His hands went to her shoulders, but she twisted out of his grasp, ready to lock herself in the bathroom again.
“Really, David. Thank you for your hospitality, but all I need is sleep.”
And maybe a crowbar.
Possibly a gun.
“Fine. But medicine first.”
He went into the kitchen and came back with a small syringe. “Which arm?”
“I can do it.”
“No. Allow me.”
Taking an alcohol swab, he pushed up her red, satin sleeve and began wiping her upper arm with slow, gentle circles. His eyes flickered up to her with a smile.
Why was he doing this? She barely knew him, yet he wouldn’t back off. Finally, he pushed the needle in. A bite of pain stabbed the injection site, but she rubbed it away.
“Great. Thank you. Goodnight, David.”
“Goodnight,” he said. “By the way, I work bright and early, so I’ll be gone most of the day. I’ll pop back in throughout the day to check on you. Keep the curtains drawn and don’t go out. We can’t have anyone seeing you.”
She nodded, trying to mask her relief that he would be gone.
“I’ll check on your siblings after my last meeting,” he said, “and make sure everything is in place to get them out. Then I will make some stroganoff that you’ll never forget.”
“And you’ll stop by Logan Pond?” At his confused look, she added, “To let my friends know where I am?”
“Obviously. Tomorrow afternoon.”
She stared at him, knowing full well he would never stop by. They wouldn’t know where she was or what had happened.
“Can I come with you?” she asked suddenly. “I know you have to work, but I could wait in the car. I’ll stay out of sight.”
He gave her a condescending look. “You’re illegal now, Carrie. It’s too risky.”
“But no one will know if I—”
“I said no,” he barked. As soon as he said it, his shoulders relaxed. “Look, I know you’re anxious to see your brother and sister, but we can’t get careless now. However…that gives me an idea.” He pulled out a small camera that for some reason he had tucked in his front pocket. “What if we show your siblings a picture of you and I together so they know they can trust me? Here.”
Without warning, his arm slid around her shoulders and pulled her tight against him. Nestling his chin in her wet hair, he whispered something that—even with her bad ear—sounded like, “You smell amazing.”
Cringing, she tried to pull back, but he cinched her close, held the camera far enough out to capture both of them, and said, “Smile!”
Her smile didn’t come easily, but Zach and Amber needed to see that Jamansky could do it. She was free, and they would be soon.
As he checked the picture, he nodded. “Yes. This will do perfectly.”
Before he could come up with another excuse to keep her, she told him goodnight and shut the door. His bedroom didn’t have a lock, so she sank down on the other side, sliding easily in her red silk, and pressed her back against the door.
His room looked like the rest of his house—mismatched and claustrophobic. His massive bed had a gold and blue comforter that looked anything but welcoming. That convinced her to sleep in the position she’d become accustomed to in prison: on the floor, leaned against a wall.
Two or three days. She just had to get through two or three days.
* * * * *
Well after midnight, Greg rubbed his eyes. Hours of talking, and yet all he could think was that Isabel and McCormick had lost their minds.
“They’ll never listen to you,” Greg insisted. “These rebel groups have been meeting for months tryin’ to defeat President Rigsby—and you, as well—and now y’all are just gonna waltz in there, tell them you’re sorry, and that you’re on their side now? With all due respect, sir, you’re nuts.”
McCormick sat back on his kitchen chair, looking equally tired. His graying hair lay flat against his head from how many times he’d ran his hand over it.
“They’ll listen to you,” McCormick said.
“They barely know me,” Greg said pointedly. “Look, I get what you’re tryin’ to do here, and I wish y’all the best, but”—he stood—“I just can’t get involved.”
Isabel grabbed his arm and yanked him down. “President Rigsby is going to be here in Naperville for a rally in five days. We aren’t going to have an opportunity like this again, Greg. I know you can get us in to Kearney and the rebels. We need their help to pull this off.”
Greg rubbed his forehead, going over it all again.
Only a few people knew about the president’s surprise visit to the troops in Naperville’s training facility, and all those were high-ups like Commander McCormick. Apparently, President Rigsby wanted to motivate his new “army” and turn the tide back in their favor. Because the rally was at the training grounds, on McCormick’s turf, the commander felt confident they could take him out.
It might work.
It could.
If they had months to plan and Kearney and the other rebel leaders agreed to help. Then again, hundreds of innocent trainees—many younger than Greg—would be within striking distance.
“You can only target Rigsby and his advisors,” Greg said. “Nobody else.”
McCormick huffed. “Obviously. Those are my troops out there, not his. We’ll strike before the rally ever starts, before Rigsby reaches the stage. Don’t forget, I have home court advantage. I know exactly where they’ll bring the president in, who’s on security detail, and where to strike.”
“It’s a good plan, sir,” Greg said. “Except it’ll take you three days just to convince Kearney to listen. Then what?”
“We don’t have that long!” McCormick snapped.
“Notice how he used the word we,” Isabel added with a pointed look. “You should start using it, too.”
Greg stared down at the fancy kitchen table, feeling worn to the bone.
“Look, Pierce,” McCormick said, “I don’t want to threaten you, but I will if I have to. Every day we wait, people are dying. We need your help to stop Rigsby, and we don’t have time to deal with your bull.”
Threaten?
So they would turn him in after all, tell the government he’d run from his post. McCormick and Isabel hadn’t run. They’d quit their jobs. That put them in a different category.
He scanned McCormick’s spacious home. Pictures of his late wife dotted every corner. Even the furnishings and cheerful yellow paint spoke of a woman’s touch—a woman who no longer lived because of the scheming of the president of the United States.
Greg sat back, thinking about Carrie and Oliver. Amber and Zach. Desperation and despair.
But…
What about the rest? The millions of Americans who had been turned into virtual slaves because of Rigsby’s “emergency laws”? Who was watching out for them, trying to release them before they ended up in graves?
People were dying every day.
How was it fair for him to limit his circle of concern to the four people who mattered to him? By helping McCormick, Greg could possibly save a lot more people. Thousands more, maybe millions. Even if he only saved one hundred people, or a dozen, at what point would it be worth it?
He stared out the nearest dark window.
Carrie would tell him to do the right thing. Big blue eyes looking up at him, she would say, “Doing the right thing is always the right thing to do, regardless of the consequences.”
But he didn’t want to. He wanted to find her.
Even if McCormick’s plan worked, and they somehow convinced Kearney to help them take down Rigsby’s regime, it wouldn’t be fast enough. Carrie needed medicine, and she needed it now. After ten failed calls, he would have to visit each work camp and demand to see the list of inmates himself. Carrie hadn’t just disappeared. If anything, Isabel and McCormick should be helping him. It had been five days since her arrest. Five!
It might already be t
oo late.
His stomach clenched in sudden realization. That would explain the calls. Nobody could find Carrie because it was already too late. She was already gone. But he had to know. Because even if it was too late, he had to save her siblings. He owed her that much. That was what she would want him to do. Amber and Zach—and Oliver.
No. It wasn’t what she would want.
Not fully.
“The right thing, Greg.” He could practically hear her gentle voice whisper it to him, a woman who never put her own wants above another.
Regardless of the consequences.
His shoulders slumped. He had to help McCormick—and in turn, what he could of America. The faster he did, the faster he could search for Carrie.
That still didn’t solve their first huge, insurmountable hurdle—how to convince Kearney and the rebel leaders to trust him a second time. Not just trust him but trust the two people who had sent him into the heart of the rebellion in the first place, all with the intent to destroy it. Now, they had changed sides?
He ran both hands over his scruffy hair.
“Who’s runnin’ the show in the Special Patrols Unit now?” he asked.
“No one yet,” McCormick said. “But I’m guessing Rigsby will appoint my replacement when he comes. Probably Steiner—a hothead, with little military experience. Steiner has been kissing up to Rigsby for a while, posturing for a position like this. The guy has no morals whatsoever.”
“He and the president should get along well,” Isabel noted dryly.
“To be frank,” McCormick said. Elbows on the table, he leaned toward Greg. “Part of why we need to move quickly on this is because Rigsby will be gunning for my head once he shows up. I’ve tried to keep my resignation quiet, but he’s going to find out soon—if he hasn’t already. People don’t leave his organization without…well…”
“Punishment?” Greg guessed.
Based on McCormick’s expression, it would be a stiff one.
“Just tell him, Uncle Charlie,” Isabel said.
McCormick clasped his hands. “They’ve scheduled an execution as part of Rigsby’s speech. Traitors and enemies of the state will be tried and executed, any who have committed high treason against America.”
Greg went cold. “An execution?”
“Public execution,” Isabel clarified. “Broadcast around the country. Isn’t that lovely?”
Greg felt sick, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. Typical Rigsby strategy. Kill those who oppose him. Might as well do it publicly and scare a few more million people into submission.
“Call me crazy,” McCormick said, “but I’d rather not end up on that list.”
If President Rigsby was executing all who went against him, there would be nobody left for him to rule over. The guy was running out of friends. Even legals were turning on him as they caught this deadly virus.
Greg’s head snapped up with a sudden idea. “The cure.”
Commander McCormick gave him a strange look. “What do you mean?”
“Sir,” Greg said, sitting up, “what does every illegal want right now? Where is Rigsby hitting us the hardest? Whenever people get in his way, he kills them off.” He pulled out one of the syringes he’d saved for Carrie. “What if you take the cure to the rebels? What if you take loads of it—trucks full of it? Show that you’re on their side and truly want to save them. That’ll get you into Kearney’s group faster than anything I can do.”
Isabel took the small syringe from Greg, fingering it in her hands. “How do we even know the virus has spread to the rebellion?”
“A week ago, I sat in a hospital so full they were practically putting patients in janitors’ closets. And those were the legals. I can guarantee this has spread to West Chicago and beyond. So the real question…” Greg looked between the two of them. “Can you get the cure, and if so, how much?”
McCormick and Isabel glanced at each other, holding a silent conversation.
“It will take time,” Isabel said.
“Something we don’t have,” McCormick said. “Make the call.”
“Now?” Isabel glanced at her watch. “It’s after midnight. And how much do you even want?”
“Enough to treat two hundred people,” Greg said. “Maybe more.”
They both turned in surprise.
“Don’t tell me you don’t have the money for it.” Greg motioned to McCormick’s fancy kitchen. “If two hundred isn’t enough, promise Kearney you’ll get more.”
McCormick chewed his lip, considering. Then he nodded at Isabel. “Make the call.”
Grabbing her phone, she left the room.
For a time, McCormick and Greg just sat there, thinking, strategizing, and eventually staring at the small, lonely syringe on the table, as if too tired to move. Moving meant implementation, a daunting task.
Commander McCormick finally pushed back from the table. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month, Pierce. Go crash upstairs while Isabel and I get things in place. Take the bedroom on the right.”
Giving in, Greg rose from the table and started for the stairs.
“Hey, Pierce,” McCormick called.
Greg turned back.
“Thank you. For the first time, I feel like we have a real chance at this.”
“The cure alone should be enough to convince Kearney’s group to listen to you,” Greg said. “Technically y’all don’t need me anymore.”
It was worth a try, but his former commander’s scowl returned quickly.
“We still need you. We, remember? Because if this works, it won’t just be the rebels we help. You, your friends, and family.” His eyes blazed with intensity. “This could be the catalyst for a return to a civilized society. Don’t you want to be a part of it?”
In theory, sure. But in practice, it meant sacrificing his loved ones, possibly forever. That was an awfully high price to pay for the small chance of freedom of strangers.
Isabel poked her head in from the hallway. “Have Uncle Charlie make some calls for you, Greg. In fact, I bet he could even pull some strings and restore your citizenship.”
“Citizenship?” Greg said bitterly. “The only citizenship I want back is the real kind. The kind without cards and check-ins.”
“That’s what we’re hoping for,” McCormick said. “But for everyone. So what will it take for you to stick out this plan?”
Greg reached into his pocket and slid a paper onto the kitchen table. “I’ve already tried these prisons, but maybe you can put some pressure on because somebody’s not givin’ me the full story.”
thirty-seven
SOFT SCRATCHING WOKE UP CARRIE, something scratching on her door.
She rolled over in bed with a long, lazy stretch and caught a whiff of David Jamansky. She jerked back from the fluffy, white pillow. It reeked of his aftershave. She couldn’t even remember lying on his pillow—or his bed, for that matter. She’d fallen asleep next to the door, not tucked under his king-sized, blue and gold comforter. She jumped out of bed quickly—too quickly—and fell back to let the blood return to her head.
Something kept pawing the bedroom door, dogs wanting to be let inside the bedroom. Other than that, Jamansky’s house sounded silent. He said he had to work bright and early. The clock beside the bed read 6:14 a.m.
Black paws appeared beneath the door, trying to reach her. The dogs whined, but she didn’t let them in. Quietly, she made his bed, putting the pillows and sheets back as they had been. The morning sun shone through his bedroom window, casting a soft glow over everything. She had missed the sun and its promise of something bright ahead. She hoped that, wherever Greg, Amber, and Zach were, they had a little piece of sunshine, too.
Twenty minutes passed with her staring blankly at nothing. The house stayed silent, so she decided to risk it. Slowly cracking open the door, she slipped out of Jamansky’s bedroom. The dogs met her, tails wagging a thousand miles a minute. She held a nervous hand out to them.
“Freund,” sh
e whispered. “Don’t eat me. Freund.”
They sniffed her hand and thankfully seemed to accept her as something other than breakfast. They followed her down the short hallway.
Peeking around the corner, she saw Jamansky sleeping on the leather couch, mouth wide open in a snore. She nearly turned back around but decided to grab her orange tent first. Anything to get out of the red satin that belonged to Ashlee and now smelled like Jamansky’s aftershave. But when she entered the bathroom, her orange prison uniform no longer hung over the shower rack. She searched every inch of the small bathroom, behind the door, in the cupboards, even under the sink. Had he washed it? Stolen it? Either way, she had to find something to wear other than—
“Good morning,” he said, directly behind her.
Carrie nearly slipped on the cold tile. “David! You’re awake.”
“Barely.” Yawning, he rubbed his droopy eyes. “You’re a morning person. I should have guessed. I bet you always return your shopping carts and send thank you notes, too. So…” He leaned against the bathroom door. “What are you looking for?”
“My uniform,” she said, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. “Where is it?”
“I threw it out. That thing was nasty.” Without giving her time to protest, he asked, “Is there a reason you were sleeping on my floor? Something wrong with my bed? You were so exhausted you didn’t even stir when I moved you.”
She stared at him. Not only had he checked on her while she slept—creepy enough—he’d moved her into his bed. She felt like a snake had slithered down her spine.
It was time to set up some boundaries with him. She was a woman who needed clear boundaries. Big, huge, Russia-sized boundaries.
She backed up and ran into a towel rack.
His light eyes locked on her. “You, Carrie Ashworth, are unlike any other woman I know.”
Probably because she wasn’t fawning all over him. Someone else might consider his tall, blond look attractive, but she never could. Not after he’d attacked Mariah, Ashlee, Greg, and probably Oliver. She didn’t know why he was helping her, or flirting, or whatever he thought he was doing, but being around him made her feel like she was walking the edge of a steep cliff. Any moment he could change his mind and push her off.
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