the table and lowered his voice. “Thank you, chief. I’ve had that upper quadrant for the last six years. It’s deader than dead. I’m anxious to try a new section. Maybe I’ll actually reach my quotas now.”
Jamansky turned slowly, eyeing him through dark slits. “Unbelievable. How did you get a badge?” Without waiting for an answer, Jamansky went back to the map. “It seems that Simmons here has been slacking in his duties. Portman and Bushing, you’re on the southern quadrant. Simmons, that northern section better become the best-behaved area in all of Illinois. I better not hear of one more rebel slipping through your fingers. Am I understood?”
Oliver bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. Jamansky was a fool. A complete and arrogant fool.
“Sir, yes, sir,” he said.
* * * * *
Amber hated to admit it, but she missed Braden. Since the cemetery, she’d been giving him the cold shoulder, waiting for him to apologize. But he hadn’t come, and lately it felt like he was the one giving her the cold shoulder, and not the other way around. The longer it went, the more she missed him.
“I’m just going to find him,” Amber told Carrie.
Carrie cracked an egg into the bowl. “Okay, but maybe you should think before you go storming over there. It sounds like you have some apologizing to do.”
“Me?” Amber said. “I’m the one who’s mad, remember?”
“Yes, but you said yourself that you’re not entirely sure why. Plus, sometimes you aren’t exactly…well…”
“Perfect?” Amber offered. Because she already knew that.
Carrie cracked another egg. “Nice.”
Amber about burst a vein. “Excuse me?”
“You can be kind of bossy,” Carrie amended quickly. “At least sometimes. Maybe you should focus on being nice.”
Amber huffed. She hadn’t been bossy in the cemetery. She’d been right. Braden was a fool to want to volunteer for service. Someone had to tell him.
But…she really did miss him.
“Fine. Whatever,” she said. “I’ll be the bigger person and apologize first.” Prove how mature she was.
She found Lindsey first, delivering goat’s milk to Sasha and the little boys. But when Amber asked where Braden was, Lindsey snapped at her.
“Why should I tell you? You only talk to me if you want to know where Braden is anymore,” Lindsey said. “I thought we were best friends, but whatever. Find him yourself.”
Amber’s initial response was to fight back, but she thought about what Carrie said. Sometimes you aren’t exactly…nice.
“I’m sorry, Linds,” Amber said. “I’ll be better, I promise. But right now, I really need to talk to Braden. Do you know where he is? Please? Please, please, please? I’ll file your nails and cut your hair and rub your—
Lindsey held up her hands. “Fine. He’s chopping wood behind Kovach’s, but you better be nice to him.” Another glare. “He’s been in a bad mood lately.”
Again with the nice?
As Amber walked, her temper kept creeping up. Braden was in a bad mood?
Be nice, be nice, be nice, she told herself.
She crept around the side of Kovach’s house and spotted Braden chopping wood. Thankfully, he was alone. His shirt was off, and his tanned, muscled back sparkled with sweat in the sunshine. He wasn’t wearing his red bracelet, but then again, neither was she.
“Hi, Braden,” Amber called nicely.
Startled, he spun around.
“Oh. Hey, Amber,” he said. Then he turned back and swung the ax again.
She wanted to sidle up next to him, get a better look at him without a shirt, see his crooked smile, his turquoise eyes, and a hundred other things, but she didn’t dare with that swinging weapon.
Be nice.
“Want some help?” she offered. Not that she knew anything about chopping wood, but if he wanted to teach her…
“No, thanks.”
He shimmied another piece of wood onto the chopping block and took another swing. Hard and violent. Splinters splayed everywhere. Turning the wood, he swung again, harder.
The silence stretched between them, more oppressive than the summer sun.
“So…” she said, “how have you been?”
“Fine. You?” Another swing.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Horrible. Depressed. Lonely. “Fine,” she lied.
“Good.”
He didn’t sound mad at her, but neither did he sound madly in love. He sounded like a guy who couldn’t care less where she was or how she felt. Just another clansman.
He worked another minute before she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Look,” she suddenly blurted, “I don’t know what I did to make you so mad, but I’m sorry. I know I can be a pain, and bossy, and a jerk, so I apologize. I just want things to go back to how they were. I miss you.”
“I’m not mad,” he said, still working.
Then why wouldn’t he look at her?
She watched his tanned, sweaty back, waiting for more explanation. It didn’t take long to know it wasn’t coming. After another minute, she backed up and silently left the Kovach’s backyard.
Braden didn’t even notice her leave.
Or the tears streaming down her cheeks.
thirty-one
BURKE AND THE OTHERS wanted to “cheer up” Greg that night. Ironic considering they’d been the ones to give him the bruises. Of course, Burke had a nasty gash of his own from Greg’s kick, so Burke called it even. Greg called it idiotic. But he let them drag him out of the barracks, across the compound toward a small building Greg hadn’t noticed before. The inside was poorly lit with loud music, the smell of liquor, and scantily clad women entertaining officers. Greg started to turn around, but Burke grabbed his arm.
“You need this,” Burke said, dragging Greg toward the bar. “We all do.”
“No, I need to sleep,” Greg said. And to think. He needed to figure out how to infiltrate a clan without getting shot, how to keep from jeopardizing the rebellion, and how to sneak home to Logan Pond with a round-the-clock partner attached to his hip.
“Come on. It’s not that late. You need to lighten…” Burke trailed off as a leggy blonde waltzed past, hi
ps moving in time to the music. She gave Burke a seductive wave, which made him sigh. “Why didn’t they tell us about this place before?”
Greg grunted angrily. Two minutes of pounding music, and he had a migraine. But he sat at the bar and ordered a simple drink, determined to be quick and get back. Burke sat next to him, but the other guys ditched them for better prospects.
Greg swirled the ice in his dark drink, loving how it clinked in his glass. Nobody else appreciated ice like he did, or how each bubble of carbonation floated to the surface. He finally took a sip and wrinkled his nose. The drink was more sugary than he remembered. It also burned his throat more than something so benign should. Then again, all he’d had to drink since the Collapse was water and goat’s milk. This was—
“Too strong?” a woman guessed, sitting on the stool next to him.
His gaze flickered sideways. The dark-haired woman wore a low-cut dress with curves showing everywhere. She also wore way too much makeup. He swirled his ice again without answering.
She grabbed his glass.
“Hey!” Greg said.
Holding it close to her nose, she sniffed and took a sip. “Just double checking,” she said, handing it back.
Her red lip prints lined the rim of his glass, making him wonder why he’d let Burke talk him into coming. Greg set his glass aside and motioned to the bartender. “Another Coke.”
“Get into a fight today, handsome?” the woman asked, appraising his bruised cheek over the blare of the music.
Burke snorted a laugh. “You could say that. This guy decided he was too good for training, so we convinced him otherwise.”
“Maybe you should have hit them back,” she said to Greg.
Again, Greg refused to answer, so Burke did.
“How do you think I got this?” Burke said, turning to show her the other side of his face.
The woman laughed. “Nice.” Then she nudged Greg. “I like you already.”
Unamused, Greg finally looked at her full on. The dark-haired woman was older than him, maybe early thirties. She wore four-inch heels and a tight black skirt which showed too much of her long legs. She had far too much confidence for his taste, not to mention the ease of somebody who’d tossed back a few drinks. One of her dark brows rose, almost in an invitation, fully aware of his scrutiny.
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