LAST CALL AMERICA

LAST CALL BEFORE DARKNESS FALLS

BY

DEBRA TASH

Last Call America by Debra Tash

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Debra Tash All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

First Edition, 2018, Long Canyon Press

Published in the United States of America
By Long Canyon Press

PO Box 152, Somis, CA 93066

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-0-9975926-2-7

To all those who continue to battle for our freedoms

PART 1: HARDSHIP

CHAPTER 1

It began the morning Jason Poole pointed a rifle at me. The curfew siren signaling the day’s beginning hadn’t sounded yet, and shadows lingered beyond the diner’s windows as the sky just hinted of the dawn. I sat at one of the empty booths, looking out at the deserted street. There were no fires now, no broken glass. Anyone caught outside after Last Call would be shot on sight. What a strange thing, even after a year, to see our small town draped in darkness without a single streetlight burning, not a flicker of a candle, nothing in all the windows of houses and storefronts lining Main Street. Temporary martial law, which had stretched into months, had been declared by executive presidential order.

By the poor illumination of a single lantern on the counter, I could see my younger sister as she worked setting up for what passed as our breakfast trade. Christina ran a dust cloth across the Formica counter, polishing it for customers who would come with their ration cards in hand once we opened. At twenty, Christina was four years my junior. She and I were only half sisters, but there was never anyone closer to me, in sprit if not in looks. Tina always wore her hair in long, black, wavy ribbons, heavy and thick. I cut mine short, leaving it to look more like a cap of wispy dark red curls than anything that had been styled. She always smelled of lavender, the sweetness of spring, and her skin was the color of bronzed earth, mine light as cream. My sister fancied skirts and tank tops even when the weather cooled and the first taste of autumn seasoned the air. Then she would don her mother’s white cable-knit sweater in more a way to cling to someone we’d both lost years ago than to staying warm. I favored jeans and my worn Harvard sweatshirt that I’d gotten in my freshman year.

All in all, Christina took after her mother more than the white father we shared. Christina’s mom was Black with a hint of some other parentage. My sister possessed the woman’s high cheekbones, the same stunning brown eyes. But the fire that had been in my stepmother’s gaze was absent from Christina’s. Hers was more of a tearful longing tinged with a deep and buried wound. It showed her to be vulnerable, a fragile being and nothing at all like me.

About to get up and pitch in, I spotted the beam of a solitary flashlight outside on the empty street. “Christina,” I exhaled. “Turn off the lantern.”

“It’s barely burning.”

The beam tipped in the direction of our café. “Turn it off!” I snapped as I slid out of the booth.

My sister snuffed the light as I joined her at the counter. Crouching, I pulled Christina to her knees beside me. Soon, that beam of light penetrated the glass of our front door to form a glowing spot on the wall behind us. It roamed through the diner, across the empty booths with their worn vinyl seats, the small tables in the center of the room. Then that beam swept across the counter, lit each stool momentarily before ending its travels on the wall behind us again.

The sound of my sister’s soft breathing suddenly broke with a tapping on the window. I started to get up, but Christina held tight to the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

“Whoever it is may break the glass,” I said in a strained whisper. “Let go.”

She did and I got to my feet, reached under the counter, and gingerly felt around for the knife we kept there. After grabbing it by the handle, I held it behind my back and walked forward.

“We’re not open!” I shouted, making sure to stay clear of that flashlight’s beam.

“Captain Poole. I saw the light in there. Open up.”

I inched closer, finally settling to the side of the door to make certain I stayed hidden. “The siren hasn’t sounded yet. After First Call, Captain.”

“The door,” he demanded.

I didn’t move as sweat collected at the base of my neck. At the sound of metal scraping, I glanced around to see the silhouette of a man, the barrel of his gun against our front door. After tucking the knife in my belt, I made sure my sweatshirt covered it. Sucking in a deep breath, I stepped into the light with upraised hands.

“Now, Miss,” the captain said with a slight drawl.

I turned the lock and drew back, raising both hands again.

“You violated curfew.” He chuckled, that rifle aimed straight at me. He lowered his weapon. “Honey, I’d just like a cup of coffee.”

I finally dropped my arms to my sides. “We don’t have any made yet.”

He shouldered his rifle and blew on his cupped hands. “Instant would be fine. Long as it’s real hot and stone black.”

Christina turned up the lantern all the way. Captain Poole was a head taller than me, muscular, his hair as dark and wavy as my sister’s. The man was decidedly handsome with strong features, a straight nose, and those eyes of his. They were compelling, deep blue, a stormy gray when he turned his head.

“You got instant?” he asked, his gaze never breaking its grip on me.

“We do,” Christina answered. “I’ll put on some water. It’s an even day. We have reliable water service straight from the tap on even days. Of course, you know that.”

He finally looked at my sister, freeing me. “That’s real fine. Thank you, Miss.” Poole started for the counter.

“You have a ration card?” I asked.

He stopped. I froze. For a moment, I thought he would unshoulder his rifle again, the only ration card he really needed. “Why, sure thing,” he answered as he slipped his hand into his pocket and gave over the plastic card to Christina.

The captain turned to me. “Smart to ask.” He chuckled again. “Even asking for it from someone like me. Everybody has to have a ration card. Get fined otherwise. Besides, it’s our duty as citizens. Least ways that’s what President Whitman says.”

“Just until the financial crisis is over,” I added.

“Sure thing,” he said, his tone turning hard and cutting as he spat, “Right.”

Sliding on to one of the stools, he planted his elbows atop the counter and blew on his hands again. “Damn, I’ll never get used to this weather.”

“Take it you’re not from Massachusetts,” Christina ventured.

His mouth curled up at one corner. “The Texas hill country. Warm and fine even in December. And the land fills with blue bonnets come spring. Nothing more lovely than Texas in the springtime. Smelling like you, young lady, sweet and tempting.”

My jaw tightened.

“Don’t you like the fall?” my sister asked. “The trees changing color and all?”

“Don’t mind the color,” he answered, his gaze drifting over Christina. “Don’t mind it at all.” That half-smile reappeared. “Just like to stay warm. And by the looks of it, things can get mighty cozy here.” His mouth bloomed with a full smile now. “Name’s Jason Poole.”

“Christina Sanders.”

“And mine’s Rebecca,” I said, adjusting the knife secured in my belt as I sat on the stool beside him. My naive sister turned to get some hot water steaming in the stainless steel carafe. “Christina, you should put it in a To-Go cup. The captain probably has to get back on duty.”

“Why, sure thing.” He licked his lips as Christina handed him his ration card and the coffee in a Styrofoam cup. He grunted as he took it. “Thought they banned these cups for not being earth-friendly.”

“Had a lot left over from when our parents ran the diner,” I said.

He studied me for a moment, then Christina. “Your parents? You don’t much look like sisters.”

“Half-sisters.”

“Sisters who break curfew. That lantern. You know no lights before First Call.”

“We live above the diner,” I explained. “Have to rise early to get ready for the breakfast trade.”

Poole didn’t make a move to get up and leave with his coffee. Instead, he took a long sip, licked his lips again, and asked, “Did you both grow up here in Farmsworth?”

“Born in Boston. Our dad bought the diner when Rebecca was four,” Christina offered.

He took another taste of coffee. “Moved you out closer to Lexington.”

“No,” I said. “Just moved us out of the big city.”

“Lexington. ‘The shot heard around the world.’ My sergeant keeps talking about it. Sure does make you think.”

“Of what?” my sister asked, brow creased.

For an instant, those eyes of his lit with fire. “The revolution.” He finally stood and started for the front door with his coffee. Grasping the handle, he paused, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Thank you for the coffee, and don’t worry, ladies. I’ll be back soon enough.” He pointed to me. “And honey, next time, forget the knife.”

CHAPTER 2

Captain Jason Poole did come back, the next morning and each morning after that. He would arrive at our door the same time every day, just before dawn, increasingly more agitated. Not knowing this man, we wouldn’t risk questioning him about what lay beneath his irritation. All we did was serve him instant coffee in a Styrofoam cup, try to be pleasant, and get him out of the diner as soon as we could.

After a few weeks of such mornings, he came in as usual with his rifle slung over his shoulder. He strode right by me and took a seat at the counter. I shut the front door, turned the latch, and came up beside him with an outstretched hand.

He grunted and slapped his ration card onto my open palm. “Water’s on. Have your coffee ready in a minute,” Christina said as the stainless steel carafe steamed behind her.

Poole planted his crossed arms on the countertop. “How about some eggs with that, sunny-side up?”

“We have powdered,” Christina said. “Scrambled. I can make you some.”

“Powdered.” He grunted. “Instant coffee. Boiled chicory mud. Would give my soul for a real egg and some decent coffee.”

My sister glanced at me, then at her feet.

Poole caught sight of the exchange, an eyebrow cocked. “You hiding something?”

“No, Captain,” I insisted.

He stared at me a moment, his eyes penetrating, searching, drawing me closer. “Black-market. Contraband, maybe? Illegal as hell.” A smile creased his mouth. Poole’s smile was nearly as intense as his gaze. “Darlin’, for a real egg and a fine cup of java, I swear I’d do about anything.” He clenched the strap of his rifle.

Christina took a sharp step backward, bumping into the coffeemaker behind her. The carafe tipped over, spilling hot water. My sister jumped, biting her lip. Tears puddled in Christina’s eyes as she put her burnt hand to her mouth.

“Damn it,” I mumbled under my breath as I came around the counter, grabbed Christina by the arm, and took her to the sink.

I reached for the tap and paused as Poole pressed against my back, his breath on my cheek, his scent musty, masculine. His body felt sultry in contrast to the cool fall air as he leaned forward and turned the handle. Cold water splashed into the metal sink. It was an even day. He nudged me aside and tended the burn on Christina’s hand.

“I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” Jason Poole sounded so sincere, I almost believed him.

“Just clumsy,” my sister offered. “It’s not your fault.”

There he stood dressed in drab, olive green fatigues, that rifle in hand, his blue eyes, more gray than blue now, softening with regret.

“She’s right, Captain. It’s not your fault.”

Poole shifted his gaze to me, Christina’s wounded hand still cupped in his. “You got something I can put on this?”

I went through the swinging door to the kitchen where we had the first aid kit hung on the back wall. By the time I returned, Poole had taken a bar towel and soaked it in cold water. He pressed the chilled cloth against Christina’s burn.

I held up the tube of antiseptic cream. “Here.”

He took it and gently rubbed the salve onto her reddened skin. When she was taken care of, Poole hitched up his rifle. “I’ll get some powdered eggs and instant coffee over at the base.” His voice lowered as he muttered, “If there’s any left.” He gave Christina a small nod. “Sorry for the trouble.”

The captain was nearly to the door when I shouted at his back, “Wait!”

He looked at me over his shoulder.

“One egg, sunny-side up. Fresh coffee and wheat toast.”

“Make that wheat toast rye instead, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“Have a seat, then,” I insisted as I pointed to a booth. Captain Jason Poole may have made that pledge in jest, but I intended to hold him to it.

Poole ate the same thing every morning, always finishing his prized sunny-side-up egg before we opened our doors for business. Rations were getting tighter, even for the military. At first, his presence unsettled me. What if he demanded to know where we were getting our extra food? Or what if he wanted something else? But Poole never did ask where those fresh eggs were coming from or how we managed to provide him with a decent cup of coffee. Perhaps the captain was grateful he had won himself a small boon and didn’t care where it came from. After a while my uneasiness ebbed, and I actually looked forward to his morning visits. Jason Poole seemed to possess an extraordinary talent for making people trust him.

Poole may have come for breakfast, but he never made the evening trade. With supplies short, we supplemented the lunch and dinner fare from our own Austerity Garden. Root vegetables grew well in our corner of New England, and there was always enough rain. Just the same, we found it necessary to pare down the menu even more by the last week of September. With tougher cuts of meat to work with, Christina, the acting chef, artfully applied our limited stash of spices to enhance the stews. Even if the fare didn’t measure up to our typical down-home cuisine, when we were open for business there were always lines of townsfolk with ration cards in hand waiting for their share.

The time to celebrate the harvest came with the onset of October. The holidays were just ahead on the calendar. But there would be no pumpkins for carving that year since nothing was wasted, and the Saturday Morning People’s Market, where folks bartered for anything and everything, had recently been banned. We relied on the government to mete out food and other goods. October, with its display of fall color, was my favorite season. But it felt more like a wake that year, especially when the day came around marking Father’s death.

I grabbed his old coat from the bedroom closet and the scarf he always favored. Of red and black knitted wool, it wasn’t the best scarf he had owned, but the one he’d cherished most. Christina’s mom had made it for him shortly before her own death. Now I wrapped the scarf around my neck, went downstairs, and stopped at the kitchen to ask my sister, “You sure you don’t want to come?”

She shook her head; that thick black hair of hers had been pulled back into a ponytail. “You go for both of us.” She stirred the simmering pot with a large metal spoon. “Have to get ready for the dinner trade.”

I snorted. “Tina, like everyone else, we have to wait for another Sup Ship from Central to be open for business. We’ll put up the ‘Closed for the Day’ sign and you come with me.”

She shook her head again, then finally looked at me, her eyes glassy with tears. “You go alone. I want to stay home.”

“Okay. Sure. Stay home,” I conceded, then changed my mind. “But right now you’re going to help me.”

I grabbed her by the hand and led her through the rear door to the backyard. There was our garden, raised beds nearly picked clean and the lawn choked with weeds. How Dad had loved that lawn, his very own patch of earth. In the center of our yard was an old maple tree. My sister and I used to scale its trunk and shimmy along the branches when we were growing up. How many hours had we spent tucked beneath its shelter, looking out beyond our fence at the small town we called home? And, even better, come spring we would tap that old maple when the sap began to run; maple sugar candy, the best thing on earth to a kid.

“Up and up, Tiny,” I said as I took a pair of shears from my back pocket, gave them to Christina, and leaned down, hands cupped to give her a boost. Born five weeks early, she’d been so small. Four years her senior, I managed to shorten her name to Tina, then Tiny because of her size, and later because of her being so delicate.

She gifted me with one of her shy smiles. “Okay, Rib.” She couldn’t say my name when she first learned to speak. It came out Reb, and later changed to Rib as revenge for every time I’d call her Tiny. She gingerly placed her small foot in my open palms. I hefted her up, and she started to cut one of the boughs.

Head cocked, I shouted, “Not that one! Something glorious! Autumn—”

“Jewels!” she finished my statement. Our father would say, “You can always find something glorious in the fall, autumn jewels.” Father loved this time of year as much as I did, and this autumn would be the second we hadn’t shared together.

My sister finally picked one with a fine array of color. She got down and handed the cut branch to me.

I hesitated. “Your last chance.”

“Tell them…Rib, just tell them I miss them.” With that, Christina went back inside, the door closing behind her.

I took a deep breath and headed through the rear gate. A blustery fall wind stirred the leaves littering the street. Not a car was in sight. Gasoline was precious now and not to be wasted on a casual ride around town. Most of the shops neighboring our diner were closed, their clients vanished. Only our establishment and the corner drugstore remained open on Main Street. There were always long lines at Roper’s Pharmacy and the government Distribution Center where the Price Shopper Market used to be.

I walked past the town’s solitary bank. Closed now, it opened only on Tuesdays and Thursdays to give out assigned ration cards. No one had any savings, not with the tax on it, then the run on the banks. The dollar had fallen and money had disappeared almost overnight, and with it the world, a total collapse. Father had warned Christina and me something like that would come one day. He said they would push us out of the small towns, make us live in the hive-like buildings that had been constructed inside the big cities. They would finish stripping us of our rights. With the slaughter in the Middle East, new nuclear powers in the world, people dying of diseases we’d never seen before, and the rise of the old Soviet Union, we should have known. Father died just before the worst of it happened.

“Rebecca!” someone called.

I turned to see Mrs. Murray, my old high school English teacher.

“Will there be stew tonight?” she asked, her voice held to a whisper.

I shook my head. “Sorry. No dinner trade until the next Sup Ship from Central.”

Her wrinkled lips pinched closed, and her green eyes became hooded as if she were calculating something. “Next supply shipment doesn’t come until Friday.”

“You’ll be the first seated, Mrs. Murray.” I patted her hand. “I promise.”

She nodded and walked away.

I headed for my destination. Turning off Main, I went the four blocks to the Baptist church where our family used to worship. Attendance had fallen off even before the Troubles; the pastor who had shepherded our flock had died three months after Father. Abandoned, the church stood empty and bare. It’d been picked clean. I stopped to look at the steeple. Even the cross that had once crowned the white clapboard structure had gone missing. My eyes pressed closed as I tried to recall the Easters and Christmases we’d spent there, the holiday decorations, the dark pews with their velvet seat pads, the scent of aged wood and time. A strong blast of frosty wind woke me from my sad reverie. I hurried off and went behind the church.

The cemetery dated from before the American Revolution, all the way back to Farmsworth’s founding in 1743. I picked my way around fallen branches and bramble. Here and there, the older headstones had fallen over. Covered in moss and weathered with time, the names once etched across their stone faces were nearly impossible to read. No one maintained the cemetery; no one cared about the dead anymore. No one but me, and I cared far too much.

My father’s grave was at the farthest reach of the burial ground. Finding it, I cleared the earth with the sole of my boot, sweeping my foot back and forth to push away the weeds and other debris. Finally satisfied with the result, I placed the autumn bough atop the plaque marking my father’s final resting place and whispered, “Tina and I love and miss you, Dad.”

“What are you doing?”

I jumped, startled at the sound of a man’s voice. Turning, I saw him, dressed in fatigues, olive green, worn and faded. He had black hair, shiny and straight. His skin possessed a deep earthy tone that complemented his brown eyes, framed them, in a way. Admittedly, his nose was on the large side and hooked, his cheekbones high; not a handsome face, but not an unpleasant one either. It was definitely friendly, at least friendly enough for a man standing in a graveyard with a rifle in his hand.

I finally gave him an answer. “Just paying my respects.”

“I never see anyone come here.” The soldier looked at the bronze plaque and read the name out loud, “Robert Sanders.”

“My father.”

He pointed to the marker to the side of my father’s grave, then back to the plaque. “They related?”

“Vera Sanders. My stepmother.”

“Sanders…hm…” His gaze swept along the cemetery’s lonely landscape until he pointed again, this time to something in the distance. “There’s a Jonathan Sanders from 1857 over that way.” He cocked his head to me. “Family?”

“Family from 1857?” My brow furrowed. “You taking some kind of weird census?”

He chuckled. “I’m sorry. It does sound like a weird census, doesn’t it?” He shrugged and let out a sigh. “I was getting a doctorate in history when it all went to hell.” He held out his hand. “David Hernandez, and I presume you’re a Sanders.”

“Sure.” I hesitated a moment, then took his hand. “Rebecca.”

“Pleased to meet you, Rebecca Sanders.” We shook.

“You were majoring in history over in Boston?”

“No. The University of Washington. Pacific Northwest. Seattle. That’s where my family’s from. Generations back.”

“They taught you to study cemeteries at the university?”

“Not exactly. But you can learn a lot in cemeteries. About the people below ground and those above it. And like I said, you’re the first person I saw come here in weeks.” There was something in his gaze, not intense, not probing, something sympathetic and altogether human. “Look, I’m sorry I intruded.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Hey!” I shouted.

He stopped and looked back at me.

“You always hanging around in this graveyard?”

“Nearly every afternoon when I get off duty.” He tucked his hands in the pockets of his jacket and dipped his head to me. “Good day, Rebecca Sanders.”

“Be seeing you, David Hernandez.”

The next morning, Captain Poole sat at our counter, finishing his breakfast. “You’re a mighty fine cook, Christie.”

Poole had taken to calling my sister “Christie” or “Christie, my darlin’.”

He scooted his empty cup toward me. “Honey Beck, how’s about a refill?” That was my nickname, “Beck” or “Honey Beck,” a nickname that in my college days would have won him a sneer and the label “sexist pig.” But these weren’t my salad days and this man, though he played one well enough, was no rube.

“Well,” I drawled, “Poole, sugar, we ain’t got much left.”

He laughed, winked at me, and held up his cup. “Then you just rattle ’round that little old pot of yours and see what you get out of it for me, Honey Beck.”

Poole, indeed, had a way of disarming people, even when being outright annoying. I chuckled and turned to get him some more coffee just as a tap came at our front door. I looked at the wall clock—twenty minutes to opening, too early for people to start lining up to come inside. When I turned back to the counter, Poole had already left his seat. My sister, with the captain’s plate in hand, glanced at me for a moment, then quickly tucked the soiled crockery into the plastic tub we kept under the counter.

Keenly aware I could still smell the telltale scent of fried egg and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, I called to Poole, “Tell them we’re closed!”

As if he hadn’t heard me, the captain turned the lock and let whoever it was inside. I leaned forward as Poole said a single word in greeting, “Sergeant.”

“Sergeant.” I whispered, “Hernandez?” Yes, it was David Hernandez whom I’d met the day before in front of my father’s grave.

The sergeant saluted Captain Poole and handed over a small device. “You forgot your tab, sir. New orders.”

“New orders already?” Poole punched in a code and read the message on the tab. He turned his attention to me. “We’re to collect all food in the area and bring it to the Distribution Center.”

“You mean confiscate everyone’s food?” I snapped.

Christina grabbed my hand in an attempt to silence me. I shook her off.

“You’re right, Beck. And as of now, this diner’s out of business.” The captain clicked off the tab and tucked the small device in his shirt pocket.

“And you’ll be coming back for our food? Am I right about that, too?”

“That you are.” He motioned for Hernandez to follow him. The two officers started for the front door.

“Wait!”

The men paused.

“Need a word alone with you,” I said to Poole.

“Hernandez is my second in command. Knows where I am every minute of the day or night. I put my faith him. So can you.”

I remembered David Hernandez standing on that holy ground in the cemetery where my father and stepmother rested side by side, and the look of sympathy in his eyes. Yet I hesitated, more because of Poole than his second in command.

“What is it?” Poole demanded with an edge of impatience I’d never heard in his voice.

“A deal, Captain.” I leveled my gaze on him. “You game?”

He studied me a moment, his cool, calculating eyes unreadable. A half-smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “All depends on what you’re offerin’, darlin’.”

CHAPTER 3

Tina tugged on my sleeve to stop me. I hesitated a moment, plagued with a nagging feeling she could be right. There stood Captain Poole with an eyebrow arched, a silent gesture urging me to move or he would leave. But I knew this man would return soon enough with more than his trusted sergeant to back him up.

“Follow me,” I said, my voice choked to a hoarse whisper.

I led them into the kitchen and to the door to our cellar. After I switched on the light with a shaky hand, we descended the wooden steps.

When we reached the bottom, Sergeant Hernandez looked at the near-empty shelves. “Not much to bargain with.”

Poole’s crooked smile returned as he surveyed Christina up and down. “Maybe the ladies were thinkin’ of tradin’ somethin’ much more invitin’ than a couple of old cans of soup.” He chuckled, but Hernandez didn’t seem all that comfortable with his superior’s insinuation.

Before I could give Poole a curt retort, the captain’s attention latched onto the wall just in front of us. Brow furrowed, he intently studied it, his gaze slipping to the floor, then up again to where the ceiling and wall met. “There’s something behind those shelves,” he murmured, dropping his good-old-boy accent.

He took a step forward. My sister instinctively took one as well. Now, I grabbed hold of her sleeve, forcing Christina to stand beside me and not move.

The captain stopped directly in front of the shelving. He tipped up his head one more time, then clasped the side of that shelving and yanked. Instead of everything spilling on top of him, the structure swung wide as he pulled one side of it along the worn groove in the concrete floor. With the way clear, Poole slid his hand along the thin, nearly invisible crack running from floor to ceiling. After a few attempts, he used the flat of his palm and pushed his weight against the barrier. What looked to be part of the wall creaked opened. Our father had installed the hidden door years ago when he divided the cellar by putting up a wall. Additional fluorescent lights flickered on, triggered by the motion detectors.

Poole exhaled a solitary word, “Damn.”

“Dear God,” Hernandez said in an almost prayer-like whisper. “Never seen so much in a private stash.”

“Who’d have thought it, Hernandez.” Poole chuckled again. “These two are preppers.”

“Our father believed in being prepared,” I said.

Poole let out a whistle. “Well, girl, your dad was one hell of a believer.”

The air was musty, damp. But everything was well kept and in good condition. There was a great deal stored there, all our father’s doing. Shelves of foodstuffs, paper goods and other sundries — even after of a year of shortages, there was more than enough remaining. We had a freezer and a small generator. It ran on a low-voltage fuel cell and kicked in automatically during our numerous blackouts. Power had become unreliable and lately it had been off most evenings. Fortunately, our father’d had the foresight to stockpile gas as well.

The captain walked between the rows of shelving with Hernandez on his heels. He stopped and picked up a bottle of whiskey. “Damn. Lookie here, a large stock of some fine old devil water.” Poole went on until he paused by what Dad had called “the rack.”

“Rifles, pistols, semi-automatics,” the captain said as if taking inventory. “Every one of these is illegal, Sanders.”

All privately owned guns had been illegal for years. Still, Father had managed to collect them, and enough ammunition to go with each, to start a small war. Poole continued his private inventory again, stopping at the sound of chattering in the corner of the room. The two men walked over to the source.

Poole let out a belly laugh this time and yelled, “Son of a bitch!”

Christina wrapped her hand around mine as we joined them by our indoor coop. The light was on now, and would stay on way into the night. We had the pullets in a separate pen, fattening them until the day they would be big enough for the roasting pan. One of our six laying hens had gone broody. She sat atop a clutch of eggs that would soon be hatching.

Poole lowered himself on his haunches. “So here’s my sunny-side up every morning. Well, thank you, my fine-feathered gals.” He rose and pointed to our rooster. “With the exception of you, sir.”

“We leave one rooster to keep the flock going,” I explained. “The excess chickens, males and old layers first, go to the block over there.” As I pointed to it, my sister cringed. She never came down here when I was offing one of her feathered charges. “We feed them scraps from the diner.”

“And use their crap for fertilizer in the garden, I suppose.”

“Nothing goes to waste.”

Poole held out his hand, finger shaped like a gun, and aimed it at our rooster. “Been a long time since I had fried chicken. And you, sir, look mighty young and tender.”

“Not Henry!” Christina blurted.

Poole lowered his hand. “Don’t you worry none. I won’t ‘Colonel Sanders’ Henry.”

My sister smiled. Yes, indeed, Tina always shone when she smiled. It made her even more beautiful.

The captain turned to me. He stood silent for a moment, his hand sliding up and down the strap of his rifle. “So, Honey Beck, what deal are you wanting to offer us?”

“Three squares a day for the two of you.”

“And your diner?”

“Stays closed,” I said. “But you and the sergeant will eat like kings.”

“Or we can take all of this from you now and you’ll have nothing left but ration cards, if you’re lucky. Those weapons will buy you something much worse than jail time.”

I showed no emotion, even as my stomach churned. “Do that and you’ll have to find some place to store the food or bring it to the Distribution Center. Same with the guns and ammo.”

“The collective,” he rasped. “Fair share of practically nothing.” I didn’t break with him. We kept eyeing one another, neither of us flinching, until Poole finally said, “Okay.” He looked to the rack where my father had so carefully amassed our own private arsenal, then his gaze bore into me once more. “We have a deal.” That annoying half-smile of his reappeared. “For now, Honey Beck.”

The day we made our bargain waned. As evening neared, a creeping anxiety settled on me. I took to sitting by my bedroom window to keep watch on the garden gate. Shadows filled the street beyond our fence as the October sun vanished and the siren signaling Last Call sounded. Everyone would remain indoors until they heard it again in the morning. Our café had been officially closed by order of the Federal Authority. Patrons had come to the door, read the sign, and never even bothered to stop and question why. Things just happened now, with our lives being shackled a little bit at a time by an unseen force.

The aroma of roasted meat wafted in from our small upstairs kitchen. What was my sister preparing? I hadn’t even bothered to ask. I had sat at that window feeling as if I were waiting for the devil to arrive. A solitary lantern burned on the bedside table. The room had been kept the same as when I’d left it to attend Harvard. My large oak desk remained, the twin bed capped with a flowered quilt, frilly curtains that never suited me framing the wood-sash window, and the walls a pale shade of sage green. I’d come back home to this room when Father had fallen ill.

I glanced at my wristwatch, six sharp. Looking up, I caught sight of him by the light of the harvest moon rising in the east. The devil and his minion were right on time.

Poole opened our gate and stepped into the yard, Hernandez directly behind him. After scrambling downstairs, I opened the back door even before they had a chance to knock. The men were still in their fatigues and fully armed.

The captain took a sniff. “Damn, do you smell that, David?”

Hernandez hummed. “Heaven on earth.”

Poole looked at me and motioned toward our living quarters. “Lead the way to paradise.”

Without a word in greeting, I showed them upstairs. When we reached the kitchen, I let out a hushed groan. Tina had set the round whitewashed table, and had even placed a candle in the center. Its flame flicked, sending shadows dancing across her mother’s china plates.

My teeth ground together as my better sense was shoved aside by a spike of anger at my sister’s show of hospitality. We had to have them in our house; we didn’t have to make them feel at home. I was about to lean forward, blow out the candle, and fetch the lantern burning on the white tile counter when I heard Poole say, “By the look on your sister’s face, I have to suppose you were the one to welcome us.”

Tina gazed at him over her shoulder. She looked so vulnerable, soft, her long, wavy, black hair haphazardly tied back.

“Let me thank you for your kindness, Christie, my darlin’.”

A nervous giggle escaped her parted lips. She took a deep breath and finally answered, “’Taint nothin’.”

The captain winked at her. He and Hernandez pulled out two chairs. Poole paused and motioned for me to take his seat. I grabbed hold of another chair, but he shook his head, hand still pointing to his place at our table as if he were a gentleman. He waited for me to sit before making himself comfortable.

Without asking me if it was a good idea, Christina had dipped into our frozen stash of meats. She cooked and served a rarity that night—steak, tender and exceptionally seasoned. Potatoes from our garden were alongside, mashed and creamy, and all of it accompanied by one of our father’s Cabarnets.

I kept my gaze on Poole, my stomach still in a hard knot. He would pause every now and then in his meal to compliment the lovely cook. His praise seemed to put Christina at ease, but it did little to calm my nerves. I kept watch for that look, a sultry longing, a demand of my sister. But Poole didn’t do anything inappropriate when it came to Tina that night. He was nothing but a gentleman, even insisting on helping clear the dishes and doing them.

That left me alone with Sergeant Hernandez at our kitchen table. I folded my arms over my chest and just sat there.

“Cold?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You?”

“I hail from the Pacific Northwest, remember? This is positively cozy.”

Poole snorted. “Well, I’m freezing.”

“We’re out of heating oil,” I explained.

“You and the whole northeast, Beck,” the captain said. “And there won’t be any shipments this winter.”

I turned in my chair to see him standing by the sink with a dishtowel in his hand. “People will freeze to death.”

“More than likely, unless they have a store of wood on hand and an illegal fireplace or stove to burn it in.” He took hold of another plate and started to dry it. “Take it your daddy stocked up on wood as well.”

I didn’t answer.

He motioned toward the kitchen window. “I’d wager, if I had anything left in my wallet to do it with, that shed out back is full of firewood.”

I remained silent.

“Maybe,” Tina finally conceded, her voice a bare whisper.

“Well, don’t you worry none,” he assured her. “Tomorrow when we come for your supplies, we’ll make certain to overlook it.”

Hernandez crossed his heart and held up his right hand.

Poole set the damp towel on the counter, his attention on me now. “I know what you’ve been thinking, Beck. But you have to trust me. Things are bad now and they’re going to get a helluva lot worse.” He grabbed his rifle, which he’d left alongside Hernandez’s by the kitchen door. He shouldered the weapon and signaled his sergeant to join him. “One day you’re going to count yourself lucky we struck a deal. And that day may come sooner than you think.”

With that, the two of them left us alone. I leaned over and finally blew out the candle.

CHAPTER 4

After First Call the next day, Poole returned, this time with his men, the full company of over one hundred and twenty troops. They were in combat gear, camouflage fatigues, helmets, shaded goggles over their eyes. Well-armed, they broke into teams and started to comb through our neighborhood, confiscating everyone’s personal stores. I went into the street and walked, my senses keen as I became witness to a nightmare world.

I stopped when I saw one of our neighbors, Lois Bradley, seated on an old bus bench not far from where she lived. Her son—maybe four, maybe a little younger—hung close as she shook her head. Her husband had died a few months ago, taken by the most recent epidemic, leaving the pair all alone. A handsome woman, she bordered on stunning with one exception—there was always something about her demeanor, the timidity of someone completely beaten down, and she looked it even more so now.

Her long blonde hair hung in tangles, her deep brown eyes wide with fright, as she sat on that bench and sniveled. “They didn’t leave us anything. Why?”

“Look, you don’t know my sister and me all that well. But you can come over to the diner. Maybe we can find something for you two to eat.”

Bradley shook her head once more and cleared her throat. “That’s not allowed. They said we have to come to the Distribution Center. And that’s what we’ll do. Soon I’ll be assigned a job. I’ll earn my share. But for now, they’ll take care of us. That’s what our government does. And those are the rules. We have to obey the rules or they could hurt us.” She rose to her feet and picked up her son. “Isn’t that right, little man?” She kissed his cheek and hugged the boy close as she walked away.

I stood for a moment, struck by her foolish trust in the almighty government. With a groan and a shrug, I continued down the street. I found the Youngmans, a couple in their late seventies, standing in front of their dry cleaning store. It had been shuttered months ago.

“They leave you anything?” I asked, a question I’d repeated over a half dozen times before I got to them.

“No,” Mrs. Youngman answered. “They even took Fred’s medicine.”

“Now, dear,” Mr. Youngman said, his voice quivering. “The men assured us there would be enough for all at the Distribution Center. Even my medicine. Their personnel will oversee our healthcare needs.”

“It’s not right,” I snapped.

“It’s for equality. Social justice,” he countered as he put his arm around his wife. “Don’t worry, dear, the government will take care of us.” He steered Mrs. Youngman into their store, where they lived above it on the second floor.

I saw so much, people in tears, a few with the guts to protest becoming angry, if only for a moment, screaming, then cowed into silence. After all, Poole’s men were armed and no one had anything with which to defend themselves. These troops were the government personified. Who could war against them? Who could fight back? Rage? I watched as they went from house to house, rummaged through the shells of businesses, the empty places of commerce that had long since been picked clean. I watched as they went to the people I had known through a good chunk of my childhood. Yes, indeed, I became a witness to it as they—that enigmatic and all-encompassing “they”—robbed the people I had called “neighbor,” “friend,” the people who had comprised our small circle in a small corner of this world. It had all gone dark. I watched and smoldered and felt helpless as we were herded along and the last bit of our independence evaporated.

By mid-morning, with the task nearly complete, Poole finally came with two of his men to the door of our diner. One of the huge container trucks that had been moving along our street idled at the curb, the back panel rolled up to reveal the nearly full interior.

“By Federal order and for the good of the majority, we’re here to collect any personal food items,” Poole recited, as he must have recited countless times that morning. His goggles were pushed up as he stared straight at me. Three of my eggs were rolling around in his gut, spiced with salsa and doused with strong fresh coffee. Three eggs he had eaten because we had a bargain, an accord with a man in whom I had lost all trust. His face remained unreadable, masking what seemed to be an unmovable force.

My jaw clenched as I let slip a curse. “Bastard.” I aimed that single word at Poole, given to him for everything I had seen that morning.

Christina pressed up behind me, her soft form warm against my back, a reminder of that bloody deal, our very own, however small, conspiracy.

“Yes, ma’am,” Poole responded as if he didn’t care what I had just said or who I was. He signaled for his men to go inside.

They searched through the diner, finding little. The same with the upstairs kitchen. The men then went down to the cellar. Christina and I stood on the steps, observing them as they cleared the shelves. We stepped aside as the men trudged upstairs and carted away our goods. My sister caught her breath as they passed us. I took Tina’s hand in mine to calm her. Poole’s two subordinates never paused to notice the deep groove etched into the concrete floor.

When they had finished, the captain, still standing in the cellar, looked up at me. The pause lasted far too long, a silent form of torture. Then he climbed the steps toward us. I pushed Christina out the door and into the diner’s kitchen as the trio tromped about the room, their boots thumping against the tiled floor.

One of the men looked through the window at our backyard. “Sir, there’s a shed out back.”

Poole glanced out the kitchen window. I had taken our gardening tools and left them hazardously in front of the shed. “Nothing there,” the captain said. “Let’s move out.”

When they got to the front door, Poole looked over his shoulder at us. “Distribution is at two p.m. sharp at your local center. Don’t forget your ration cards.”

“Bastard.”

He saluted me. “Yes, ma’am.”

That night, Poole and Hernandez joined us for dinner. When he’d finished, the captain pointed to his empty plate. “The fried chicken was mighty fine, Christie, my darlin’. Mighty fine.”

“You said you missed fried chicken,” my sister said. “Glad you liked it.”

“That I did. And I appreciate you being such an accommodating hostess, unlike your counterpart here.”

“We don’t take too kindly to thieves around these parts,” I drawled.

My taunt didn’t seem to make a dent in his seemingly thick hide. Poole sat back in his chair, hands cupped behind his head. “Had orders, Beck.”

“Orders to leave children without food? To take away an old man’s medicine?”

“Orders are orders. And I follow them.”

“And you disobey them when it suits you.”

“Human nature, Honey Beck.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Do tell.” He snorted. “Then why’d you strike a bargain with me?”

I didn’t answer.

“Come on. Smart gal like you. A native of the Bay State.”

I hesitated a moment, then cleared my throat. “I had no choice.”

“And there you have it, Beck. You have it right.” He rubbed his stomach as his attention turned to Tina. “My, that was good chicken. Hope I didn’t just eat Henry.”

“That wasn’t our rooster,” my sister piped in. “Was it, Rib?”

“Henry’s just fine,” I grumbled, my gaze fixed on Poole.

Tina stood and began clearing the dishes. Poole didn’t make a move to help her this time. He didn’t make a move to leave, either.

“Dinner’s finished, Captain,” I said.

“That it is. Now I’d like to get warm.” He didn’t say another word, just sat there looking as if he planned to stay settled in that kitchen until I made the next move.

“The shed,” I finally conceded. “There’s a wood-burning stove in the den.”

“Didn’t I tell you, David?” Poole spoke to the sergeant seated beside him. “That daddy of theirs sure was a prepper to end all preppers. How’s about you go down and haul up some of that cut wood from the shed, Hernandez? And you, Honey Beck, fetch us a bottle of that whiskey I saw stashed in the cellar.”

Christina’s back stiffened as she stood at the sink washing dishes.

“It’s time we got back to base for final inspection, Captain,” Hernandez said.

“It’ll wait.” Poole had his gaze on Tina. “I’m so damned tired of being cold.”

The sergeant opened his mouth as if to offer another reason to leave. Instead, he just pressed his lips closed, let out a grunt, and got up from the table. The sound of his footfalls retreated as he headed down the stairs and out to our backyard. Poole cocked his head, gaze now on me.

I slapped my napkin onto the table, slid back my chair, and went to get the asshole his bottle of whiskey.

Part office, part living room, the den had been our gathering place as a family. Here we would come together as our father worked at paying the bills or went over his accounts. There he’d be seated at his old wooden desk that had been scarred by time, its dark finish scratched and badly chipped in places. The couch, a faded green tweed, was always occupied by Vera and Tina. Vera was my mom in every sense of the word except having given birth to me. She would be knitting while my sister read some ridiculous novel. Tina favored fantasy, lush worlds, bright and colorful and always complete with a mandatory happy ending. I’d sit on the floor poring over homework or reading the latest news on my tablet. Reality fascinated me, even though the truth had been getting harder and crueler with each passing day. My delicate sister could never take reality. She didn’t need it, this dreamer from a lost and untroubled world.

And that night when Poole had invaded what had always been our safe haven, my sister, as always, didn’t want to see the truth. Tina staked out her place on the couch and had her legs tucked beneath her, her flowered skirt fanning out over the cushion as she chewed on a fingernail until she peeled off a sliver. How many times had Vera scolded her for that?

Poole made himself comfortable at our father’s desk while Hernandez saw to our wood-burning stove. “It must be one of those high-efficiency models,” the sergeant commented. “Not much smoke.”

“It’s EPA approved,” I snapped, seated on the wooden floor near the stove’s brick hearth.

Poole leaned forward, hand clasping his glass of whiskey, elbows planted on the desk. “EPA approved until the agency made it a crime to burn wood in stoves and fireplaces. We all had to cut down on our CO2 gases to help the planet. Bullshit.” He pointed to the iron stove. “David, keep the fire small. Not much smoke with small fires. And that wood is seasoned. It’ll burn clean.”

“What difference does it make?” I asked. “There’s no one out now to smell the smoke.”

Poole took a sip of whiskey. “No one but the patrols.” He tipped the glass one way, then the other, spinning the liquor in a slow amber whorl. “You sure are treating me like I’m the devil’s spawn.”

“I’m sure I’m not alone after today.”

“You really think so, Beck?” He stood and came over to the fire. Poole watched the dancing flames for a while, taking small helpings from his glass. A long stretch of silence passed. “You have a mouth. No doubt about that. Strong-willed. But the town out there? Those people you were so rattled about at the dinner table? How many of them have any spine left?” He looked at me and waited. But when I didn’t give an answer, he set his attention back to the fire and muttered, “All sheep. They’re just thinning the herd. Then pushing what’s left of them into the cities. Worker bees…just like the authorities always intended…yes, ma’am.”

“Is that what you think of us?”

“Not me, Beck.” Poole tipped back his head, took a long drink of whiskey, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Never me.”

For several more long moments, he kept gazing at the spare blaze in the iron stove. Its warm light played across his strong features. Those features softened after a while, replaced by a longing of sorts, a kind of wounded yearning.

Hernandez went to the couch and pointed to the opposite end of where Tina was seated. “Is it okay if I sit over there?”

My sister looked at him, eyes wide as she nodded.

The sergeant took a seat, then picked up his full glass of whiskey from the side table and took his first taste. He coughed. “Excuse me.” He coughed again.

Poole looked at him. “It’s like the fire.”

The sergeant nodded. “Definitely like heartburn.”

The captain focused on our stove again, his gaze set on the wood being consumed. “It’s liquid fire.” He took a long draw from his glass. “These flames. You see the colors? The glowing light. It’s like home. Being back in the hill country. The dusty stretches of land and the oaks all twisted and gnarled. The wind coming through to set their leaves to chattering. And how it all turned to gold at sunset.” He threw back the remainder of his whiskey. “Dear God, it’s just like home.” He handed me the empty glass. “David, you finished?”

The sergeant placed his nearly full drink on the table. “Sure.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

David Hernandez left the couch and followed Poole out of the room and out of our house, neither giving us so much as a farewell. My attention focused on the fire. I contemplated the flames as they flickered and sparked, the color, the glowing light, peering hard into their display of glory, however temporary it may be. Somewhere in their depths, somewhere buried deep inside that light, Jason Poole had just seen home.

CHAPTER 5

Our arrangement with Poole continued as October vanished and November began to age. Near month’s end, the first snow arrived. Ill-kept lawns were dusted with white powder, and the trees, long shed of their autumn trappings, were bare reminders of a softer season. That morning, Christina and I headed to the Distribution Center as slate gray clouds painted the sky, announcing that another snowfall would soon blanket the earth. We were in no need of supplies, but if we didn’t show, there would be questions, and none of us wanted questions.

Our breath steamed in the freezing air as we waited in line. We danced from foot to foot, trying to keep them from going numb. Mrs. Bradley and her little boy were just ahead of us. How isolated the pair looked, desperate and in need of protection. Without Mr. Bradley, they had no one, no close relative or real friends, no one but each other.

A half hour ticked by before Mrs. Bradley and her child were at the front table, handing over their rations cards. Everyone had to collect their share in person. The Bradleys were handed back their cards and told to move on. Christina and I performed the same ritual and were ushered into the cavernous depths of what had been our local grocery store.

The shelving, once chock-full of goods, had been removed, leaving the inside an open landscape as barren as the trees outside. We went to the back, where dark, empty coolers lined the wall.

Stacks of boxes were piled in front of them, marked and sorted by contents. Christina picked up one box from each stack and placed them in the collapsible pushcart we found by rummaging through our attic. Vera used to wheel it through local swap meets, buying things none of us needed but always treasured. The Bradleys towed a red plastic wagon and filled it as they went. When we were nearly to the back door, Mrs. Bradley paused and gazed at that wagon, a puzzled look on her beautiful face. The armed guard swept his rifle toward the exit, a silent order to move. Giving no word of protest, she stepped outside.

Christina placed the last of our supplies in the pushcart. Done, we went through the back door and outside to the rear parking lot. Mrs. Bradley knelt by their wagon, opening boxes and shaking her head. She looked at the two of us. “I thought so. I did. See this?” She held open a box. “They’re cutting rations. They cut them a little bit the last time we were here. I thought it was a mistake. But they cut it even more today.”

We joined them and quickly examined the box’s contents. I hadn’t noticed any draw down in rations, but it didn’t matter to us, with having more than enough.

“How am I going to feed my baby?” she pleaded. “It’s three days until they’ll let us have more. This will last a day if we’re lucky. Why did they take our food? Raid our gardens?” Her face contorted with anger. “They’ve no right to starve us to death!” She broke down and wept. Her little boy rubbed her back.

“Here, Mrs. Bradley.” Christina reached into our pushcart. “You can have some of ours.”

“Why would you give us your food?”

“Because we can get by on less,” Tina answered.

“How?”

“We’re used to living lean,” my sister lied. She gave them as much as she could put in the wagon.

“Just make sure no one sees you with the extra rations,” I warned.

The woman nodded, obliviously still struck by Christina’s kindness.

As we walked off, Mrs. Bradley called, “God bless you!”

I threaded my arm through Christina’s and laid my head on her shoulder, smelling the sweet scent of her long dark hair. My sister was such a gentle creature. It didn’t matter that we had stores of our own and that we didn’t suffer from want. She had taken a risk in leaving a question behind with Mrs. Bradley.

But my peaceful respite didn’t last long. I disentangled myself as we walked on, head hung as I jammed my hands into my jacket pockets. I plodded beside Christina as anger welled up in me. It flared against the authorities who had stolen our life’s blood and now held it back with a greedy fist. Such rage inside. We were once human beings, once neighbors and friends. Now we had been reduced to hungry rats. I suddenly felt just as soulless as the faceless machine destroying us.

When we got to the house, I stopped at the back door. “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

“It’s too cold out,” Christina said.

“You’re sounding like Poole now.” I turned and went off just as a light snow began to fall. I walked past the Distribution Center where the line still snaked outside the door and around the corner. I walked by instinct, followed some ingrained childhood memory. I walked until I found myself outside our church, looking up at the bare steeple. At that moment, its missing cross possessed a deep and bruising meaning. “God bless you,” Mrs. Bradley had said. Where was He, the God my father and Vera had prayed to? Where was He, the One who left us in shackles like the Israelites, enslaved not to Pharaoh, but the heartless government? We had all been abandoned.

I spotted a solitary figure standing in the middle of the burying ground behind the church. I hesitated, then sucked in a deep breath and started toward him. “Sergeant Hernandez!”

He didn’t acknowledge me even when I came up beside him.

Several long moments passed until I finally asked, “Are you all right?”

He just continued to stand there, looking at the old cemetery.

We were silent as the falling snow lightly peppered our faces.

After a time, he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper. “The ghosts. They’re here.”

I gazed at the November landscape, the tombstones and patches of earth where the first snow had melted and was being replaced by new crystals of white. My heart became a muffled tattoo playing in my ears. There was nothing out there but that lonely prospect and the cool hush of snow.

He turned to me, his tattered winter jacket pulled up to his chin.

“I’m part Suquamish. Actually, mostly Suquamish. A tribe that lived along the Kitsnap Peninsula across Puget Sound from Seattle. The Suquamish had their own museum at one time. Dedicated to the tribe’s history. I would go there when it was open. It’s not there any longer…like so much of what we had. Well…when it was, I would take the ferry from the city and cross the Sound. Chief Seattle’s buried near the museum. Not far. Just behind the Catholic mission. I would sit by his grave for hours. And you see, there’s this marker…a grave marker, white and weathered…it had, well, up on top…” He bent back his head, eyes fixed on the sky. It seemed as if he were trying to pierce the gray shield above us to see something out of reach.

He slowly lowered his head, his gaze set on the cemetery once more. “It was white marble perched on a granite pedestal. There was a weathered cross on top of it. I’d sit there listening to the ghosts.” Hernandez leveled his gaze on me. “You understand? Chief Seattle and the others. They would tell me about the end of their world.”

The sergeant shifted his weight and adjusted the rifle at his shoulder. “Guess it’s what got me interested in history. The mistakes. The ones they had made. The ones we keep making.” He turned to the burying ground again, his voice lowered to a bare whisper. “I’m still listening. Even if no one else will.”

With that, he walked off, leaving me alone.

Dinner passed rather quietly, absent remarks laced with innuendos and jabs. It seemed as if the four of us were attending a wake, each of us having experienced some unspeakable tragedy.

When the dishes were cleared and placed in the sink, Poole pushed back from the table. “To the parlor. If you don’t mind.”

Without protest, we went into the den. Poole opened a drawer of our father’s desk and took out the half-empty bottle of brandy left over from two nights of his solo drinking. Neither my sister nor I had ever taken any of the liquor, and after that first time, the sergeant had passed on it as well. Hernandez removed wood from a stash he had carried up and left in the closet. Soon, a warm fire flickered in our potbelly stove. As usual, Poole stood before it, glass in hand, silently watching the flames feed off the seasoned wood.

Christina sat on the couch, reading one of her books, while the sergeant, seated on the couch as well, just looked to the solitary window as if he were still listening to those echoes from the past. I exited the room to find a glass, then came back and walked to the desk. After grabbing hold of the bottle Poole had left there, I poured myself a tall drink and took a long swallow. It burned all the way down to my gut.

All three looked at me. Poole put his back to the fire and lifted his glass. “Here’s to whatever reason is inspirin’ you to imbibe, Honey Beck. May it be far different from the one that’s inspirin’ me this fine evening.”

I lifted my glass. “Well then, Poole Sugar, here’s to all the reasons you have, especially the one this evening.” We both took a drink.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Oh, Beck, you have no idea what you’re saying.”

“You like me to guess?”

He grew sullen, turned around, and stared into the depths of the fire again as he grumbled, “Damn it.” He finished off the contents of his glass. “Well, let’s start with the first. You ever hear of Civil Asset Forfeiture?”

No one answered.

He poured himself another drink. “It’s perfectly legal, Beck. If someone does a crime on your property, well, the law can mosey on in and take that property away from you. Mosey-posey on in. Yes, ma’am. Amen.” He had half the glass emptied by the time he reached the stove. “We had a ranch outside of Fredericksburg. Quite a spread at one time. Some real fine country. Whittled down by the Feds from over five hundred acres to a measly ten. Mother was a widow and I was just out of high school. Couple of good ol’ boys were dealing drugs out back. We didn’t know it. Had nothing to do with it. We were as innocent as prairie dust.” He chuckled, finished that glass, and held the empty crystal to the fire, letting the light break into sparkling shards through its prism. “Those good ol’ boys were caught. Off to the hoosegow with the pair.”

Once more he faced me, arms crossed. “The authorities seized our property. Land my family homesteaded at the end of the nineteenth century. Mother fought them in court. Fought them until she was broke and broken. And my ma just up and died, leaving me to shift for myself.”

“You seemed to have done well enough,” I said, my tone cold, despite the brandy roasting my gut.

“That I did, Beck!” He laughed until he ran out of breath. “Leastways when it came to our old house. I burned the damn place to the ground.” Poole started for the desk to finish off the bottle.

I blocked his way and screamed, “Then why the hell did you become one of them?”

Poole looked into my eyes, refusing to give me an answer.

“They didn’t give you any other choice, isn’t that it?”

Still no response.

I refused to be intimated any longer. “No choice, Poole, but to starve the people here?”

“The Federal Authority is starving them. And let me tell you something, the Department of Homeland Security just issued units all across these fair United States enough hollow-point ammunition to kill an army. And with it, they gave them and the regulars orders to use it. Didn’t they, Hernandez?”

Now it was the sergeant who wouldn’t answer. I took a step back.

Poole took one forward. “That’s right, Beck. Orders to shoot at will when—not if—the civilian population rebels.” He spat. “Like I said, thinning the herd. And soon you’ll all be pushed into the city. Leave Farmsworth behind. Your stash of food. The weapons your daddy stockpiled. All of it. Into the city to be assigned your permanent occupation. My guess, it won’t be serving hash. But what else you’re good for, God only knows.”

Poole finally pushed by me and emptied the bottle into his glass.

I whirled about and shouted, “You’d do that? Help them turn us into slaves? The same bastards who took your land and drove your mother to her death?”

I waited but received only his indifference for an answer. With fists raised, I came at him.

He grabbed my wrists, held me off, and yelled, “You really want to know the truth, Beck?”

My mouth went dry. Something in his expression made me feel I didn’t want to know any of it.

Poole pulled me closer, his breath heavy with the brandy he’d just drunk. “I hate the bastards. All of them. If I could, I’d use that ammo to blow them to hell. Sons of bitches sitting fat and sassy in D.C. Starving the people by design. Tamping them down into the new global workforce. Waiting for them to rise up so they can smash them into servitude. Getting the men and women in uniform to take out babies, the old and crippled, anyone who they deem unfit to live. Anyone who can’t contribute to the State anymore. Yes, Beck, it’s all by design. Grand scheme. Master plan. And they just about have us to the finish line.” Poole finally let go. “Dear God, help me.” He picked up his glass and drained it.

“Don’t do it. Fight back! Fight and burn their damn house to the ground.”

“How?” he snapped. “You think our company can hold off what DHS can throw at us? Even if we arm all the sheep out there with your daddy’s arsenal, are you that fucking stupid to think we can win against Homeland Security?”

“Yes,” I answered, trying to keep my back straight.

“Damn it all, here I thought you were a smart Bay State gal.” He shook his head and put his back to me, returning his attention to the fire. “You need someone on the inside of DHS. Deep inside, if you want to get by their security and get hold of some real armament.” He snorted. “Advanced state-of-the-art shit.”

“I have someone on the inside.”

He looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow cocked.

“My mother.”

CHAPTER 6

“Put your hands behind your back,” Poole ordered as we stood together in our abandoned diner.

I did as I was told. Poole put me in restraints, loops of black plastic that went around my wrists. He slid the locking bar up to where the two bands were threaded together.

“That’s too tight,” Christina protested, her voice a trembling whisper.

“It’s okay,” I assured her.

“Hernandez will keep an eye on you while I take your sister in for questioning,” the captain informed Tina.

Standing beside my sister, the sergeant nodded and answered with a crisp, “Yes, sir.”

Poole led me through the front door to the Humvee parked at the curb. A few people who had been passing by had stopped to peer through the diner’s window. They watched as I was paraded out to the vehicle. The Humvee had four doors and what looked like a short truck bed at the rear. The paint job, shades of green on a canvas background, had chipped and flaked from wear.

The captain opened one of the rear doors and had me climb inside. It smelled of sweat, acrid and not all that pleasant. I sat in what seemed to be a jump seat. A large divider-like console ran down the Humvee’s center, starting between the two front seats to the vehicle’s rear. Poole slammed the door shut, got in the driver’s side, and started off. He looked at me through the driver’s side mirror. “David will keep a good eye on your sister.”

“I know he will.”

“Did you bring the map you were talking about?”

“Yes. It’s in my underwear.”

“Geez. Let’s hope it’s still legible.”

I stuck out my tongue, then studied the equipment at the front of the vehicle. One item looked to be a scope, another a radio perhaps, and still another some kind of tracking device, all sophisticated instruments. “You must have GPS in this thing.”

“Disabled.”

My teeth chattered. “Hope you didn’t disable the heater.”

“You’ll get warm soon enough.”

When we went through the first checkpoint at the edge of the city, we weren’t asked for orders. These men were under Poole’s command and he told them I was his prisoner. Just outside of town, the captain pulled off the road and down a dirt track. The tires spun up snow, creating fountains of white powder cascading on either side of the Humvee.

Poole stopped and turned in his seat. “Your hands.”

I put my back to him as he took a knife and sliced off the restraints.

“Gear’s under the front passenger seat. Knock on the window when you’re changed.” With that, he opened the driver’s door, got out, and shut it behind him.

After getting on my knees, I pulled out a set of fatigues, neatly folded with a pair of boots stowed with them. Once I wiggled out of my clothes, I donned the military garb. The sleeves went past my hands and the pants swam around my middle. The only things close to fitting were the boots after I slipped the army-issued socks over my own. I pulled on the heavy winter jacket, also too large. Instead of knocking on the window, I flung open the door, scuttled out, yelling, “What’s with this?”

Leaning against the hood, Poole turned to look at me. I stood in the snow with my right hand holding up my pants, and my left arm spread wide with the jacket hanging off.

He shook his head and chuckled. “Damn, ain’t that a sight?”

“I gave you my size!”

“And I forgot it.” He pulled his door wide open. “Now get in before your pants fall off.”

I hiked them up, slid onto the front passenger side, and yanked the door shut. He got in, reached down under his seat, and slapped a cap on my head.

“When we go through the next two checkpoints keep your mouth shut, private.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” I grumbled.

“It’s ‘Yes, sir, Captain,’ unless you plan on joining the navy.”

“If you say so, Poole Sugar.”

He threw the Humvee into gear. “So I have, Honey Beck.”

In less than a half hour, we went through the second checkpoint just outside of Boston before we entered the interstate. At the stop, Poole produced a peek, a toothpick-sized device that had our orders on it. The sentries placed it next to their tabs to read the contents. Whatever was on the tiny device passed inspection. Relieved, I sat back and set my eyes ahead. From time to time, I could feel Poole studying me, trying to penetrate my silence. After a while, I closed my eyes and fell into a fitful sleep to escape him.

“Final checkpoint at the border. Look lively!”

Startled awake, I sat straight and hurriedly tucked my far-too-generous uniform in place.

“Look lively, Beck, not panicked.”

I took a deep breath, and attempted to be lively without showing my anxiety. Poole handed one of the two soldiers at the checkpoint our orders. My empty stomach growled, loud and long enough to cause the two sentries to stare at me.

“Cut our rations,” Poole explained.

The two nodded. The one soldier handed back the captain’s peek and saluted.

As we pulled away, Poole said, “In there.” He jammed his thumb back to a locker perched on top of the large dividing console. “Get out some grub and let’s eat.”

I crawled over, flipped it open, and looked inside. “Did you raid our cellar?”

“Sure enough, Honey Beck.”

With my stomach still rumbling, I pawed through the contents. Poole wasn’t much on nutrition. I pulled out a couple bags of chips, two waters, and a package of cookies. “You should have been a thief, not a soldier.”

I gave him an open water bottle. He slugged down almost half of it before stopping to take a breath. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, “I should have been a lot things. Would have preferred anything to this.”

“Then why aren’t you something else?” I asked as I tore open a bag of barbeque potato chips.

He laughed. “You kidding me? Once they ‘peg and hole’ you, you can’t change. You start your assigned occupation.” Poole held out his open palm. “I’m confiscating my fair share. Give some over.”

“They never ‘pegged and holed’ me or Christina,” I told him as I tipped the bag and dumped a handful of chips into his open palm.

He pushed them into his mouth, crunched a few times, and swallowed. “All your school records. The data points. They collect them and tell you what you have to do. No one has a choice.”

“There weren’t any data points collected on us.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Everyone has them.” He licked his fingers and held out his hand again. I put the bag on the console beside him and opened up the ranch-flavored chips for myself. He dipped in and took a helping out of my bag. “Hell, Beck, you go through school and they measure everything about you. From your posture to your facial expressions. To every which way you twitch and scratch. They collect it all. Done it ever since the Feds nationalized education so they could fit you in your work slot when you’re old enough. ‘Bright new united world, with our new place in it.’”

“Phftt!” I gave him a raspberry for reciting that idiotic mantra drilled into everyone now.

“Phftt!” he gave me in return.

I crossed my arms over my chest and tipped up my chin. “We were homeschooled.”

“Couldn’t have been unless your folks didn’t give a damn that you’d have no occupation when you grew up. The Feds started in on homeschooling years ago. If your kid doesn’t go through the system they don’t get slotted. Maybe they expected all you two would be doing is working in that diner.”

“I got into Harvard. Two years into a Communications major when I was called home because our dad fell ill.”

His brow creased. “Someone had to change your records. Make them up. You could never have gotten into Harvard without that happening.” He finished off his water and nearly both bags of chips, then asked, “How about those cookies?”

I did the same thing I had done with the chips—set the open package on the console for him to pick through. I sat back in my seat again, a single thought chasing me. Maybe someone had changed our records. Someone deep on the inside. Someone who had abandoned me and never turned back to give a word of comfort since I was three years old. Someone I had hated nearly all my life.

After our last stop, we crossed over the state line of Massachusetts, and by late afternoon were driving north, deep into southern Vermont. I had never been to Vermont, a place I’d heard about from my father, a state where my mother’s family had lived, toiled, and died since before the first shot had been fired at Lexington. It’d been a wild, untamed land back then, too harsh for even the Native Americans to claim. With its steep mountains covered with trees and icy blue streams, it must have been an incredibly harsh place to carve out a life. And now it seemed devoid of people. The small towns and homes we passed along the road appeared absent their inhabitants.

A sharp clink caught my attention. Another, then a flurry of them as Poole jammed his foot on the gas.

Thrown back against the seat, I pulled myself erect and yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Someone’s taking potshots at us!” One more clink, then silence. “Where the hell are we, Beck!”

Lips pinched tight, I held up the map and concentrated, trying hard to figure out if we were going the right way. So many of the street signs had been torn down, carted off, and used for God-only-knew-what. I squinted as I tried to read the small print. “Just turn on the GPS.”

“You want them to track us, Beck? Now read the damn map and give me some directions.”

“It’s old. The print’s hard to read.”

“Probably smeared,” he said and snorted. “You should never have hidden it in your underwear.”

I grunted.

We went another mile before I spotted a road I could recognize from the map. “Turn right—here!”

Poole yanked the wheel hard and sent the Humvee fishtailing on the slick pavement. “Shit! A little more notice next time.”

There were more turns, and finally what appeared to be a gravel track leading to a home buried deep inside a forest of evergreen pine trees and sycamores bare of foliage. Poole stopped the vehicle far short of our destination.

I leaned forward, peering out the front window. Smoke curled upward from a stone chimney, wisps of black against the slate-colored sky. “Someone’s in there. Why don’t you get closer?”

“You never know if there’s a surprise waiting for visitors.” He pointed to the house. “Want you to exit and stand right in front of the Humvee, arms raised.”

“You crazy?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have your back.”

I shook my head.

“It’s your family. Not mine.” With his rifle in hand, the captain motioned for me to open the passenger door. “And take off your hat, Beck.”

I slipped the cap off my head and slowly opened the door. With arms raised, my pants slipped. I grabbed hold with one hand, pressed up against the Humvee, and scooted around to the front of the vehicle, mindful there may be surprises buried beneath that gravel driveway. With my back against the vehicle, I raised my hands high.

“Becky, baby!” a woman’s voice boomed.

I looked around but couldn’t find the source of that voice. After sucking in a deep breath, I shouted, “Rebecca Sanders! Father, Robert Sanders! Mother, Margaret Dunn!” Then I gave my birth date.

“Let her go!” the woman ordered.

Poole got out, hands held up slightly. “Ma’am, she isn’t a prisoner.”

“We came here for your help!” I yelled.

“Becky, step away from the Humvee!” the unseen woman directed.

I did. That’s when my pants dropped. I tripped over them and fell face first onto the snow-covered ground, knocking the wind out of me. It took a moment to regain my senses. I rolled onto my back as footfalls crunched against the newly fallen snow.

A woman holding a rifle stopped and stared down at me. My gaze locked with hers. A little overweight, she had graying red hair, and wrinkles mapped her face. She was a woman who could have been my twin except for the years between us. I knew her even though I hadn’t seen her in years.

A solitary word stuck in my throat. I pushed it out, even as it left a bitter taste in my mouth—“Mother.”

I cupped my hands around the mug, letting its warmth penetrate my cold fingers. Closing my eyes, I inhaled the rich scent of hot cocoa. I tried to hold fast to the comfort it brought to me. Faded memories of cold winter mornings when the world felt small and safe, a deep, buried feeling as I sat in the kitchen of the woman who had deserted me. My eyes opened slowly as I heard her footfalls.

She leaned over and dropped in a sprinkling of small marshmallows to top off the cocoa. Sitting across from me at the wooden table, Poole glanced at her, then at me, an eyebrow cocked as he lifted his own mug, sans marshmallows, to his lips.

A fire burned in the hearth next to the large iron stove. It filled the rustic kitchen with a pleasant warmth. In some deep and forgotten recess of my memory, the room felt familiar. It was decorated with rough-sawn wainscot, and had whitewashed walls. Butter-colored curtains covered the windows. I had changed back into my civvies after peeling off the fatigues, still damp from my fall in the snow. The fire toasted my back. Its warmth added to the odd feeling this place was home, a welcomed shelter from the gray November day outside.

Margaret Dunn joined us at the table. With hands folded on top of it, she set her gaze on me. She had taken off her winter coat and boots, leaving them hanging with ours on the hall tree by the front door. Dressed in a flannel shirt and stretch pants, her tawny graying hair disheveled, she looked much older than her years. Her eyes, the same shade of green as mine, were bloodshot, and her mouth was pulled taut. The room remained empty of sound.

Poole took a sip of his cocoa and pursed his mouth. “Mighty fine. Thank you, Ms. Dunn, for the hospitality.”

“You’re welcome, and it’s Maggie. Now tell me why you’re here, Becky Baby.”

I pushed away my mug. “It’s Rebecca.”

“If you say so. Rebecca.” She leaned forward. “Now tell me, why did you come to Vermont?”

“Dad left me a letter. In it, he gave me a map and wrote about you and this farm. It said you were high up in the Department of Homeland Security. Said if I ever needed help, to seek you out.”

Her gaze slid over to Poole. “I take it the captain has something to do with your visit.”

“I am one of the prime reasons,” Poole informed her.

“The soldiers stationed in Farmsworth have orders to start shooting civilians,” I said. “They took our food. Now the rations are being cut. There’s sure to be riots again and that’s when the military has its orders to open fire on us. Men, women, and children.”

Maggie pointed to my mug. “If you aren’t going to drink that…”

I glared at her, then shoved the mug in her direction.

She took a taste of the sweet drink, then set it down and drew in a deep breath. “It’s happening all over the country now.” She focused on me again. “We saw it coming years ago. James, Susan, and me. That’s why they left the DHS after…well…after. And that’s why I stayed.”

“James? Susan? Who are they?”

“Your dad’s and Vera’s real names. We were all in the Department together.”

For a moment, I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me again. I shook my head and jammed a fist onto the tabletop. “You’re wrong. Dad’s family used to own a fish joint in Boston. He grew up in the restaurant business helping them. Never did anything else. That’s why he and Vera opened a diner in Farmsworth.”

“Your father, like the rest of his family, served in a government post. He was no different from them. Su—I mean Vera, was the same. We all served the State.”

A shrill beep sounded as I sat there stunned by what she had just confided, something I could never believe true of the two people who’d raised me. Maggie pulled a small, thin rectangular device from her shirt pocket, studied it a moment, and looked at us. “Hold on a minute.”

She picked up a flyswatter from the counter, dragged her chair to a corner of the room, climbed on it, and whacked a tiny black dot on the wall. Maggie brought the flyswatter and chair back to the table. “Weenie TD.”

“Like in a weenie STD?” Poole asked.

Maggie spurted as if she were trying to suppress her laughter. “Has nothing to do with sex, Captain.” She held up the flyswatter for our inspection.

Poole and I strained to see what was on it.

“Maggie Sweetheart, looks like a little old fly with broken wings.”

Eyes narrow, she glared at him.

“Poole Sugar, here, is mighty fond of nicknames,” I explained, intimating his drawl.

“Geez. Does he always act like a sexist putz?”

I hesitated a moment, then nodded.

She let a chuckle escape. “It’s a Tactical Drone. Has a long technical name. In the Department, we dubbed them ‘Teeny Weenie Tactical Drones.’ Got shortened over time to ‘Weenie TD.’”

“Why would one be in your house?”

“They’re sending them all the time. Monitoring me since I retired from the Department a few years ago. When I get an alert—wham!” She scraped the drone’s wreckage onto the tabletop.

“And when the signal’s cut?” the captain probed.

“It isn’t cut. The equipment I have picks up the transmission portal and immediately replaces it with archived footage. Mostly me soaking in the bathtub or on the can. I’m giving Stevens, the ‘watch bird’ assigned to me, something scary to look at in the home office. When the drone has run its clock, he sends another one. Swat. About once every other day. Not enough to really get annoying.”

“Why whack them if you’re replacing their signal?” Poole asked.

“If I don’t, they have the ability to reset themselves on their own and override me.”

With his finger, Poole dabbed what was left of the device on the tabletop. Bits of the drone stuck to his skin. He examined it for a moment, then asked, “Why the monitoring?”

“I know too much.”

He flicked off the tiny shards. “Then why are you still alive?”

“Pragmatic, aren’t you, Captain? I’m still alive because I know too much. They can call me out of retirement anytime they want.”

“Will you help us?” I asked.

“That’s why your father left you the letter. I was always ready to help.”

“Now what can one person really do?” Poole prodded. “Tell me we didn’t come all this way for nothin’.”

“You didn’t come for nothin’,” she mimicked. “And it would have been better to ask, ‘What can a network of us really do?’” Once more she leaned forward. “Now tell me, what is it you want?”

Captain Poole’s mouth curled with a sly smile. “Why, to start a revolution, Maggie Sweetheart.”

CHAPTER 7

As shadows covered the landscape outside the old farmhouse, Maggie lit the solitary lantern propped on the kitchen counter and brought it to the table. She’d explained the local utility had cut power to the area months ago. A small generator provided just enough to run her computer and security equipment. She returned to the counter to fix dinner as we continued sharing our thoughts on a plan of action.

Maggie listened quietly as she opened two cans, fetched a couple of pots from the sink, and dumped in the contents. She set the pots on the stove and turned up the burners. I seemed to remember seeing that cookware soaking in brackish water when we came in, and judging by the results of her efforts, the finished product left little doubt cooking and cleaning were low on the woman’s priorities list. At least the food was filling, if barely edible. And to Poole’s satisfaction, Maggie had given him a bottle of beer to wash down the unpalatable meal.

When we finished, Maggie showed us to our accommodations, Poole. With the single lantern, she lit the way down the long hall off the kitchen. She sparked another lantern inside the room and pointed to a chest of drawers opposite the four-poster bed. “There’s extra blankets in there.”

Poole tipped his head to her. “Why thank you, ma’am.”

“And there’s probably still some antacid left. Check the medicine cabinet in your bathroom if you need any.”

He put a hand to his stomach, shook his head, and forced a smile. The captain closed the bedroom door.

Maggie raised her lantern and led me to the far end of the hall. There were faded photographs on the wall and a few painted portraits, illuminated briefly as we passed. She gestured to an open doorway as an odd feeling crept up my spine. I paused, sensing something familiar. I looked over my shoulder to the closed door opposite mine.

Maggie brushed past me and, as she had done for Poole, ignited the single lantern inside the room, sparsely furnished compared to Poole’s quarters. There was no chest of drawers or quaint rocking chair, just an iron bed piled with down comforters on top and a nightstand.

Instead of telling me where I could find the antacid, Maggie set her lantern beside the one on the nightstand. She pulled a small device from the pocket of her flannel shirt. Tugging on its edges, she drew it into a paper-sized piece of ridge plastic. She took a seat on the bed and patted the spot beside her. “I want to leave this with you.”

I walked the few steps to the bed. But instead of claiming the place beside her, I stood, arms held tight to my sides.

She let out a sigh, then tapped the top end of the plastic. It stirred to life.

“A photo album?” I said as the first picture came into focus. “Mine. And now it’s yours.” She turned it to give me a better view. “First photo is of the four of us.”

My brow creased as I finally sat beside her. “Four?”

“James Dunn, your father.” She pointed to a man, much younger than I ever remembered my dad being. Her finger slid to the woman beside him, someone the mirror image of myself. “Me,” she whispered. Her finger moved to the other woman in the photo. “This is Susan Riles. You knew her as Vera. And this is her husband, Dan Riles.”

My eyes widened, stunned as I stared at the image. Vera or Susan, so young with a radiant smile on her lovely face. “Christina,” I whispered. My head tilted, gaze focused on the man with an olive tone to his skin, sandy hair, and brown eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. I swallowed hard. “H-her husband?”

“Her first husband. We all met in the Department and became the best of friends. Called ourselves the four musketeers, always fighting for what’s right. One for all and all for one. Seems I showed more talent than they did, and I started getting promoted just as things began to happen.” She paused, her lips pinched closed.

“What the hell happened?” I demanded, impatient.

“Homeland Security. They bought all this ammo just before they militarized the other Federal agencies and took over the local police departments. Even as far back as when DHS was first formed after 9/11, there was something about the way they functioned. Then there were the reports. Contingency plans for different scenarios. Currency collapse. Shortages and runs on the banks. Control. How insurrections be could stamped out quickly. Finishing off our educational system, but taking it over completely. All about control. Jim and Susan, along with Dan, tried to get me to see what was happening, to make me understand the Department was recruiting.” She took in a deep breath. “They were looking for certain profiles. What was happening was bad. Really bad. That it was all leading to…” Maggie shook her head as if she were still in denial. Her tears caught in the lantern’s light. “Dan disappeared.”

“Susan’s”—I cleared my throat—“I mean, Vera’s husband. What do you mean he disappeared?”

She straightened her spine as if to steady herself. “People were disappearing. Their files wiped off the system…almost as if they’d never existed. People who were questioning too much. Why were we collecting data on everyone? Emails. Social Media. Everything. Why did the Department purchase armored vehicles? Expense accounts for non-existent personnel. Infiltration by certain groups ignored by our superiors. People who showed they were having doubts were disappearing. Just like Dan. They were being handled. It was after that I finally believed what Jim had been saying about… Well, I believed, and then I knew, he and Susan would be next. And you.” She had to pause again, her fingers trembling as she held the photo album. “It was only after that I understood I had to get the three of you out of the system. That I would stay behind. Buried in the Department. Somehow trying to undermine it.”

“Bullshit,” I snarled. “How do you expect me to believe that?”

“Because you’re here,” she answered, her tone steely. Maggie squared her shoulders. “I set it up on the inside. Jim and Susan took you out for a ride one Saturday while I stayed home to catch up on work. The accident happened in Arlington, Virginia. The three of you were listed as deceased. Everyone in my section gave me their condolences. Sorry for my loss. But I knew the three of you were safe. New records. New names. Except for your first—Rebecca. That was my mother’s name.” She got up from the bed and pointed to the album. “There’s the proof. The three of you lived another life. The one you had before is in there.” She stood a moment more, turned, and left me alone.

For several long moments, I hesitated, feeling a terrible squeezing pain in my chest, a shortness of breath. My gaze slipped from the album to the closed door, my mind searching back to peel away the shroud covering distant memories. I held the album, sliding my fingertip along the plastic’s edge. The photo of the quartet was replaced with one of Maggie, her belly ripe and round. I kept moving my finger, turning the pages of this electronic record. A baby picture of me, my first birthday, a video of the adults singing “Happy Birthday To You.” Maggie finishing off the recital with “Becky Baby.” Then their blowing out the solitary candle. Laughter as I took a fistful of the white pastry and pushed it into my mouth. Hot chocolate in the farmhouse kitchen. Me—maybe two years old, maybe close to three—with Maggie putting a handful of marshmallows in my mug over Dad’s protests. Shared photographs and videos of my life up until I was three.

“No,” I moaned. “No!” I dropped the album on the bed, stood, and walked to a corner of the room, where I pressed my back to the wall, and crossed my arms over my chest. “No,” I said, my voice small and wretched. Nothing that I had believed was true.

I stood a few moments more, feet planted, gaze set on that sheet of plastic atop the bed. A cold November gust blew outside, rattling the window.

That room across the hall, that room…

The chill air bit my hot cheeks as I sucked in a deep breath and willed myself to move, stopping by the bed to gaze at the album.

I left it there, snatched the lantern off the nightstand, and crept out the door. I went the few steps to the room opposite mine. My hand trembled as I turned the knob. A stale scent escaped as if the air inside had been trapped for years. My heart stopped a moment as I lifted the lantern and let its light spill inside the room.

I knew that space, every inch of it. The pink-flowered wallpaper, the brass bed with its ruffled skirt. Memories of a spring morning with sunshine passing through the dusty panes of glass of the wood sash windows. Sunshine that pooled to form a warm splash of light on the dark wooden floor. I could feel the scratchy yarn of the hook rug against the soles of my feet. I could see all the toys piled inside the basket. I reached hold of my Raggedy Ann, still propped against the ruffled pillows of my bed. I could smell it, dusty with age, the familiar scent of my favorite dolly. I remembered the night when I realized she’d been lost. But here she had waited…all these years. I held that doll to my heart as I backed out of the room and clicked the door closed, while silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

I returned the lantern to the nightstand and finally sat again on the room’s double bed. This place had once been home—at least, a vacation home—one that had been a sanctuary set deep in the sweet green mountains. The kitchen with its iron stove, the hearth, and the old wooden table, all of it had seemed bigger, sketches of another time remembered from a small child’s point of view. My head bent down, and that doll pressed even tighter against my chest as I sobbed. It hurt. Such emptiness, a struggle against reality that wounded me.

The springs squeaked as someone sat beside me. A warm hand rested on my back, moved in comforting circles. Exhausted, I leaned against the presence, sank into that human warmth, smelled the musty masculine aroma. Strong arms wrapped around me, strong arms that pulled me into that rich bouquet. Gave me the sense I’d be protected. It would be safe like it had been a million years ago on a sunny spring day.

The kiss, the crush of another’s mouth against mine…Poole, the taste of hops on his breath as he exhaled.

But instead of pushing him away, I drew him closer, my arms pulling free to embrace the strange comfort of his need, with the doll, that remnant of childhood, still in my hand. His mouth, wet and hot, moved to my neck, his tongue sliding against my skin as his hands slipped beneath my shirt. Rough and calloused, they moved upward along my back.

“Captain!” A reprimand, not a title, the tone sharp and biting.

He released me, my teary gaze focused on his face. How dark his eyes seemed, like blue shadows.

“Captain!”

He stood and walked toward Maggie, who waited in the open doorway. Poole paused, his voice husky as he said, “We are adults, Maggie Sweetheart.”

She gave him icy silence in reply.

He dipped his head to her. “Sorry, ma’am, for abusing your hospitality.” Footfalls sounded as he returned to his own room.

Maggie leaned forward and latched onto the door handle. “You are adults and he will be back. You can lock it. It’s your choice.” She pulled the door shut.

I went over, the doll now held to my tear-stained cheek. Without hesitation, I turned the lock, went back to bed, crawled under the piled comforters, and cried myself asleep.

The scent of coffee greeted me the next morning as I walked into the kitchen. Poole was seated at the table with an open box of cereal and a can of condensed milk in front of him. He had already finished breakfast, as evidenced by the empty bowl pushed to the side. His gaze latched onto me as he picked up a mug and took a sip. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. You look like shit.” I pulled out a chair and grabbed the other bowl that had been placed on the table. Leaning forward, I took the box of cereal, shook it, and peered inside. “Empty.”

“Wasn’t full.”

“It hadn’t been opened,” Maggie said from the doorway leading into the living room. “You want something to eat, Rebecca?”

“Coffee’d be fine.”

She poured herself a cup, then took the pot over and served me. She joined us at the table. “We’ve finished our research on you, Captain Poole.”

“Who and for what?”

“As I said when you first came here yesterday, there may be a network to help you. Well, there is one. With nodes all over the country and in every state. I shared your file with them last night. The Feds slotted you as a leader, Captain Poole. Interesting assessment, considering some of your less-desirable characteristics.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re narcissistic. An opportunist.” She looked to me. “Last night was evidence enough.” She turned her attention back to Poole. “It’s all in your file. Self-righteousness with a sense of entitlement. Clever if you want something. Manipulative. And when wronged, you never forget.”

“Sounds like I am an asshole.”

She laughed. I didn’t. I had come too close last night to finding out for myself.

“Asshole or not, you do possess other characteristics. Intelligent. Have a large capacity for compassion. Lead your troops so well your men are absolutely loyal to you. An iron-willed individual determined to reach your goal. And even better, you possess a strong desire to see justice done. At least as we see it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Captain Poole, the authorities could never prove you were the one who burned down your family home. But we believe you did. Were you unorthodox in your method? Perhaps. Wanted revenge? Certainly. You are a risk. No doubt. But we have a network with no one to pull it together and lead us. With your profile, you’re closer than anybody we’ve found so far who could do just that.”

I studied the captain, my eyes narrowing. “I don’t understand. The Feds had a notion he burned down his house. You think probably he did, and I know he did. He admitted it, drunk out of his mind. There’s no reason to trust him.”

“You brought him here, Rebecca.” She leveled her gaze on me. “Because you didn’t trust him?”

I crossed my arms, mouth set, attention fixed on Poole. “No, I did.” My resolve softened with my confession. “I still do.” I grunted as I slumped in my chair. “It was because of what he did. The way he hated authority.”

“And there’s one more reason,” Maggie said. “This man has nothing to lose.”

His brow creased.

“Yes, Captain, you have a ‘Tock’ in your file. Like in ‘Tick Tock,’ the clock is running. Yours, Captain, has nearly run out. Seems you haven’t displayed the wholehearted allegiance to the State the Feds hoped to see by now. When that clock runs out, you’ll…”

“Be handled?” I whispered.

“Yes, Rebecca. He’ll just disappear.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t that somethin’!” The captain put the mug to his lips and took a long sip of coffee. “Then again, Maggie Sweetheart, as you so rightly observed, a dead man has nothing to lose.”

“Ain’t that somethin’!” she said.

“So, as I’m as good as dead, what is your network going to do?”

“They left it up to me.”

His eyebrow arched again.

“First, I’m going to show you the bunker,” she said, her tone cool and even. “Then I’m going to die.”

CHAPTER 8

For a dead man, Captain Poole seemed at peace as he took his mug to the counter and refilled it with coffee. With a wan smile on his face, he turned to my mother and said, “Lead the way, Maggie Sweetheart.”

She let out a groan, rolled her eyes, and motioned to us. We followed her through the living room to a closed door. Behind that door was a closet, ordinary, with several coats hanging from the solitary pole and a pile of footwear on the muddied linoleum. Maggie ran her hand along the jamb, pausing near the top. She tapped her fingers as if she were keeping time to a song by her favorite band. The closet’s back wall glided to one side while lights flickered to life, revealing a staircase leading downward.

Shoving aside the coats, Maggie stepped forward. “Whoever’s last, shut the door behind you.”

Poole looked at me, then went after her. I pulled the closet door closed and set my foot on the staircase’s first tread. The panel automatically slid shut behind me, sealing us off.

We must have descended the stairs for two stories or more. At the bottom was an old wooden desk with a dusty electronic tablet on top, a rickety set of shelves stocked with a few cans of peas, and stacks of old papers.

Poole whistled. “Impressive.”

Maggie snorted as she opened the desk drawer, shoved aside the stapler and pens, and tapped her fingers along its bottom. The wall behind the desk swung wide, and once more lights flickered on, illuminating the space beyond.

Poole stood there, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. Hands on her hips, Maggie whistled. “Impressive.”

I pushed past them and stepped into the cavernous chamber. The cool air was crisp and clear of dust and age. Rows and rows of shelving were stocked with enough weapons, uniforms, and food to provision and arm the whole population in the state of Vermont and then some.

Maggie pointed behind her. “That small room you came through was part of the Underground Railroad. Runaway slaves were hidden down there, then sent along the railroad into Canada.”

“That small room,” I croaked, my gaze turning upward as I studied the huge chamber’s concrete ceiling. “What about this one?”

“Built with the help of the new Underground. And complete with its own electrical generating system.” Once more, she took the lead as she kept talking. “We may not have all the technology the Feds do. They were developing some ultra-secret projects with deadly capabilities. But this will be enough to get us started.”

I swallowed. It was more than enough from what I could see.

We followed her through the centermost aisle. The shelving gave way to armored vehicles, stored and parked in four lines, three to a line. Off to the side was what looked to be a lift large enough to carry one vehicle at a time to the surface. At the very back of the chamber was a glass-enclosed area, with a bank of computers and a huge piece of equipment so tall it nearly touched the ceiling.

“My work space. And that”—she pointed to the colossal device—“is the 3D printer.”

“Damn,” Poole muttered.

“Damn is right,” she said. “Can fabricate large ordnance and much more.”

“You said it was your work space. You can run all those computer systems alone?” I asked.

“Not alone. It was set up to be a command center. But it was my turf up until now.” She turned to Poole. “So you’ve seen the Bunker. You still game, Captain, to move forward with your plan?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered without hesitation. His mouth curled with a sly smile. “Now, let’s kill you and get on with it, Maggie Sweetheart.”

Thanks to the stores in the Bunker, I walked through the empty house dressed in fatigues that fit me. I tried to seal the place with my other distant memories of childhood. The photographs and old portraits were absent, the walls bare. I stopped one last time to look at my old bedroom. Everything was still there, each and every toy with the exception of my Raggedy Ann doll. She was stowed along with the photo album in the duffle bag I had slung over my shoulder. That house had stood for hundreds of years, was there even before the first revolution had given birth to America. It had been built by an ancestor who had fought with the Green Mountain Boys at Bennington. Apparently, I had come from a long line of rebels.

Snow fell outside. Heavy and wet, it stuck to the window panes. This snow would be more than enough to cover our tracks. The time had come. I walked along the hallway and out to the kitchen, pausing when I spotted the bag of open marshmallows Maggie had left on the counter. My hand hovered for a moment above the plastic package. I finally scooped it up and tucked it into the duffle along with my doll. One last survey of the ancient homestead, one last memory, and I was ready to leave.

The explosion rattled the Humvee. Glancing at the passenger side mirror, I could see the fireball behind us, curling skyward with a dark plume of smoke.

I shifted and looked at Maggie in the back seat, asking, “Are you sure they’ll think it was a drone strike?”

“To them I’m dead and gone, Rebecca.” Maggie held up the device she always kept with her.

My gaze narrowed as I focused on the small screen. Panic rippled through what looked to be an operations center. She pointed to one figure, a man seated at some sort of control panel. “Stevens. The guy who’s been sending the Weenie TD’s. Looks like he tasked a Weasel to the wrong address.”

“What will happen to him?” Poole asked.

Maggie shrugged as she slipped the device under her jacket, securing it in her shirt pocket. “Depends on how much the Department really valued me.” Dressed in fatigues, her graying hair tucked beneath a cap, she looked even more tired now, wearied and crushed from all the years she’d been an asset instead of a human being. “Most likely he’ll just vanish,” she said as she looked out the window. “Sorry, Stevens…you were only doing your shitty job.”

We drove a few miles in silence with the snow falling in flurries, until someone blocked the road.

“Who the hell is that?” Poole yelled as he leaned forward in the driver’s seat.

“Stop!” Maggie shouted from the back seat. “Stop!”

“Masked, and he’s got a gun,” I said as I recalled the snipers. “Hit the gas!”

Maggie leaned forward and latched onto Poole’s shoulder. “Ski mask or not. Look at that old Tea Party hat and his little-to-be-desired physique. He’s a friend, not a foe.”

The captain stopped the Humvee in the middle of the road. “Head of the local militia,” Maggie explained as she opened the rear passenger door.

Dressed in a thick winter coat, olive green pants, and heavy boots, the stranger had his face covered with a ski mask. “What a show, Mags, what a show,” he said as he slid onto the seat and pulled the door shut. “Too bad about the house, though.”

“Everything of value is in the Bunker.” She cocked her head in my direction. “And right here.”

The man set his hat to the side and pulled off the knitted ski mask to reveal a middle-aged face, round with full cheeks. Flushed from the cold, his skin was ruddy, his eyes brown, small but piercing, and his mouth thin, serious even, as he cracked a smile. He extended his hand. “Dr. Daniel Andrews. Medical doctor and later a trained psychiatrist, for what it’s worth nowadays. Former DHS in psy-ops.”

Poole and I returned the gesture and shook his hand as we introduced ourselves.

“You weren’t the one taking potshots at us yesterday?” I asked.

“Me and my team,” the doctor confessed. “We all love to take potshots at anything from the government.”

“Even though you were once from the government,” I observed, skeptical.

“And just like your mom here, I realized I had to stop them.”

“Well, whatever made you turn, thank the good Lord we were in an armored vehicle when you and your team tried your best to pick us off,” Poole bellowed.

“Amen, brother!” Dr. Andrews shouted as he pulled off his gloves and blew on his hands. “Now let’s ride, Commander.”

Poole paused a moment as if absorbing the sound of his new title—Commander. He threw the Humvee in gear and hit the gas.

Sergeant Hernandez grabbed the poker and jabbed at the logs toasting inside the stove’s iron belly. The fire stirred to life. Maggie and Dr. Andrews were on the couch with Christina seated to one side of them, her legs curled beneath her, gaze cast downward. I sat on the floor in the corner of the room opposite them, while Poole lounged in the office chair behind Father’s desk, a near-empty bottle of beer in his hand.

The captain leaned forward, elbows planted on top of the desk as he asked, “Have a question for our keeper of human experience?”

David put the fire screen in place and turned his back to the stove. His features were calm as his gaze settled on his superior officer.

“You think we have a chance of making some history tomorrow?” Poole asked.

“Did they think they were going to make any at Lexington and Concord?” Hernandez mused.

My sister lifted her gaze, her beautiful brown eyes wide as they focused on the sergeant.

“Lexington and Concord?” Poole raised a quizzical eyebrow.

David let out a deep sigh. “Did they think they were going to start a war? Face down the biggest military force of their time?” He shrugged. “Does anyone think that? Or were they just trying to take a stand? Say—enough.” He crossed his arms. “Maybe they knew something would change. Maybe they understood it needed to change. That spring morning the colonists waited for the British regulars. They met them on the green in Lexington. Outnumbered. Outgunned. But the colonists stood their ground. For posterity or for themselves? It’s anybody’s guess. But it sure didn’t matter to seven of them. That’s the truth.” He uncrossed his arms and jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “The ones who died.”

I swallowed.

“Seven American militia. No one knew who fired first. Maybe you know that. But who remembers the British went on to Concord to search for the colonists’ stockpile of arms? They were met on the bridge. It was the regulars who were outnumbered and outgunned that time. They made history that day. All of them. And some of them paid a high price for it.”

Poole raised the bottle. “Here’s to history and the hope we aren’t turning out the lights.”

“On ourselves?” I asked.

“On posterity. ‘A thousand years of darkness.’ Quoting Reagan.” His mouth tipped up at one corner. “David’s not the only one who knows his history.” He downed the remaining beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Let’s hope for another shot heard around the world.”

Everyone remained silent as the fire crackled in the stove and the wind bellowed outside.

I got to my feet, heart thudding as I started for the door. “How about another beer?” Poole called.

“Sure,” I answered, with no intent on fetching him another one from the cellar.

Instead, I went to the bedroom Dad and Vera had shared. For the last week, Christina and I had bunked there. We’d given up our rooms to accommodate Maggie and Dr. Andrews as we hammered out the details for our own Lexington. I went to the window and drew open the curtains. Brilliant moonlight streamed through panes dusted with icy snow. With both hands on the cold glass, I tried to calm myself, but I couldn’t quite catch my breath.

“Rib?”

I turned at the sound of Tina saying my pet name.

“Tiny.” I confided in a hoarse whisper, “I’m so afraid.”

“Not you. You’re strong.”

I stepped away from the window, sat on the edge of the bed, and folded my hands in my lap.

She took a place beside me. Several long moments went by before I finally admitted, “It’s too much.”

“Rib?”

“It’s too much,” I repeated, revealing my buried wound. “All of it. What Maggie said about Vera and Dad. What’s happening. Too much.” Tears pooled in my eyes. “I’m afraid, Tiny. For you. For me. More afraid than I’ve ever been.”

She drew her fingers through my hair like Vera used to do when I would wake up from a nightmare. I started to tremble. I’d told her the truth. I was more frightened and unsure of myself than I’d ever been in my whole life.

Someone cleared their throat. Startled, we both looked to the doorway to see Poole with the others standing behind him. “Another beer was a bad idea. Hernandez and I are leaving.” He gave me a small salute. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I echoed.

The two officers departed, leaving Maggie and the doctor behind.

“Goodnight, ladies,” Maggie said. The doctor bid us goodnight as well.

Tina got up from the bed and looked out window as I had done moments before. The night was bathed in a heavenly light. It flowed around my sister, surrounded her to form an angelic crown. “Tomorrow,” she murmured. “Maybe after tomorrow no one will have to be afraid again.”

PART 2: REVOLUTION

CHAPTER 9

My toes were numb as the cold seeped through my winter boots. Heavy snow had fallen that morning, and though it’d stopped for now, the ground wore a deep frosted coat as we stood in the long line at the Distribution Center. Christina slapped her arms around her middle and danced from foot to foot in an attempt to get warm. This was the fourth Thursday of November, Thanksgiving Day, so different from all the other Thanksgivings I’d shared with my sister. Memories of coming with her and Vera to the building we now waited to get inside; those were different Thanksgiving Days when we’d shop for the holiday meal at our local supermarket. Even last year with no store-bought turkey to be had, Christina roasted a fat chicken and made a pie filled with canned cherries from our stash in the cellar. It’d been a desolate celebration with our father’s chair vacant at the kitchen table. We whispered a toast, given with love to his memory. Now, there was this year with no chicken and no pie, and for most of our neighbors, it would be nothing more than what the government would give them.

Mrs. Bradley and her son were directly behind us. She kept picking him up and cooing in his ear. Then she would set him down when he got restless, repeating it again when the cold chilled his small toes. My stomach knotted at the sound of her comforting words.

Today. It would start today.

As we approached the Distribution Center’s front door, I jammed my hands into the pockets of my heavy jacket to steady myself. The soldier standing guard had to be a year or two younger than Tina. His complexion, ruddy from the cold, had been scarred by acne. His lips were drawn taut, his jaw flexing as if he were mustering his courage. We kept looking at one another, our gazes fixed, our exhaled breath steaming plumes in the cold winter air.

The young soldier finally unshouldered his rifle and aimed its barrel straight at me as he announced in a shrill voice, “No more rations today!”

People craned their necks. Mrs. Bradley gasped as the line behind her rippled like a restless snake ready to strike.

“By order of the Federal authority. This Center is closed for today!” the soldier bellowed.

“Closed!” I yelled, that rifle pointed at my heart. “Bastard! That’s our food in there! You have no right to keep us out!”

“Clear the street!” he barked, waving his weapon in the line’s direction.

No one left.

“The whole company’s been called out! Disperse. Now!” Still no one made a move to leave.

“Bastard!” I cried. “Let us in!”

A roar rose from the crowd, a guttural howl. The people transformed into a pack of animals that’d been starved for far too long and were now driven by fear. The line congealed into a mass with one goal—to get through that front door and overwhelm anyone inside. Christina and I were pushed forward. I tried to grab her hand but my sister fell behind. I fought to keep my place and let the throng swarm past me. But I couldn’t help but be swept along. Shoved ahead, I nearly tripped over the soldier who had stood guard at the door. He’d fallen and just managed to roll clear as the mob surged forward.

There was furious disorder inside the Center as people poured through the doorway. They fanned out in the open space, attacked anyone who had already been given their provisions. Those unfortunate souls were mauled as their goods were ripped from them. Government workers and the few guards who had been standing watch were dragged from behind the folding tables where they’d been parceling out supplies. They were pushed into the open area and beaten. People retrieved boxes that had lined the walls behind the tables.

I scrambled to find my sister, but couldn’t spot her in the ululating beast of the mob. There were hundreds and hundreds of people, nearly the whole town, it seemed, crammed into that massive space. The Youngmans, who lived across the street from us, my old history teacher, childhood companions, neighbors, friends, all familiar faces whose features were contoured with hysteria as they fought for scraps.

“Christina!” Her name flew from my mouth when I finally spotted her. She stood all alone, but the Bradleys were nowhere in sight.

I fought my way forward, finally latched onto her hand, and dragged her clear of the tumult. We managed to take cover behind the supermarket’s old meat counter. We sheltered there, that rusty metal shell our only protection as the mob grew even more frenzied. I saw an older couple I knew from church. Someone shoved the wife and sent her tumbling to the floor. The husband struggled to get her to her feet even as she was pushed down again. I stood, ready to help, when the tat-tat-tat of gunfire sounded. Another barrage let loose until everyone froze.

“Americans! This is your Last Call!”

I turned, my muscles tight with strain even though I knew that voice all too well.

There stood Poole, his entire company lined up behind him, blocking the front entrance. I glanced to the rear exit. Those who were assigned to guard the Distribution Center stood at the back door, rifles aimed at the mob. Those troops had been bloodied, but not seriously wounded. Maggie and Dr. Andrews came out from what had been the stockroom of the market. The double doors swung closed behind them as they shoved their way forward through the throng until they had a clear view of Poole and his men. Dr. Andrews held a small pencil-sized camera capable of sending a sophisticated broadcast. Maggie had her tab, making sure that broadcast remained locked on a secure channel. We were on a live feed to every node in their closed, and very secret, network.

Christina and I rounded the counter just as Poole took a few steps toward the silenced crowd. They backed away, eyes wide, mouths slightly open, palpable fear rippling through them.

“Stand your American ground. This ground—yours by God-given right!” His voice boomed, and his gaze set on the crowd, even as he played to the camera. “Your property. Your food. Your medicine. And no son of a bitch bureaucrat should have the power to take it from you.”

As if they had just been given leave to carry on their looting, a few in the crowd stirred.

“Stop!” Poole ordered.

A collective breath drew in as everyone stood still. The captain squared his shoulders. “Do you really think this government is on your side? Haven’t you noticed your rations being cut?”

No response.

“Have they sent you home hungry?”

Timid murmurs, a few clear answers—“Yes.”

“And if you didn’t go home, you’d be dead.” Silence again, then scattered words of denial.

“We have orders to shoot you.” He motioned to his men, then swept his hand toward the crowd. “Shoot anyone who causes trouble. Shoot anyone who won’t comply. Shoot on sight. Without question. Is that the American way? Without a trial? No judge. No jury. Just shoot!”

Poole’s gaze grew intense. “Is this the land of the free? The home of the brave?” His voice became tinged with disdain as he asked, “Or are you all just a bunch of sheep?”

Not a whisper, not even a shout of anger, nothing.

“And why?” He paused. “Is it because they’ve taken everything away from you? And then what? Did you rise up to take it back?” He spread his arms wide. “You didn’t do anything.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Well, let me tell you, they plan on taking until they finally take your life. Without wasting a bullet.” Poole squared his shoulders as he looked directly into the camera. “By the end of winter, most of you will be dead.”

Frantic words were exchanged, with people shaking their heads. The captain walked up to the man who used to run one of the two dry cleaners in town. “You hungry?”

Visibly shaken by being singled out, the man managed a single nod.

“Starving?

He nodded again.

“That’s just what they want,” Poole spat. “The fewer of you who survive, the easier the rest will be to control. A brand new world would have dawned for America! The sheep have been”—he stomped his boot-clad foot—“smashed!”

“Help m-me,” the dry cleaner spurted. “Ple-please.”

The captain put his hand on the man’s shoulder, his features softening for a moment as he said, “You’re going to have to help yourself. You understand?”

“How?” came the question, barely audible.

“How?” Poole repeated in a loud voice. “By first realizing what they’ve done to make you sheep.” He left the man standing and walked before the crowd again, pausing here and there to fix his gaze on one person or another. “They’ve plucked away your freedoms one at a time. Taxing more of your money so they can take care of you. Telling you all what to do with your own property. Penalizing you if you don’t obey the millions of rules they’ve made. Whittling you down. For your welfare. For your safety. To be fair. To be kind. Until—damn it–you’ve forgotten how to take care of yourselves!”

He pointed to the middle-aged woman who used to have a gift shop on Main. “You!”

She tried to step back.

Poole moved forward as he continued to single her out. “Tell me what’s left of America?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you? Come on now. Think and tell me what’s left?”

Her weary features brightened as she finally gave him an answer. “Me.”

“That’s right, my friend.” He took her hand and drew her to his side. “We’re still here even after they legislated away our guns. Muffled our free speech with political correctness. Stole everything we’ve earned. Yes, thank God, we’re still here.”

Poole drew in a deep breath and shouted, “For now! And only if you take a stand today—with me!” He pointed to the floor. “On this American ground answer the Last Call. Make them account for what they’ve robbed from every last one us of—our freedom!”

Poole motioned to his men, each of whom I would come to understand were absolutely loyal to him, just as Maggie had said. They stepped aside, right down the center of their ranks, revealing a large truck filled with the armaments Father had stockpiled in our cellar. “Now you finally have a real choice. Not an easy one. But a choice. Stand and fight. With us and for yourselves. Fight and you may just win. Do nothing and you’ve already lost.”

No one stepped forward to take up his challenge. I prepared to start things, just as I had baited the crowd outside the front door. But before I could move, someone else walked up to Poole. The woman had a young boy at her side. “Protect my son and I’ll stand with you.”

Christina came forward, knelt, and held out her arms. His mother didn’t have to urge the child to go to my sister. The boy ran to Tina, letting her shelter him in her embrace. That day, Mrs. Bradley would be the first of many to fight. So many, nearly every single soul gathered there, would volunteer to win back their lives.

Poole gave a signal to Maggie and Dr. Andrews to stop broadcasting. That was enough to win over their network. The captain gave an order to his men. “Provision these people. Make certain everyone has something to eat. Clear out everything in this warehouse.”

His next order came to me. “Just as we discussed, Beck. You know what to do.”

I did. I worked with Poole’s men, telling the soldiers who among all the townsfolk with whom I’d grown up could be trusted with a gun, and who was better left unarmed. Some understood already how to fire a weapon, while others would have to be shown the basics. One hundred or so of our townspeople were given rifles.

Poole had one last order for his ragtag army. “Break into squads of ten. One of my men will be in command of each squad. Get out of the building. Stay close and hide. I give the signal. Listen to my men and obey their orders. Just as we planned for. The government lackeys managed to get out a distress signal. Homeland Security is almost here.”

CHAPTER 10

I was positioned directly across the street from the Distribution Center, with Poole and Hernandez and ten of their men, while Maggie and Dr. Andrews huddled together. A small number of troops were tasked with guarding the Federal prisoners we’d captured. Christina, along with a few others, had been charged with the children’s safety and were sheltered a block away from the action in the abandoned First National Bank. Mrs. Bradley remained with my group while her young boy was cared for. Secured behind a long run of brick wall, 400 feet from the Distribution Center’s front door, I waited with Mrs. Bradley and the others for our government to roll into town with the intent of cowing or killing us.

I’d removed my gloves to get a better grip on the rifle. Even with the biting chill, my hands were damp, and sweat trickled down my face as I clutched the old M14. I kept going over in my head the countless times Father had taken me out for target practice. “Steady, Becky, steady, keep your focus. Breathe.”

Hunched beside me in the snow, Mrs. Bradley whispered, “I sure hope you keep your focus.”

My cheeks flushed as I realized I’d been speaking out loud.

“If you can’t keep it, I’m in big trouble,” she added.

I stared at her a moment, studying her beautiful face, which looked aged beyond her years with the puffiness beneath her large brown eyes and wisps of blonde hair escaping her knit cap. A wan smile turned up my mouth. I put aside all my prior notions about her timidity and regretted not making friends with her when she’d moved into town.

“First name’s Rebecca.” I glanced beyond her to Poole, hunkered twenty feet from our position. “It’s Beck, for short.”

“Lois. Can’t get any shorter than that.”

“Lo. That’s pretty short.”

Lois’s face brightened, her vanquished youth emerging from behind the mask of her fears. Then that fragile youth vanished as the still air stirred with the rumble of machinery.

I spotted the heavily armored vehicle rolling down Main. It was painted black with the words Police Rescue in white on the sides and front. It was followed by Humvees, four, five, maybe more. From my position, I couldn’t be certain.

“Hold fire.” Poole’s order came as a bare whisper transmitted over the small patch stuck behind my ear. Only squad leaders had the devices. I wasn’t in command, but Maggie made sure I got one, even though I didn’t really know how to operate it. I could get only Poole’s side of the conversation, not respond or hear anyone else.

Lois shifted, her finger on the trigger, head lowered, looking as if she were aiming straight for the lead vehicle.

I put my hand on her shoulder and shook my head. Her rifle lowered a bit, and her jaw flexed.

“MRAP.” Poole’s voice again. “Ten men inside at most. Humvees, four to five for a crew. Maggie. Maggie, you hear me? Scrambler up? Okay. Confirmed. Scrambler’s in place.”

I knew what Poole meant. To keep out any drones they sent our way, there was a frequency scrambler over most of the town, not always effective, and only for smaller UAVs. Maggie and Andrews’ people in Vermont had taken control of the bunker, which survived unscathed the blast that had blown up the old farmhouse. Their people gained entrance along a hidden tunnel right under the noses of Homeland Security forces searching through the rubble. The equipment inside the bunker gave Maggie a much larger reach with the Scrambler.

“Thirty-five agents at most.” Poole again. “But more likely, just thirty. Damn, Maggie, you were right. They didn’t expect resistance.” A long pause. “Hold fire. Let them get comfortable.”

The small convoy halted in front of the Distribution Center. Several moments slipped by. Why didn’t they come out of their vehicles? Could they scan the area, even without drone surveillance? Do damage and take us out? Superior weapons would even out the numbers that were only conditionally in our favor. My breath came hard as I took in gulps of air. This time, Lois was the one who put her hand on my shoulder.

Okay. Okay, I thought, making sure this time I didn’t mutter out loud. Okay. Big gulp of air. Okay.

On the vehicle at the very end of the convoy, all four doors opened. One man exited through each door. On guard, they crouched low, shielded against sniper fire, their rifles held ready. They were dressed in black uniforms with red accents, definitely DHS. Wearing flak jackets and helmets, they looked well fed and rested, their gear new and their clothing in good repair. They contrasted with Poole’s men who, like us, were ragged and hungry.

The agents scurried toward the Distribution Center, kicked in the front door, and snapped clear. They waited a moment, peered inside, their rifles pointed toward the building’s interior. One of them said something. My guess, the muffled words of an “all-clear.” More men emerged from the remaining Humvees, not nearly as cautious as they left the safety of their vehicles’ shelters. The MRAP, as Poole called it, remained closed, the occupants still inside its armored belly. Some of the DHS agents disappeared into the Distribution Center, while others fanned out around the building’s perimeter.

“Tipton. Keep watch on the MRAP,” Poole said. “There’s an exit at the rear.”

A few painfully long minutes ticked by before I heard Poole again. “Exiting MRAP. Confirmed. Tipton—move.”

I inched closer to Poole, Lois on my heels, as our squad rushed forward. An explosion. A grenade—maybe. Close enough I could feel the ground shake beneath my boots. The target—the agents who had just exited the MRAP. Poole issued more orders, but they were partially drowned out by another explosion. The squad gave Maggie, me, and a few others cover as we ran toward the MRAP. I swung my rifle left to right, back again, one arm straight, the other bent, my finger never leaving the trigger. I gave no thought of who these people were, our countrymen, our brothers. All I knew was, The neck. A sure kill.

Lois. I lost sight of Lois. And the captain. He wasn’t anywhere nearby. Snapping noises. Bullets. So many. Each round barely missed me.

We were nearly to the MRAP’s open rear door. Knocked down by one of the explosions, a DHS agent lay on his belly in the snow. He snapped onto his back just as we rushed by him. With his rifle pointed straight at me—a pop—the sound of someone getting off a round. A red plume gushed from the agent’s torn neck.

“No!” Lois screamed.

She’d hit him, a sure kill. “Shit!” I shouted as I latched onto her hand.

A few more yards and we were at the MRAP. Andrews and Maggie were already climbing inside. Once we were through, I secured the door and took a deep breath. Lois, stunned, stood there wide-eyed. I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her into one of the bucket seats. The seats—three on each side of the MRAP—could be folded up and out the way. On the roof was a hatchway, and beside the windows were round metal ports that could be unlatched and opened.

Andrews sat behind the wheel while Maggie took the front passenger seat. She flipped a few switches and pressed a couple of buttons on the instrument panel in front of her. “That’ll keep any of them from sending a distress signal.”

“Home office will think everything went hunky dory with the natives,” Dr. Andrews said.

Maggie chuckled as she got up and came around behind the driver’s seat to a floor-to-ceiling panel with more electronic equipment. She checked a screen, moving her finger down one edge, and whistled, shaking her head. “They didn’t even bother to switch on thermal detection.”

“Ain’t that thoughtful of them,” Andrews said as he turned and flipped a few knobs and switches himself.

I spied the battle through the front window, seeing mostly Poole’s men with a few civilians advancing toward the Distribution Center. Two windows were on either side of the MRAP, and one embedded in the rear door. Clink, clink, clink—a sound like someone tapping on the MRAP’s outer walls. Bullets. Had to be bullets striking the vehicle.

I stared at the window across from where I sat. “That glass is bulletproof, right?”

“Honey,” Andrews said, “this whole thing is bulletproof. Stops up to a .50 caliber round. Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected. MRAP. It’ll survive an IED.”

“Improvised Explosive Device, Becky,” Maggie clarified as she took her place once more in front.

“Nearly impossible to stop,” the doctor went on. “Shoot out the tires and they run flat. Homeland Security had only sixteen of them nationwide back in 2013. They used them to serve high-risk warrants. Now, the Department has close to five thousand while our armed forces have—zip.”

More fire hit the MRAP. Andrews gave us an order. “Ladies, man the sides.”

Lois and I stayed put.

“Those.” He jammed a finger at the metal ports. “One of you on either side.”

I took the right, but Lois remained seated. Opening the port, I poked the barrel of my gun through and aimed the weapon using its sight. Muscles knotted along my neck and shoulders, but I willed myself to remain poised with my finger held against the trigger as I spotted the enemy. They were moving behind the brick wall where we’d sheltered before the battle started. I caught a glimpse of their helmets. Two, maybe three of them trying to ambush our rear guard.

“They’re moving up on our guys!” I shouted, not sure what to do.

“Show them we don’t appreciate their company,” Andrews said.

The gun kicked back as I squeezed off a round. It scraped the top of the fence, sending up a spray of brick and mortar as I missed the target.

There were armed civilians, four, coming up behind the DHS agents. “God help me, please, that I don’t hit any of our own,” I whispered before firing again. I kept the enemy penned while the civilians gained ground. Successful, the civilians left the wounded agents in place and joined our rear line.

A few moments went by. Then nothing. No action at all. “It’s gone quiet,” Maggie said.

I went to the other side of the MRAP and peered out the window. It faced the Distribution Center. No explosions inside or outside the building now. No bullets being fired. DHS agents were lining up along the Center’s outer wall, arms held behind their heads, weapons piled up and out of reach.

My earpiece had gone quiet, too. I tapped the small circle, but got nothing but static. Panicked, I cried, “Where the hell is Poole?”

“Why, right here, darlin’,” came the familiar voice through the device.

“You can hear me?”

“Every little old swear word. Now open up. We’re right outside.”

I looked to Maggie.

“It’s clear,” she assured me.

I threw the latch at the rear of the vehicle and let the door swing outward. Poole stood waiting with two of his men.

He hefted himself into the MRAP. “Twenty-seven prisoners. Two in pretty bad shape. One DHS dead.”

“Your men?” Dr. Andrews asked. “Didn’t even muss their hair.”

“One dead,” Lois muttered. “The one I killed.” Tears streaked down her cheeks.

“It would have been me,” I reminded her.

“One dead,” she repeated. “Somebody’s son.”

Poole walked to the front of the vehicle and stood between Andrews and Maggie. “The day isn’t over.”

“Not by half,” she said. “Vermont is ready to upload iris scans.”

“Having subdued the minor uprising, it’s time we returned to base,” Poole said. “Now where the hell would that happen to be?”

“Homeland Security in Camden,” Maggie answered.

The plan—the one so carefully worked out by Poole and the others during the week we had spent together. Now it was time to move out, with the worst of it yet to come.

CHAPTER 11

I sat in the MRAP’s passenger seat as a caravan of five Humvees trailed behind. Each vehicle had been captured as a result of the DHS’ failed raid on our Distribution Center that morning. Poole drove the MRAP while five of his regulars along with Dr. Andrews were seated in back. Each of the Humvees carried four men, totaling the exact number that had been sent out to subdue this morning’s “minor uprising,” as Andrews had put it. Sergeant Hernandez had been left in charge of the remaining troops, our DHS prisoners, and the civilians who had been armed and were still being trained. Maggie and my sister remained behind as well. Dr. Andrews would act as my mother’s point man while they coordinated the operation with their base in Vermont. But Lois Bradley was no longer with us. Being the only one of us to have killed the enemy that morning, she’d surrendered her rifle and joined the women and children in the old bank building.

“Somebody’s son.” That’s what Lois had said. I hadn’t thought about it until that moment—somebody’s son, or husband, father, brother. To them, we were the enemy. This was how it felt to start a war, being torn in two.

I looked at Poole. Just like all of us in that caravan, he was outfitted with DHS gear and dressed in a black and red-accented uniform. Did he think about this morning’s casualty? Somebody’s son we’d left lying in the snow until there was time to bury him in a lonely grave? The first to fall in an undeclared war?

Poole glanced at me. “Beck, you okay?”

I shrugged. “Thinking about that man who died.”

He pushed back in his seat, hands clasping the wheel of that heavy machine. “More a boy. I’d say about nineteen, by the looks of him. Did you think nobody would get killed?”

I shrugged again.

“Damn.” He blew out a deep breath. “Well, it happened. This war started with the death of an American. Someone just like you and me and everyone who fought today. But ask yourself, Beck, are they really the same as you and me and everyone on our side? You’ve seen my men. And I’m using the term “men” only in the most generic way. Twenty-two of them are of the fairer sex. And each one of them, man or woman, signed on to serve their country. But what did they get for leaving hearth and home behind? Families who loved them? I’ll be honest with you, they got shit. Or next to shit, for their trouble.”

I looked over my shoulder to the men seated behind us.

“Don’t worry, Beck, you can barely hear me over the engine. But I’m not saying anything they haven’t talked about over the last few years. Benefits slashed to the bone. Pay.” He snorted. “What passed for paying us. And with everything considered, what was all our sacrificing for? Defending the land of the free? Honoring the home of the brave? Seriously, you think we didn’t see the end coming? And that boy.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “Shot dead by a civilian. And here he was armed with the latest gear. Also, you can bet, trained to kill his fellow Americans. All the while, one of the few legitimate functions of the Fed suffering deep, brutal-to-the-bone cuts, while DHS got fat on the taxpayers’ backs. The world turned upside down right in front of us and set on fire. So why don’t you ask me how I feel about that dead boy back there, Rebecca?”

The use of my full name, the look of bitterness clouding his features, frightened me. I could feel his anger, hot and ready to blow apart.

“Come on,” he prodded. “I’ll let you guess.”

“Nothing!” I shouted above the din. “You don’t feel a damn thing!”

“Wrong.” His features softened, his voice dropping so low, I found it even harder to hear him above the engine’s rumble. “I feel like we all died with him.”

I sat mute for a few moments as we rolled over the snow-covered road. “Poole.”

He glanced my way. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

It took a little under thirty minutes to travel the distance to where the unit that had been sent to quell the unrest in Farmsworth had been stationed. I clutched the edge of my seat as we neared the facility, my nails digging into the upholstery. The late-autumn sun had set less than an hour ago. I stared straight ahead at the darkened landscape.

“Ease up, Honey Beck.”

I nodded and tried to settle in my seat.

We came to a stop in front of a closed gate securing the main entrance. A single light topped what looked to be a seamless stainless steel pole. Poole lowered the driver’s side window. A green beam emanating from the pole swept across the captain’s brow and down to his eyes. “Lieutenant Commander William Denning,” a disembodied voice acknowledged. “Voiceprint required.”

I leaned away from the driver’s side and latched onto the door handle, panicked as my heart rate shot up. Maggie never said anything about a voiceprint being required when we’d planned this operation.

Poole held up his hand to signal me to be still. He pulled out a flat round device from his shirt pocket and held it to his throat as he responded, “Commander William Denning reporting.”

“Accepted.”

The heavy iron gate slid open.

“How the hell did you do that?” I asked in a choked whisper.

“Have a little faith, Honey Beck. Maggie gave me this device.”

“To you, I sounded like Captain Poole. To whatever machine is on the other end of that com, it read Denning’s voiceprint.”

We rode through the open gate. Topped with barbed wire, a block wall, nearly seven feet in height, ran the compound’s perimeter. Green beams, similar to what had emanated from the pole at the gate, swept along the wall. Cones of brilliant light streamed down from well-placed staffs, illuminating nearly the entire area. The ground was covered with freshly fallen snow, brilliant white under the stark overhead LEDs. Maggie had shown us maps and satellite images. I spotted the steel hangar-sized structure where the heavy equipment was stored, a smaller building off by itself—definitely the command center housing the base’s computers—and the onsite barracks set off by itself on the other side of the base. The layout was what I remembered, but what I didn’t expect was how empty it appeared to be. I knew we’d captured half their contingent in the morning scuffle. Yet somehow I still expected to see someone standing guard, people paroling the perimeter, instead of that inhuman green light continuously panning the faceless block wall.

“It’s creepy.”

“Just a little too creepy. And a little too convenient. Bring up the plot map, Doc,” Poole ordered.

The screen centered in the middle of the dash came to life, pinpointing our target, that small office. If we brought down the computers, we would have complete control of the base.

The hangar door began to open, slipping upward to reveal a row of MRAPs to one side, a line of Humvees opposite. There were empty spaces, one for an MRAP, others for the five Humvees, and still no one in sight.

“They’re inviting us in,” Poole observed. He tapped the device behind his ear. “Doc, you doing a thermal scan?”

“They’re blocking it.”

“Have you been blocking theirs?”

“Yes.”

“We’re not hiding anything, are we?” Poole adjusted himself in his seat. “Kill it and let them count heads. We have the same number of warm bodies sent out from here this morning. They’ll just think we’re letting our guard down as we come home to roost.”

Poole waited a minute for Andrews to turn off the scramblers before driving toward the hangar, our entourage close behind. Just as we got to the entrance, he cut the engine. Poole turned it over a few times, let it rest, and flipped off the headlights.

“Doc, signal we’re having engine trouble.”

“They must have forgotten to check the oil,” Andrews said and chuckled. “Done.”

Poole opened the driver’s side door a crack, and signaled to those with him to stand ready. I unlatched my seatbelt and grabbed the rifle stowed beneath my seat. “Just remember, Beck, fire only on my signal.”

After a few moments, a solitary figure emerged from what looked like an office at the rear of the hangar. A bit portly with a beer belly, the young man wore fatigues and appeared to be unarmed. Poole slipped out of the MRAP. He made sure to stay clear of the light as he let the other man approach, close enough until the captain had his opponent in range. Stretching out his arm, Poole latched onto his prey and pulled him into the shadows behind the MRAP’s open driver’s side door.

With a pistol pointed at the man’s head, the captain calmly asked, “How many on base?”

“Th-thirty.”

“In the command center?”

Eyes wide, the man strained to see the gun next to his temple. He answered in a jittery voice, “No-no one. I wa-was…only one on watch. Went between the two buildings. The com-computers are running the base. The men”—he sucked in a deep breath—“in the barracks’ mess for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Poole spat. “Turkey and pumpkin pie.”

The captain gave his men orders. Three went with Dr. Andrews, along with our prisoner. They would secure the computers in the command center while the rest of us were tasked with storming the barracks.

We broke into two units. Poole kept me under his watch as we scurried forward, holding ourselves low with rifles held ready. Once we were positioned, Poole gave the command to move, a coordinated attack as we kicked in the front and rear doors at the exact same time. One group swept forward from the other end of the building, making certain all was clear, while we stormed the mess hall.

The men were seated four to a table around the room. They snapped to their feet. Poole fired a shot over their heads. They raised their hands. Despite the tension knotting my stomach, it still managed to rumble as I got a whiff of the generous Thanksgiving meal laid out on the nearby buffet. Fresh roasted turkey, yams, salad, rolls, cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes, even stuffing, a feast I hadn’t seen the likes of in over two years.

“Who’s in command?” Poole barked.

An older man stepped forward, his hands held up like the rest.

“Second Lieutenant Rogers.”

Poole aimed his rifle at him. “Do you surrender?”

“Who the hell are we supposed to be surrendering to?” Rogers snapped.

“The same damn people you swore to protect.”

There were whispers, questioning looks from the men who had just moments before been enjoying their Thanksgiving dinner.

I spotted an empty seat, dinner half-eaten on a plate. Someone had gotten up from the table before we’d entered the building. Scanning the room, I saw that everyone else had remained at their table. And our second unit had joined us in the mess. They must not have encountered anyone hiding in the barracks. I spotted a side door slightly ajar. My head spun with a quick calculation.

I took a step back, no longer listening to the exchange. I made it to the door and tried to peek through the sliver of an opening. Quietly. Quickly. I toed the door open just enough to slip out, spotting a discarded cigarette by the light spilling from the mess. My finger tightened on the trigger, senses keen. I heard what seemed like no more than a bare whisper, someone calling for help.

I spotted my target. A man with a hand-held device cradled in his palm. I aimed and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle’s retort rang out. A scream. The man dropped the com in the snow as the bullet ripped through his hand.

The door swung wide as several of our men rushed outside. They grabbed the man I’d just wounded. I went inside, and Poole’s gaze latched onto me for a brief moment.

He turned his attention back to Rogers. “That’s correct, Lieutenant. Farmsworth is still in the hands of its lawful inhabitants. The unit you sent failed in taking it away from their fellow Americans.”

Even louder whispers came from those we held at gunpoint.

Their murmurs tumbled through the room. “So, do you surrender?” Poole demanded.

Rogers’ lips pinched closed a moment. “We surrender. To our fellow Americans.” He slowly lowered his hands. “This base is now theirs.”

CHAPTER 12

The aroma of the vanished feast lingered in the air with its empty promise of more to come. Now that the DHS prisoners were secured, Poole and I sat alone in the empty mess, the last of the Thanksgiving dinner on our plates. He had let the enlisted have the first pickings, a gesture that didn’t leave much for the two of us. I never thought Poole would put someone else’s needs before his own. But when it came to those under his command, the captain seemed more like a patriarch than a superior. So I hung back with him as the stuffing and gravy ran out and the oversized roasted turkeys, fifteen in all, were whittled down to their bones. And now we dined in the deserted mess, dirty dishes, glassware, and cutlery littering the tables.

“You like breasts,” I said.

Poole cocked an eyebrow.

I pointed to his plate. “Well, you picked off all the white meat you could find.”

He chuckled. “So I have.” Poole took a gander at my plate. “Must say you eat like a bird.”

“I’d have eaten that entire buffet. But I waited with you for the others to get their share.” I picked up my fork. “Have to admit, that impressed me.”

“You impressed me,” he said as he picked up his own fork.

Now I cocked an eyebrow.

“Come on, Honey Beck, false modesty ain’t becomin’ one of your high moral character.”

I stuffed a helping of yams into my mouth and savored the taste despite it being as cold as ice. “I saw somebody left the building. I took action. That’s all.”

“And you went after him without saying a word to alert anyone. Clean shot without killing the man just before he would have gotten out a message that could have fried all of our behinds.” His features sobered, became almost cross. “But damn it, Rebecca, as well as you handled the situation, don’t you ever do that again.”

“Why? That’s what I came here for.”

“Sure.” He practically inhaled some mashed potatoes and followed the helping with a slug of beer, the one luxury he wouldn’t share. Poole set down the bottle and cleared his throat. “Well, it’s just that…that…hell. There you were, sitting in the MRAP scared shitless, and the next thing you do is turn into GI Jane. I don’t want…well, I don’t want…” He shrugged.

“Me to get killed,” I suggested.

“Look. Someone’s going to get killed on our side, Beck. Today was an exception. Don’t you ever doubt that. And seeing you put yourself in harm’s way… That man could have had a pistol. Turned and shot you. And then…well, and then, hell…” He jammed his fork into a pile of carefully amassed turkey shavings.

“You care. It’s as simple as that.”

“I care about all my men. That’s why you see me eating scraps.”

“You care about me.”

“Do tell,” he mumbled and speared a somewhat larger, yet still no better than a shaving, bit of turkey as he fell silent. We ate together, momentarily mute, as I tried to suppress a smile.

After a time, Poole broke the silence when he found something on his plate. “Damn.”

“A wishbone,” I said.

He held it to me. “Wish hard, Honey Beck.”

I didn’t make a move. “You know, the Etruscans started this.”

“Do tell.”

“Yes, by wishing on chicken bones. So I’m not sure if a turkey really counts.”

His brow creased. “Now how’d you come by that bit of wisdom?”

“Learned it in a college cultural mythology class. The Etruscans thought chickens had some kind of power that made their bones full of magic and allowed them to predict the future.”

“Chickens foretelling the future, eh? And as a species, do they have one? Seriously. For a chicken it’s whether they’re going to be soup or served up as the main course.” He snorted. “So, Honey Beck, you have just shared the most useless bit of knowledge I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear tell of.” He waggled the bone. “You in or not?”

I grabbed hold of one side, closed my eyes, and wished hard, praying nobody I loved would be that someone who got themselves killed. Surprisingly, that seemed to include Poole now.

The bone cracked. My eyelids sprang open. Poole had gotten the bigger piece. “You win,” I conceded. “What did you wish for?”

“Bad luck to tell,” he said, setting down his prize, then scraping up the last of his meal. “Besides, I’m too damned tired to claim my winnings tonight.”

I hesitated a moment, leaned across the table, and kissed him. My lips pressed hard against his, lingered as I absorbed his breath, the scent of his skin. Reluctantly, I pulled back, my gaze fixed on his eyes. A deeper shade of blue reflected in them than I’d ever seen before.

His mouth curled up at one corner. “Was that cranberry sauce I tasted?”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Jason,” I said as I settled back into my seat.

By dawn, everyone had moved out of Farmsworth to the base—DHS prisoners taken in the raid on the Distribution Center, and the balance of Poole’s men and civilians willing to serve in the militia. Tina had come with them, even though she’d been reluctant to leave the familiarity of our small town. Still, she dug in, helping by taking an inventory of the base’s provisions.

Maggie worked with Dr. Andrews for hours, syncing the computers with those in Vermont. By 10 a.m., we met in the command center to listen to President Whitman’s message on the National Feed. To one side was a wall of equipment housed in sleek, polished steel casings that sparkled with tiny flashing LEDs.

The core of our rebellion—Poole, Sergeant Hernandez, Maggie, Dr. Andrews, Tina, and I—was present. With Dr. Andrews seated beside her, Maggie manned the master console positioned at the room’s center. She worked on the floating screens, see-through images that could be tapped and moved.

The president was being streamed on one of the vids. The man’s brown eyes betrayed a deep weariness as he droned on about patriotism and American pride. It took him over ten minutes of babble before he got to his real message. “I make a pledge to you, along with the men and women who serve in the Department of Homeland Security, we will find the criminals who stole the People’s food in Farmsworth. These animals killed indiscriminately. And because of that, we are united as Americans. Each and all of us. Firm in our resolve to stop this lawlessness. Be assured, this will be over soon. And the handful of terrorists who caused the difficulty in Massachusetts will be executed. It’ll go no further. We promise you.”

“End of Feed” flashed on the screen.

“It’ll go no further,” Poole said with a sweep of his hand. “Feds have any idea we’re here?”

“Not yet.” Maggie shrugged. “I’ve been feeding them a stream of my own. Everything is fine and dandy with this base as far as they know. Still, he just threw down the gauntlet.”

“And now you’ll pick it up?” Hernandez probed.

“Definitely.” Poole grunted. “At least, before they blow us to hell.”

I sat in a corner next to Tina, my back stiff even though I’d only been seated in the ridged chair for less than twenty minutes. Yesterday wore heavy on me, and a night filled with fitful dreams left me with little rest. I clasped a mug of hot coffee, seasoned with the luxury of fresh cream and real sugar, and willed myself to stay calm as I listened.

“Reports are coming in of uprisings all along our network,” Maggie said. “They’ve made headway. One militia in Texas captured a base similar to this.”

“Now if that don’t beat all,” Poole drawled.

“They’re asking for direction. What should they do with their prisoners?”

“You mean, should I give the order to execute them?”

No response.

“Can they be trusted?” Poole asked.

“That base has the same designation as this one.” Maggie glanced at Andrews beside her, then looked at the captain again. “The answer is ‘no.’”

“So we’re going to be no better than the Feds,” I mumbled.

“You’ll never be able to trust these agents, Captain,” Maggie argued. “Not ever.”

“Give that order, Captain,” I said, my tone biting as I glared at Maggie, “and you’re just another government butcher.”

“You have no idea who these people are,” my mother snapped.

“And you do?”

Silence again. It seemed as if the icy world outside the room’s solitary window had seeped through and frozen all of us.

“For now, we give them a choice,” Poole directed. “Join us or be turned out with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

“It’s your call,” Maggie said, her gaze slipping to me. “And your mistake.”

“Any further orders, Captain?” Hernandez asked.

“It’s time we spread the word.” Poole fixed his attention on Maggie. “You ready?”

She nodded.

I looked through the window at the swirls of white crystals falling from the sky. We were better than the butchers who had mastered us. But we had to be quick in spreading the word that we could beat them back. By what President Whitman just said on the National Feed, we were already running out of time.

Dark hair tousled, Poole stood ready to speak as he looked into the solitary camera in Dr. Andrews’ hand. The rest of us huddled behind the doctor, crammed into the tight quarters of the base’s storeroom. Maggie was in a corner working a small device, adjusting and readjusting it to make certain the Feed to the intra-web streamed uninterrupted. She’d tapped into the government’s high-speed system that went to every household and establishment across the country, given they had the energy allotment to use it.

Poole had donned his fatigues. Even faded and dirty, they suited him better than the crisp DHS uniform of red on black. The man hadn’t bothered to shave. His strong jawline was speckled with two days’ worth of growth. Yet even as unkempt as the captain appeared, he didn’t carry himself like a revolutionary from a banana republic. There was a dignity about him heightened by an unflinching resolve and surety of his purpose.

Behind him were shelves full of canned and boxed goods, bins of fresh produce, freezers, and a pair of huge stainless steel refrigerators. The air was scented with spices, oranges, and ripening melons. The aromas caused my stomach to rumble in anticipation of filling it.

Maggie held up her left hand, counting down with her fingers—three, two, one. Andrews nodded to her, then to Poole.

“President Whitman just got on the National Feed to tell you that criminals stole the People’s food. And that they’ll be stopped. But did he tell you it’s our food? Each person in Farmsworth. Every family’s. Food that belongs to the Americans living there. Food the Feds stole from us?

“You have to understand, the real criminals are making us beggars in our own country. And using our own food to do it. Look behind me. Just look. This is only one storeroom in a DHS supply depot. You see that?” Poole motioned to the stockpile of goods. “Homeland Security is being provisioned as if they’re royalty!”

He pointed to himself. “I’m Captain Jason Poole from the regular army. The same army that should be securing and defending this nation. And, most of all, upholding its constitution to make certain of your liberty.”

He took a step toward the camera in Andrews’ hand. “Listen to me. I want to serve you—not the government. And all of my men and anyone who follows me are, and will always be, loyal to the American people. Not President Whitman. Or the Congress that serves him.

“D.C. called your armed forces home from overseas. Drew us back to turn us into your policemen. But are we treated like royalty?” He snorted. “We’re starved like everyone else. But Whitman and the rest of his cronies make sure their DHS gestapo is well-fed. And the new ruling class outfitted those henchman with the latest weapons. To keep the ramble in check. They issued DHS the same orders they gave us.” He pointed to the camera this time. “Shoot to kill you.”

My muscles tightened.

“Go find out for yourselves,” Poole said, his voice calm and even as his hand dropped to his side. “Their goal was always to dispose of the people who wouldn’t conform. Understand? They want you dead if you don’t serve their purpose.

“So listen carefully. We’re not asking the government to take care of us anymore. Not like we ever did ask. We can do for ourselves. And none of us—not a one—ever wanted them to take away our freedom in exchange for the crumbs they gave back.”

His hands balled into fists. “It’s time we live our own lives again. Make our own way.” Poole raised those fists. “Fight our own battles and ask for nothing except that they leave us the hell alone!” His arms dropped to his sides again. “God gave us our lives and this country. And it’s time we get them back.”

Maggie sliced her hand through the air, a signal the Feed had been cut.

“Did we get out any of it?” Poole asked.

“Hell, yes. All of it,” she answered, a sly smile on her face. “And mark my words, Poole. It’ll stay out there. In a few hours, millions will have seen it and there’s nothing the Feds can do to stop it. Even with the controls they have on the Net. And especially when they think they found us.” She chuckled. “All they’ll find is a dead end after tracing a false signal.”

“And where will that dead end lead them?” I asked.

“To a DHS supply depot in upper Manhattan,” she said.

Poole’s counterchallenge was out there.

Sergeant Hernandez put his arm around my sister. Maggie was right. The gauntlet had just been thrown down by both sides. Now who would pick it up?

CHAPTER 13

Even before the sun set on the West Coast, recruits came forward, inspired by Poole’s speech on the open Feed. Our base in Vermont coordinated their hasty enlistment. Thousands of them gathered anywhere they could meet in safety.

By early the following morning, the Feds launched their first assault against our fledgling insurgency. There were reports of casualties, civilian along with military. The mounting death toll on our side of the ledger gave weight to Poole’s warning. There would be blood—the price for refusing to conform.

Later that morning, we were in the command center to hone our strategy.

Hernandez spoke first, using his knowledge of history to augment his push to gain a tactical advantage, if only locally for now. He pointed to the map of Boston, glowing on the floating screen. “Look, we have to find our high ground just like Washington did.” The sergeant folded his arms across his chest. “You have to understand. Just after Concord, the rebels held the countryside but couldn’t cut off Boston’s harbor. The British were able to send in men and supplies to reinforce the garrisons.”

“Because they were hopelessly outgunned, just like we are,” Dr. Andrews grumbled.

“At that moment,” Hernandez conceded. “That’s why Benedict Arnold was sent to capture Fort Ticonderoga near the Canadian border.”

“Benedict Arnold’s the guy who betrayed us,” I said.

“Arnold wasn’t a traitor. At least, not then. In fact, he was one of the best men Washington had. Arnold was given orders to capture the fort and bring back its artillery to drive the British out of Boston. And he did it with the help of the Green Mountain Boys.”

“Homegrown in Vermont,” Maggie said with a wisp of a satisfied smile.

“Homegrown drunks most of the time,” the sergeant said.

“Not much to do in Vermont during the winter.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” Hernandez cleared his throat. “Well, the Americans got their advantage by using British armaments. And they got it by using them well. That summer, General Howe, who commanded the British, fortified Boston’s defenses while General Washington, the army’s newly appointed commander in chief, worked to bring order to the army. It took all of summer and fall and well into winter before Henry Knox could get the ordnance Arnold had seized at Fort Ty to Boston.”

“We don’t have months. Probably not even days,” Poole pointed out.

“No, we don’t,” Hernandez conceded. “But we can still take the high ground.” He pointed to the map again. “Washington put a few guns at Cambridge and Roxbury, and bombarded the British lines. Just a ploy to give the rebels cover. By morning, the American commander in chief had fortified Dorchester Heights, where he was able to hit anything in the city, including the harbor. Howe ordered his troops, and any Tories who wanted to, to come along. The British left the city.”

“Again, we need the firepower to drive them out,” Poole mumbled as he stepped to the window. Across the snow-covered expanse stood the barracks. Under cover of the enclosed mess, Poole’s ragged troops were putting civilian recruits through their paces, drilling them with military exercises. They marched, practicing with nothing more than sheared-off pipe in place of guns, for now.

“The high ground,” Poole mused as he turned and fixed his gaze on the glistening map of Boston. “How are we ever going to win it?”

“Our Fort Ty is close to here.” Everyone’s attention fastened on Maggie.

Seated at the console in the center of the room, she used her index finger to tip another map in Poole’s direction. “Hadley Air Force Base. Right here. Fifty miles from Boston.”

“Hadley?” Andrews snorted. “They shut down that old World War Two base years ago.”

From the satellite image, Maggie pulled up the place, looking like nothing more than an abandoned airstrip. Its brick buildings were in decay, World War II-era runways overgrown with weeds. Seemingly worthless, it was unfenced and open to the wooded areas surrounding its perimeter. Houses flanked the approach, a seemingly quiet neighborhood.

Maggie had a smug look on her face.

“My guess is, they didn’t abandon it at all,” Poole ventured.

“The Feds kept it running,” Maggie said. “I told you, Captain, they were developing some ultra-secret projects with deadly capabilities. I had high enough clearance to know where they were being developed, but not high enough to be fully briefed on their goals. My guess, if you can get inside, you’d find the means to win your high ground.”

“And how are we supposed to get inside an ultra-secret facility?”

“There’s a crack there. Someone’s been leaking information to our network for nearly a year. Nothing all that specific, but enough to know we’d find friendlies.”

“Enough to let us in the back door?”

“Try the front,” Maggie said. “Whoever they are, they’ve got high enough clearance to break through the security blanket and not get caught.”

“Can we make contact with them now?”

She shook her head. “Technically they don’t exist. You attempt contact, and all you’ll be doing is giving away our position to the Feds.”

“Hadley.” Poole scratched his chin as he looked at Hernandez. “Think it could be our Fort Ty?”

“That or our dead end.”

“Literally.” Poole blew out a deep breath. “Well, Maggie Sweetheart, show us how we get to this place that doesn’t exist.”

That night, Poole readied to set out with his elite unit, the thirty best men under his command. A larger force would easily be detected by satellite surveillance. Poole tasked Maggie with keeping watch on his unit’s movement. She’d maintain an open channel on a set frequency in the event the “crack” at Hadley attempted to make contact when—not if—their approach was discovered. Definitely a gamble.

Would whatever front door was there open to Poole? Or would he and his team find themselves literally out in the cold—dead? Fear squeezed my heart as I watched the men loading armament into the transports, three MRAP’s. Sergeant Hernandez would go with them, along with Dr. Andrews.

“Poole, you need to think this through,” I said, standing next to him in the hangar.

Dressed all in black, he grinned. “Now Honey Beck, y’all believe I ain’t considered the possibilities?” he said in his annoying Texas drawl.

“Asshole. If you get killed, where does that leave the rest of us?”

“Alone in bed.”

I punched him in the arm.

“Okay, darlin’, I haven’t slept with you…” He synched up a strap, tying down some heavy equipment. “…yet.”

Now I hauled off and punched him as hard as I could to make him listen.

“Rebecca,” he groaned and finally stopped his preparations to face me. “Hadley may be our best chance. Right now, we don’t have enough firepower.”

“What about guerilla warfare like we talked about back in Farmsworth?”

“Too slow,” he said, his voice dropping. “That base in Texas… I got word it’s back in DHS control. Every last one of the militia that took it is dead. Executed just as Whitman promised to do.” He hefted a heavy pack into the MRAP.

“Poole.”

He didn’t stop this time, but instead gave his men a few last orders.

I cleared my throat, stumbling as I blurted, “Th-then I’ll go with you!”

“Hell, no.”

“Jason.”

Poole held up his hand to silence me. His gaze softened as he paused and gently placed the palm of that hand against my cheek. I felt his warmth. After a few quiet moments, he called out, “Doc, it’s time!”

Andrews took his place in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Poole climbed in the driver’s side. The small caravan of MRAPs started their engines and headed out the hangar door. I stood there like so many others had done over the centuries of warfare, bidding farewell to those who journeyed across a wine-dark sea to battle.

Unable to sleep, I got up, slipped on my clothes, and drew my jacket closed as I ventured into the cold. Leaving the barracks, I made my way across the snowy field and into the command center, where Maggie kept watch. The screen in front of her glowed with green luminance. Night-vision cameras fed a steady stream of images as Poole’s unit made its way to Hadley. To her side were panels of shimmering lights, a monitor of the air space and surrounding countryside encompassing Poole’s objective, along with the DHS base we occupied.

The rest of the facility had been locked down and only the sentries along the perimeter stood awake. Those of Poole’s company who’d remained behind were quartered in the barracks for the night, along with Christina, our growing civilian contingent, and the DHS prisoners.

Maggie turned and looked at me as I came inside. Her lips parted as if prepared to greet me. Instead, they closed tight. Maybe we still didn’t have anything to share.

So many feelings rushed through me as I came into that room. I knew what my mother had done, leaving Dad and me. It’d been born out of the instinct to protect her child and husband. I knew it logically, yet there was this terrible anger, the need to cut her off, even now, as she continued to work to protect those she loved.

In that moment, bundled up in my jacket despite the heat pumping from the overhead vents, I felt as if I’d never be warm again. I cleared my throat and forced a question. “Do you have any idea where they are?”

“The convoy made it to Bedford,” she answered, not bothering to turn around again. “They’re traveling along a back road now. Skirting the main town. Doing good. Headed through a conservation area with no houses around.”

“Thank you,” I said, settling into a seat behind her, intent to keep watch with her. Just then, I remembered the duffle I’d left in the barracks. Inside it was a bag of marshmallows. Maybe a hot cup of cocoa would take the chill out of the room…or maybe two cups.

I was about to get up when a faint, tinny ping sounded. Maggie started flipping switches on the console. Her gaze fixed on the blinking lights and streaks of red on one of the monitors. “Shit,” she rasped as she tapped the screen to gain better resolution. “Damn it.”

“Poole,” I exhaled his name.

“No. Here. Body Heat Seeks—and headed straight for us.”

CHAPTER 14

“They’ll take out every living thing on this base,” Maggie said as she jabbed fingers against buttons, flipped levers as sweat trickled down her face. Her head rocked back and forth as she mumbled, “No…dear God, no.”

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Becky,” she wheezed. “They overrode the automatic defense system. I can’t stop it from here.”

My hand convulsed, squeezing her shoulder as I uttered a single word, “Vermont?”

Again, she shook her head as she started to get up from her chair. “Only way is to trip the defense system manually from the backup in the hangar.”

I glanced at the screen. One red streak was getting awfully close. Time to impact—four minutes. I noticed her labored breathing, how strained she seemed.

“I’ll go.”

Once more, she shook her head. With that, she scrambled, flinging open the emergency kit on the wall to retrieve a handful of slender stainless tubes before she shot out the door. I trailed her.

She held up her hand and barked, “Stay! Keep watch on that monitor!”

Maggie struggled to make headway through the snowdrifts between the buildings. I turned back to see the screen she’d been using still floating in midair. One of the red streaks appeared to be closing fast on our position. The numbers changed, then changed again. It would hit in just over two minutes, dead center on my mother.

I cupped my hands and yelled, “Incoming! Due west!”

Maggie glanced at the small device she always had strapped to her wrist now. She spun around, stumbled, and crashed to her knees. “The flares!” she shouted as they spilled from her hands onto the snow.

Bolting out the door, I raced toward her as she fumbled, trying to aim a flare at a glowing red dot growing larger by the second in the western sky. A “Body Seek”—my father had told me about them. They could be programmed to hone in on a unique heat signature within a four-degree range, a targeted explosion, releasing deadly shrapnel. They were designed to leave the surroundings intact and the combatants in shreds. The Feds wanted to reclaim this base and to hell with people. The first heat-seeker would take Maggie out, and me with her.

I yanked the flare from her hand and felt for the trigger along the slick metal tube.

Maggie gasped, “First one from the top. Sim…ma…” She swallowed. “Of the three…it simulates a human heat signature.”

With eyes focused, hand steady, I compressed my finger against the raised button, first from the top in a row of three. The flare whooshed out of my hand, a miniature rocket with a slender red tail, dancing and whirling through the air, its faint glow highlighted against the dark steel-gray cloud cover of a late autumn sky. The red dot to the west had grown large enough to reveal a glistening missile, probably no larger than a broom handle. It veered off its trajectory as it locked onto the calibrated heat signature of the flare. The projectile swung upward and away from the compound. Within a heartbeat, a blast echoed with a faint roll of thunder.

Not waiting for the next incoming, I pulled Maggie to her feet, getting my arm securely around her as we pushed toward the hangar. The base stirred. People came out of the barracks, sentries scrambling to ready themselves for whatever came next. The hangar door slid open. The two men guarding the structure were silhouetted against the interior light. They had their guns pointed straight at us.

“Incoming! Heat seeks!” I screamed. “Take cover!”

They stepped back, the barrels of their rifles lowered.

As we rushed inside the building, I shouted, “Where the hell is it?”

Winded, Maggie struggled for air, swallowing great gulps as she pointed to a corner of the large hangar where a gray box hung on the wall. Locked tight, the small container had nothing of note on its front panel, just blank steel. Maggie struggled to lift her arm and tap the device on her wrist. A hidden keypad on the box lit. Iridescent blue numbers flickered across its face. The box’s front panel slid up and open. Maggie sucked in a deep breath and heaved forward, managing at last to manually trigger the defense system.

Sirens blared. Outside the wire, the landscape ignited with bright white light to reveal anyone, or anything, attempting to breach the perimeter fence. A disembodied voice chimed over and over again. “Take shelter. Warning. Strike imminent. Take shelter.”

From hidden underground silos, small compact missiles launched skyward. There were more claps of thunder as the swarm of missiles released the deadly payloads high overhead.

I whispered a prayer of gratitude, then shouted as I jammed my fists upward. “We did it!”

Turning, I saw Maggie hunched over on her knees, clutching her chest with one hand, fumbling in her pocket with the other.

“Mom,” I screeched. That term of endearment slipped from my lips for the first time since we’d been reunited. “Mom!”

“M-my…,” she said, her voice shaky as she tried to fish something out of her pocket.

I came to her side, stuck in my own hand, and found a small bottle.

“One…un-under my…” She opened her mouth.

I fumbled trying to retrieve a tiny pill. Tipping the bottle, I spilled some of them onto my open palm, took one, and placed it under her tongue. After lifting her head onto my lap, I sat there, stroking her sweat-covered hair—crushed by the feeling it was already too late.

“Help!” I screamed, the blaring sirens drowning my plea. We were all alone in the hangar. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, feeling her life fading away. “Please be okay. Mommy, please…I love you.”

Sequestered in a small room off the mess, I sat next to the cot where my mother lay, struggling to breathe. Her hand rested in mine, frail and cold to the touch.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a whimper. A plastic mask covered her mouth and nose, feeding her oxygen through a tube connected to a slender canister. Her gaze turned upward as if she were staring at something beyond the barrack’s ceiling, a wan smile on her lips. “Becky Baby…”

“Shhh.” Dr. Andrews attempted to silence her as he held a stethoscope to her chest. “Quiet, Mags.”

“But my girl’s finally here,” she said, her voice even fainter than before as tears slipped down her cheeks. I used my finger to gently wipe them away.

Andrews checked her pulse.

“Gilly, do you know what you’re doing?” she taunted.

I looked up at him.

He shrugged. “Middle name is Gilford. She never let me forget it.” He returned his attention to my mother and winked. “Despite being assigned to PSYOPS, I still managed to hold on to some of my medical training.” His countenance sobered. “I know more than enough, Mags, to make an educated guess you probably suffered additional damage with this one.” The doctor informed me, “Your mother had a massive heart attack last year.”

“Fink. Where’s patient privacy?” Mother chided, with a hint of annoyance salting her feeble voice.

“Went out the proverbial window with Obamacare.” His tone dipped as his graying eyebrows knit together. “Besides, the young lady over here is family.”

Maggie turned her head to me, bloodshot eyes clouding with renewed tears.

I nodded and squeezed her hand.

“Your mother had angina for years.” His voice dropped again as he said to her, “Maybe as many years as I had a crush on you, old girl.”

“Old girl?” Her eyes narrowed. “You old fart.”

He chuckled. “You must be feeling better. First ‘Gilly,’ now calling me an ‘old fart.’ Your terms of endearment.”

“Sure. I’m peachy.” Mother grimaced as she adjusted the clear mask.

“Mags, you need to be moved to a hospital.”

I looked through the open doorway. Poole had ordered us to evacuate when he’d returned from his expedition. I knew our position had been compromised. But with everything that had happened, I hadn’t taken the time to ask about the details of our escape or the outcome of his mission.

I spotted Poole in the middle of the activity. “Give me a minute.” I squeezed my mother’s hand one more time and got up.

Clamor filled the barracks as people stripped the storeroom of food. Christina labored alongside the men. The doors were flung open even as a blizzard pelted down in flurries outside.

Before I could reach him, Poole stormed from the building, his strides large and deliberate as he crossed the snow-covered ground. With the wind battering me, I followed but found it too hard to catch up. Instead of running after him, I came to a halt, planted my feet, cupped my hands, and yelled, “Stop!”

He turned and faced me.

“Andrews says my mother needs to be in a hospital.”

Silence.

“Poole, she saved us last night. We owe her.” The captain leveled his gaze on me. Falling snow wove a curtain of white between us. Sweat trickled down my back, and my skin felt flush even as the frost bit at my cheeks. “Damn it! Andrews is a doctor!”

“Damn it, Beck—but—” He let out a deep groan and finally strode over to me. “I lost two men last night. Ambushed by a DHS patrol before we even got to Hadley.”

“You know what happened here. You could have lost all of us if it wasn’t for her!”

He just stood there, his face unreadable.

“She needs a hospital, you son of a bitch!”

“Watch it, Beck,” he warned, his tone sharp.

I took a step back.

“We secured what we needed at Hadley. We’ll have firepower and a hell of a lot more.” He hung his head a moment, fists clenched as if trying to control some inner beast. He looked up at me, his blue eyes so gray and empty. “I’m sorry. I promise to get Maggie the best care we can muster. But not now.”

“That’s not good enough,” I cried as my emotions overrode reason. In that one selfish moment, I didn’t give a damn what was happening to anyone else. “She could—”

Poole held up his hand to cut off my tirade. He turned and left me standing alone with that curtain of chilling white snow separating us once more.

CHAPTER 15

By 8:30 a.m., we were on the road. I traveled with Poole, Mother, Dr. Andrews, and the driver who guided our MRAP through a growing blizzard. Tina rode behind us in another vehicle with Sergeant Hernandez. We were in the lead of a convoy, which consisted of every motorized conveyance that had been housed at the DHS base. I sat in back of the MRAP, with Mother laid out next to me on a stretcher.

The doctor kept checking her blood pressure, pulse, and listening to her heart, so much so he began to annoy his patient. Mother batted him away, then crossed her arms over her chest. “Where the hell are we going, Daniel?” she yelled, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask over her face and the engine’s rumble.

He looked to me. Poole had given orders to his inner circle, and for now that circle didn’t include me. I shook my head. Andrews turned back to Mother and shrugged.

“What about detection?” she shouted. “They scanning for us?”

“Last I checked, nothing registering.” Again, the doctor shrugged. “It’s like something or someone’s shielding us. And I have no idea how.”

“Vermont?” I suggested.

“No. We don’t have any technology like that. And a convoy this big?” His brow furrowed. “Truth is, I don’t know anyone who would have the capacity or the capability to do it.”

I turned my attention to the front of the MRAP with Poole in the passenger seat. Where were we going? And why did we leave all the base’s armaments behind, and the computer equipment? Only the food, bedding, and clothing were taken. After our exchange outside the mess, I’d kept clear of the captain.

Now, I sucked in a deep breath and scrambled forward, navigating between the crates of supplies secured inside the MRAP. I stopped and knelt beside him. The snow pelted the windshield, obscuring a view of the road even as the wipers worked to clear away the ice crystals.

Before I could open my mouth, Poole turned in his seat, eyes distant and still the color of hardened steel. Stiffening my resolve, my lips parted to let a string of questions free.

He put his hand to my cheek as he had that night before venturing off on a quest for the Holy Grail housed in a mythical place called Hadley. His hand was warm then. Now it was icy, despite the heat blasting from the dashboard vents. His gaze softened, a strange yearning lighting his eyes, almost the look of a plea for salvation.

“It’s all taken care of,” he said as if he could sense what I wanted to know. “Trust me.”

I did trust him—before—but not in that moment. “How?” That one word escaped me. How? The first of so many questions clamoring inside me.

“We’ll be there soon.” He placed a kiss on my mouth, seeming not to care who saw us. A soft kiss at first, it became more urgent, nearly fervent, transforming into a needful, greedy act.

I pulled away, paused a moment, our gazes locked as his turned distant again. I scuttled backward, never breaking with his wintry stare.

Mother and Andrews studied me a moment. Memories returned of that night in Vermont, Poole sitting beside me on the bed and Mother standing in the doorway. Now, settled next to the stretcher, all I could offer them was what Poole had said. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

And so we did.

I fell asleep lying in the cramped space next to my mother. It was one of those deep sleeps, an abandoned darkness where nothing could reach inside. I don’t know how much time slipped by or even when we’d stopped moving. My eyes slowly opened to see Mother seated upright, the doctor giving her support with his arm at her back. They were focused on something ahead of us. I noticed the engine’s steady hum, the lack of motion. We were idling.

Elbowing my way to a seated position, I turned to see where they were looking. The fierce storm had ebbed. Now and then a breeze blew a dusting of snow onto the window. That snow melted away as we sat outside of what seemed to have been a guarded entrance.

I made my way forward again, stopping short of where Poole sat. We were parked in front of a small abandoned building that looked to have once been a guard shack. There was a sign on it, weathered brown wood with yellow lettering barely legible: “United States Air Force — Hadley Air Command.” A short chain-link fence ran the length on either side of the approach, and there were the remains of a thick black metal crossing arm that used to block the roadway. The driver reached for the stick shift and threw the MRAP into gear.

The streets were snow-covered potholes; it was obviously a place that had long ceased to host any human activity. The trees, burdened with ice, were overgrown, nearly wild, and the brick buildings were in ill repair, their windows boarded up ages ago.

I looked over my shoulder. Through the rear window, I saw our convoy stretched out behind us. Poole raised his hand and pointed again, a silent order for the driver to turn. I saw old hangars, shuttered and rusted, along with an open field, paved perhaps, but it was too hard to tell with its deep cover of snow. Here and there were civilian planes long left to decay. A wing poking through the snow, a sleek nose, its paint chipped or worn away, were visible evidence of better days.

“It’s clearly deserted,” I said, unsettled.

Poole chuckled, a sound tinged with a sharp edge. It set me even more ill at ease.

We passed more buildings, hangars, workshops, all forsaken relics. I began to think Poole had lost his sense of reality, a madman who had just led us to a dead end. Once more, his hand rose, giving the driver the signal to stop. Out in front of us lay nothing, just snow, a whole section of emptiness.

“The runways,” Poole explained.

“You want me to start flapping my arms?” I blurted, then pinched my lips when I thought better of being flippant.

Poole chuckled again, the tone friendlier, softening just like that steely gaze of his melting away before he kissed me. “Have a little faith.”

We waited in that open field as the digital clock on the dash tracked the minutes. The ground rumbled. For a brief moment, I thought of an earthquake, though I’d never experienced one in my life. A section of snow quivered to reveal a deep cut in all that white. More rumbling caused the MRAP to vibrate as what seemed to be an immense slab tilted upward, its snow covering sliding backward in an artificial avalanche. I leaned forward, not quite believing what I saw. Stark light poured out from the opening, so much so it seemed as if it were emanating from a whole city buried underground.

Poole pulled me close beside him, a smile turning up his lips. “Welcome to the Promised Land, Honey Beck.”

Our convoy proceeded down a ramp leading underground. We entered a staging area of some sort. Armored vehicles, parked several rows deep, were lined up on either side of a wide aisleway. These were sleek, compact, deadly war machines that looked as if they could strike quickly and move out just as fast. And there were troop carriers, or at least that’s what they appeared to be. At the far end lay an open area large enough to hold our entire convoy. Poole gave the order to pull in there.

When our vehicle stopped, the captain opened his door and exited. I glanced at Mother, then Dr. Andrews. They both gave me a brief gesture indicating I should follow him. I rushed after Poole. Hernandez got out of his vehicle, leaving Tina behind. He hurried to join the captain. Beyond the staging area was an even larger expanse filled with equipment, computer decks, and sophisticated instrumentation. And people, lots of them, and none wearing a uniform, odd for a place that seemed to be a military installation.

Poole strode in the direction of a small group headed toward him as I struggled to catch up. There were five in that group, two women and three men. Poole joined them just as I came up from behind. One of the men slid his gaze away from Poole and focused on me, his grayish-blond eyebrow arched.

Winded, I sucked in a deep breath and said, “Rebecca Sanders.”

“Margaret Dunn’s daughter,” Poole elaborated.

The man appeared to be digesting my mother’s name. “Dunn,” he wheezed.

“That’s right. And she needs medical assistance.”

“We have a sick bay here. State of the art with decent personnel.” The man cupped his ear and dipped his head as he spoke into a com. “Need medical. Patient. Sector 3. MRAP. Number one position.” He paused as if listening, then looked up at me.

“Heart attack,” I volunteered.

“Heart attack,” he repeated, waiting another moment, then nodding as he said, “Yes.” The man tipped up his chin. “Help is on the way.”

He was shorter than Poole, not muscular, not unpleasant. He wore an aftershave, some scent that reminded me of forest pine in the winter. A bit older, approaching forty, maybe a shade over, he was a man most would pass by without notice. He had blond hair dusted with light silver, skin so pale it looked as if he had never lived outside that underground lair. His eyes gave me pause. They were the color of a lake I’d seen a long time ago when Dad had taken Vera and the family camping in Canada. It was British Columbia at a glacial lake with water so clear and blue it seemed as if the lake had swallowed the sky whole. It was those eyes that made me shiver—and maybe what lay behind them, veiled by an unassuming veneer.

We engaged in a mutual assessment, momentary silence, then an introduction. “Deven Michaels,” he said. “Head of the Charon Project.” He cupped his ear again and turned his attention to the captain. “Your convoy is secure, Commander.”

I looked over my shoulder to catch the last of our vehicles rolling down the ramp.

“Shut the door behind them,” Poole said.

Michaels conveyed the order as if Poole, indeed, were the commander here.

Again came the rumbling sound, but this time from above as the huge slab lowered, winking out the daylight that had been filtering down the ramp. For a moment, I panicked, overtaken by the crazy feeling of being shut in a tomb. I did my best to shake it off and ask, “The snow-covering is gone?”

“Blowers will push more in place,” Michaels explained. “But it really doesn’t matter. We’re masked from satellite detection. Or any other kind of detection, for that matter. One of the many things we’ve developed here. A form of electronic shielding.”

“Patrols probably made the base by now,” Poole said. “Let’s move.”

Michaels nodded once more. The group turned almost in unison as it headed deeper into the complex. I ran back to the MRAP just as two men were lifting Mother out on a stretcher. Tina had joined them.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Andrews assured me.

“I will, too,” my sister piped in. “Go.”

Mother fanned her fingers, shooing me away.

I sprinted in the direction of Poole and his new entourage. I didn’t get far before someone armed with a pistol stopped me. He spoke into his com and must have been given leave to let me go forward.

Michaels waited for me in a doorway. “Security is understandably tight here. Come along. No one will stop you if you stay close to me.”

As we hurried down a long hallway, I spat out a question. “You seem to know my mother. How?”

“Your mother…” he said, his tone flat as he kept his attention fixed ahead, not even bothering to look at me. “If the DHS ever had a superstar, your mother could have easily claimed the title.”

“So you’re part of DHS?”

“No. Not even Air Force, though our lab was first set up in one of the hangars on Hadley. We’re from MIT. A joint venture with the Feds. Airborne testing of communications and sensors. That was, at first. As you can see, our operation and its mission has expanded since then.”

Of course, Michaels was being glib. This operation had expanded into a temple to modern technology. “So what is it you do here?”

“More than you ever dreamed,” he answered.

Michaels didn’t elaborate; he didn’t have to. In a few moments, we made the Command Center of that underground complex. I saw the monitors; their glowing screens were weightless images hung in the air. The same thing was projected on all of them. They gave me a sense that, soon enough, what they had conjured up here would be let loose. And—dear God—the power of it may just give us the ability to win, but at a cost too terrible to bear.

CHAPTER 16

The Command Center buzzed with people busy at consoles, scurrying between instrumentation, checking readings, or pausing for a quick exchange with a coworker. Poole stood off with Michaels and Sergeant Hernandez, locked in a deep discussion. I focused on the monitors that showed the DHS base we’d abandoned as uniformed agents, rifles held ready, fanned out across the empty field toward the buildings, searching for us.

Something caught my attention in the background. I leaned closer, eyes straining to make out the figures exiting an armored transport just outside the base’s fence line. My hand pressed against my chest as I took a step closer. I knew them, a dozen or so of my neighbors from Farmsworth. Lois Bradley and her little boy were there. Held at gunpoint, they were being herded toward the entrance of the abandoned base.

I rushed to Poole and grabbed him by the arm. “They have people from Farmsworth.” I pointed to a monitor. “Look.”

“Human shields.” Poole turned and asked Deven Michaels, “Can we refocus the field?”

Michaels shook his head. “Not without difficulty. If they remain in place, they’ll be safe. The Charon field is set inside the wire.”

“Deploy before they get them into the base,” Poole ordered.

“Captain, we need to reconsider this,” Hernandez cautioned. “There’s bound to be collaterals.”

“First wave!” Michaels shouted before Poole could respond.

Within seconds, a blue flash shot through the DHS base. The agents paused in their advance across the field. They fumbled with their rifles’ communications devices, as all of their equipment seemed to have been rendered useless. Still positioned outside the fence, the agent guarding the Farmsworth prisoners fired on them. Two captives fell, their blood painting the snow red. The survivors charged the guard. A melee erupted as the guard tried to fire again. His rifle was knocked upward before it let loose another round. Lois’s son broke away. Panicked, the boy ran straight through the gate as she started after him.

“Bio field at ready,” one of the techs reported.

“Captain!” the sergeant snapped. “That boy—”

“Second wave!” Michaels bellowed.

“No!” I screeched, not even sure what was happening.

A red flash this time. Every living thing inside the wire collapsed, including Bradley’s son. Lois had been just outside the target area. She sprinted the few feet to his limp form, knelt beside her little boy and drew him into her arms. Her head bent back, mouth open with a silent wail. Oh, such terrible grief. It would never find comfort. The rest of the Farmsworth contingent managed to overpower the guard. The man lay as lifeless as his comrades inside the fence.

“No,” I muttered, broken by Lois’s anguish. “Please, God. No.”

“A success,” Michaels said in a tone that held no trace of regret. He turned to the assembled techs. “At 1500 hours we execute Operation High Ground. Boston Prime. DHS fifty-mile radius.”

Poole glared at the head of the Charon project.

“There was no way to stand the system down,” Michaels said, his tone still detached.

A long moment passed, then Poole finally looked away and nodded. “Some place to lie down.”

Michaels singled out a female tech. “Show the commander to private quarters.”

The woman stood. Poole followed her out of the room.

I turned my attention to Michaels, that eyebrow of his cocked. “Curious, Sanders?”

“If that’s how you want to put it. What the hell just happened?”

“Charon distributes an EMP field. Low-altitude electromagnetic pulse disables anything using electricity. Even the newer rifles with their electronic siting and triggering. Rendered non-operational.”

“And the second wave?” I croaked.

“The bio field? A three-minute delay for a programmed reset of the remaining power allotment and a change of frequency. All living creatures have electric current running through them. The bio field disrupts that current. Short -circuits the targets.”

“Why not just disarm them? You didn’t have to kill.”

“Or why not just kill and not bother with disarming them?” he countered, pausing as if trying to challenge me. When I didn’t react, he goaded, “The project was named Charon for a good reason.”

“The ferryman?”

“That’s correct, Sanders. Charon, who took the dead across the River Styx. Do you understand now?”

“Yes—damn it!”

“Then understand this also. All of it was paid for by the American people. Well, to be exact, the Federal government. The one supposedly of the people, and for the people. They wanted an economical way to kill the people and leave the surroundings intact. Taking human life while maintaining the infrastructure was always the objective. We’ll do an electronic sweep to disarm any booby traps left in place. The reason for the first wave. With the target clean, and after an hour of downtime, everything in that base will be operational again except for, of course, the dead.”

“You willingly created this…th-thing!”

His voice grew even more chilling. “We were told the systems we were developing would be used in the Middle East. When all hell broke loose and Iran finished developing the bomb. And all the remaining nations threatened to blow others to hell. We were left to believe it was to keep the homeland safe. Handpicked scientists and technicians. But the prototype delivery system at this facility was too short-ranged. Even when they ordered us to expand that range for a newer installation. Even with a subsequent order to build a portable unit, none of it could be easily transported overseas. Not with the specs the Feds gave us. It was always meant to be used on the American people and subdue those who survived it.”

“Enough,” I pleaded.

At last, I saw a flicker of heat in those stone-blue eyes. His jaw flexed. “Well, maybe you have had more than enough. If you’ll excuse me. We’ve much to do.”

I stared at Michaels as he walked away. More power than we could have ever dreamed of—more like a nightmare that would squeeze out every bit of humanity from our souls. I had to find Poole.

Hand raised, I hesitated to knock on the closed door. The tech had pointed me to the private quarters where she’d taken Poole. After a moment, I dropped my hand to the knob and found it unlocked. Of course. Who’d have the gall to disturb the commander? I pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind me.

The room was a stark small space all in white with a compact footlocker in one corner, a double bed, and a desk. There was a private bath with utilitarian fixtures, a modest shower, sink, and toilet. With his back to the door, Poole sat on the edge of the bed, arms resting on his legs with hands clasped, feet planted on the floor.

“Take a seat, Beck,” he said, not even bothering to lift his head to see who had come into the room.

I sat beside him.

He finally raised his gaze to stare at the wall in front of him. “Strange room. Like a blank. Nothing personal but some clothes neatly folded in the locker. Not a photo player. A scrap of paper. A note from home. Evidence of some connection to somebody. Anybody.”

“Michaels’ quarters?”

“Yes.” Poole got to his feet and leaned against the blank wall. “They saved our asses last night. A DHS patrol jumped us. They were dug in just off the road. Damn it!” He groaned. “The son of bitches killed two of my men with ammo that sliced clean through our MRAP’s armor.”

Restless, Poole started to pace, controlled yet ready to strike. “Andrews picked up the DHS’s heat signature. But his warning came too late. We tried to fight them, but were outgunned and losing ground. Then came these flashes of light off our flank. Blue, then red. All of a sudden—silence. Then we found them. Every last one of the fucking DHS bastards were dead. It was like the blessed hand of God had squeezed the life out of them.”

He raised his chin. “We debated going on. David argued against it. Said we didn’t know what we were up against. Andrews supported him. I was going to call a withdrawal when Michaels raised the com. That scared the crap out of us even more than the enemy’s fire. Andrews couldn’t figure out how anyone could tap our secured frequency. We were close to Hadley. A mile out. Michaels’ team could do about anything in that range. They guided us to this underground base.” Poole stopped, then grumbled, “Wonder if that son of a bitch has any aspirin.”

I got to my feet and went into the bathroom. Above the sink was a mirror, narrow and tall.and nearly flush. I ran my finger around the thin exposed edge. The mirror swung open to reveal a cache of sundries and a few small bottles, all meticulously organized. I found the aspirin and scouted for a glass. Not finding one, I returned to Poole, who sat on the bed.

I held out the bottle. “They look legit.”

He cupped his hand.

I dropped two white tablets into it. “Have to swallow them dry unless you can stick your head under that tiny sink and drink from the faucet.”

“You think so?” He leaned over and tapped the wall next to the bed. Thin lines appeared, revealing a panel of sorts. It slid upward, exposing a shelf with clean glassware and a thin silver spigot. Poole placed one of the glasses under the faucet and said, “Water.” A clear crystal stream poured down, cutting off before a drop could spill over the top of the glass.

“The tech showed me. Damn.” He chuckled and shook his head. “She also let me know if I wanted a piece of tail, all I had to do was ask. We could screw the afternoon away.” He swallowed the tablets, took a large gulp of water to wash them down, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “If only I were in high school again.”

“Being hospitable, wasn’t she?”

“Mighty hospitable.” He drank the remaining water, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve again. “Just seeing to the commander’s comfort. Casual on both sides, she assured me. Not a sexist bone in anyone’s body here.” He threw the glass against the wall, littering the floor with glistening shards.

I rested my hand on his shoulder, his muscles knotted with tension. He looked up at me. “There’s another one of these installations. Has ten times the reach. Non-operational right now. And the Feds think this one is temporarily off-line. Well, that is, until a half hour ago. But with the electronic shielding they developed here, this top-secret base will be next to impossible for them to locate.”

I took a place next to him on the bed.

“If you can believe Michaels.” He shrugged. “Who the hell knows? When things broke out in Farmsworth, their personnel started to keep watch on us. When we tapped into the National Feed at the base, they knew they’d found a rallying point. That’s what I am, a fucking rallying point. Just like with Maggie’s network.” He straightened his spine. “Rebecca,” he whispered. “Last night I knew who the enemy was. Who we had to kill. Even back at that DHS base. It made sense. But today wasn’t clear. Today…well, today. Damn it. It was an innocent kid. One of the first innocents of millions who’ll die in this war. You understand?”

“Jason?”

“You have to understand. Even if I become the bastard. There’s no time to stop. No time to regret anything. Stop and regret and the Feds win.”

“It’s war. You told me as much.”

“And it’s hell.” He put a finger under my chin. I looked into his troubled gaze as his voice dropped to a bare murmmur. “I didn’t want her, Beck.”

“When you first came into our diner, you wanted any woman who’d lay still long enough…just like in high school.”

His mouth curled with a sad wisp of smile that evaporated quickly. “Not now.” He bent near, his face next to mine. “Not ever again, my Bay State gal.”

It was a kiss like that kiss in the MRAP, in want of more than comfort, more than physical release, more than any human being could possibly give to another. But in the moment, I wanted to give him what he sought. Jason Poole needed an absolution that would free him of the coming incrimination. Liberate him from the rebuke he would heap on himself before anyone could cry “murderer” and condemn him as “a monster.”

My lips parted to inhale his breath, a living fire that burned hotter than any sexual need. I could never give him what he wanted, needed above all else, and would never find in my flesh.

His hands cradled my head, my red curls spilling between his fingers. They moved downward, then up, peeling away my sweatshirt, unfastening my bra. His hands were on my breasts, his tongue against my throat, then trailing downward to the peaked nipples. His masculine scent, that of an animal, a trapped carnivore, filled my senses. He laid me down on the bed, the mattress giving with our weight. The crisp coolness of the linen pressed against my bare back as he entered me. Jason moved slowly, then faster, and his moans were muffled words spiraling into hoarse primal sounds.

Heat buried the past hour, buried the years of hardship and a little boy’s meaningless death, a senseless casualty of war. My eyes closed, my attempt to shut away the hopeless need that would never be satisfied. This was the moment when his conscience had pled for mercy and was instead drowned in our mutual attempt to escape guilt. But it would never leave us in peace. Jason Poole and I were two shadows being swallowed up in the growing darkness.

CHAPTER 17

I lay next to Poole as he slept with his back to me. I tried snuggling against his warm body in an attempt to seize some semblance of safety, garner an assurance the world would re-balance. But there was only the sound of his breathing and the chill of that stark white room. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. The aroma of sweat along with a lingering hint of passion scented the air. I’d almost forgotten those smells, the feel of being together. I stretched my arms upward, spreading my fingers wide, and studied their shape against all the empty white.

My mind wandered back to the one man I’d known before Poole, a college classmate at Harvard. I’d loved him with such eager desire. He had been my soul-mate, or so I’d thought. We’d planned to get married in the spring of that year, and had talked about it lying in bed as flakes of fresh snow clung to the windowpanes. But my father had become ill and I’d gone home. The memory and breath of that first passion melted away with the snow. We never saw one another again. Now the world was upside down, and I was in bed with a man with whom I held little in common except the need to survive.

Poole stirred and turned over to look at me. I shifted onto my side and faced him. His blue eyes were tinted with gray, an unbelievable sadness buried in their depths. He put the back of his hand to my face and gently stroked my cheek. His fingers felt so cold, it seemed every bit of life had been drained from them.

“I’m sorry, Beck,” he whispered.

“Sorry? You should have wined and dined me first?”

“Smart ass,” he said with a hint of a smile as his hand dropped away.

I studied his face. “Where are you?”

“Thinking of a horse I favored. Tall bay mare. She was real fine. Well-muscled. I still remember how she moved under me as I rode her over our open fields.”

“Now you’re comparing me to a horse.”

He chuckled. “You are a smart ass.” Poole let out a sigh. “No, my darlin’ Bay State gal, I was recallin’ my home.”

Jason lay back against a pillow, his gaze fixed on the blank ceiling. “Beck, you just don’t know how it is. That sticking, hot, Texas sunshine melting down inside you. And even with all the humidity, there’s this dry earth. And the dust of that earth cakes your skin. Oh, and the smell of drying grass. You can taste it on an early summer breeze. How good it is.” His mouth curled again with a wisp of a smile. “When you see the Texas sky, it sure does make you wonder. It’s such a pale blue it seems all that hot sunshine might just have bled the color right out of the heavens.”

“Your home,” I murmured.

“Texas. With miles of scrub oak and cedars. Rolling hills.” He stretched out one arm. “To the horizon. A perfect camel-colored painting of paradise. And then in the spring when the bluebonnets flower….” His hand lowered once more. “You remember me telling you about the bluebonnets?”

“That first morning in the diner.”

“Well, those bluebonnets cover the hills in the spring. Changes that dusty landscape into a living blue sea. And then there’s you, Rebecca Sanders.”

I pushed myself up, bare breasts settling on his chest. The silky wire of his hair felt good against my skin, along with the living warmth I craved. “What about me?” I murmured, not sure I really wanted an answer.

“You’re a gal from a country I don’t much care for. One that’s so damned cold it isn’t natural. A snow-covered place that sleeps under a blanket of frost. When you do see spring here, from my experience, it disappears way too quick. And there’s no bluebonnets on the hillsides.”

“Think I’d like Texas?”

“The flower of Northern womanhood?” He kissed my neck, a long deep kiss, his tongue hot against my skin. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Why?” I taunted as I returned his invitation by giving him a kiss on his neck, just as long and sultry. “You think I can’t take the heat? Or a long hard ride?”

He chuckled, his hands on my back, moving slowly down my spine, vertebra by vertebra. “Maybe you could take a liking to Texas.” His voice grew husky. “Some folks are mighty fond of it.”

“Anything’s possible,” I said before placing an open-mouthed kiss on his lips. When I leaned away, a renewed melancholy had overtaken him. “It is possible.”

“For anything? Even a man like me? An ordinary nobody without much to set him apart…leading this whole thing?” He snorted. “Hell, no.”

I pulled away. “You’re wrong. People are already following you.”

Jason faced me again. “Honey Beck, you know the truth. It’s as naked and there for all the world to see as what I’m looking at right now.”

I bunched the sheet in my hand and pulled it up.

He leaned close and whispered into my ear, “When people get desperate enough, they follow any damn fool who gives them a taste of hope.”

“What I do know, Jason Poole, is you’re no fool.”

“Maybe not. But after today, they’ll be calling me something a helluva lot worse.” He drew back. “And I’ll have earned it.”

That cut me deep. I remembered what Michaels had said…Boston Prime. The DHS within a fifty-mile radius…all of it and what it would mean when there were collaterals and who would garner the blame. An idea stirred in my mind. “What if you warn the Feds?”

He sat up and reached for his pants, lying discarded at the end of the bed. “I’m no fool, Beck. And I’m not crazy enough to ask you to explain your point.”

“No. Listen. Get another tap into the National Feed. Give Whitman a half hour warning. Tell him to stand down his orders to fire on the rebels and anyone aiding them or you deploy Charon.”

“You honestly think the president will stand down? Tell the Armed Forces and Homeland Security to pack it up? Honey Beck, if you believe that, you are crazy. Whitman will never reconsider his orders.” He prepared to get dressed.

“Will you stop and look at me?”

He pulled up his trousers. “If I keep lookin’, sure enough I’ll be rattlin’ the springs again.”

“Please listen to me, Jason.”

He finally set his attention on me again.

“Whitman knows about the weapon they’ve been developing here. Knows it’s fully operational now. And he knows the rebels control it. All your talk about how the Feds have starved and underpaid the Services. Show them and the people of this country who’s responsible for what’s about to happen. Put it in Whitman’s hands to pull the trigger and even more will come over to the rebellion. Think what it’ll mean when people know the president received a warning. That he could have stopped this weapon. What it will mean when he won’t give the order to stand down against the rebels and there are collaterals….” I swallowed. “He’ll be the one who let innocent people die. Jason,” I pleaded. “He’ll be called what he is—murderer. Not you.”

A silent moment went by.

“Don’t you see? It’s your opportunity to shape public opinion and use it.”

He didn’t respond.

Fear rippled through my flesh as he finished dressing. Just then, I knew our embrace had become something deeper—at least, for me—more of the spirit than the flesh. Just then, I understood that whatever direction Jason Poole went, the Feds would do everything they could to kill him. And if they did…what that would do to me.

With the last button fastened, Jason grabbed hold of my shirt. “It’s time to get ready.”

I didn’t take it.

“They may be calling me crazy after today.” He flapped my shirt in his hand. “Now, get dressed, Honey Beck. We have a lot to do.”

“It’s a mistake to tap the Feed, Commander,” Michaels warned Poole again.

“The targets?”

“Locked.”

Dressed in fatigues, expression grave, Poole glanced over his shoulder at my mother. I stood behind her, clasping the handlebars of her wheelchair. Dr. Andrews was beside Mother, keeping an eye on his patient after their loud argument over her leaving her hospital bed.

Maggie nodded, assuring the captain again she could handle Michaels’ concern. The shielding they developed at Hadley would hold. Our position would remain masked when we tapped into the Feed.

Poole looked into the tiny camera hovering before him as Mother leaned forward and worked a small luminous screen. She gave Poole an okay sign, then settled back in her chair, out of breath. Monitors in the Command Center flickered to life as Poole’s image coalesced on them.

“I’m speaking to you from a hidden base where the Feds developed a weapon of unbelievable power,” the captain began. “It’s the perfect killing machine and it was funded by your tax dollars. We captured this facility and deployed the weapon this morning, targeting a DHS base in Massachusetts.

“It’s set to kill again.” He squared his shoulders. “The military, yours, has orders to shoot anyone suspected of being a rebel. You’re dead without trial. This is what the Feds are ordering my brothers and sisters in arms to do. Men and women who swore allegiance to the Constitution.

“And now the weapon is set to fire on targets in and around Boston. There’s no avoiding it. There will be civilian casualties.” Poole’s gaze never moved from that camera as his hands formed fists at his sides to steady himself. “So, I’m giving President Whitman something he would never give us. A warning. I will—”

The screens split; one side still showed Poole, while the other bore President Whitman’s image. The familiar face of our commander-in chief no longer betrayed his age. He was once more the cold patrician who would never let himself be bested by a rebel mob and their ragged leader. “So you’re tapping into the Feed again, Captain.”

“And we’re sure you’re trying to cut it again,” Poole countered. “But before you do, I want to give you the opportunity to call a truce, Whitman. Stop your attacks on the American people. Give the order to stand down. And we’ll pull back the weapon.”

The corner of Whitman’s mouth twitched. “You know what Charon’s capable of.”

“Yes. We know exactly what you’ve used it for. And we are fully prepared to stop you from using it again.”

“You have thirty minutes. If you don’t respond when we raise the Feed again, what happens does so on your watch, Mr. President.”

Poole glanced at Mother again. She cut the Feed.

“Incoming,” a tech announced from his station at one of the consoles.

“When?” Michaels demanded.

“Twenty-two minutes, nine seconds to target,” the tech answered.

“How could they get a lock on our position if your shield is up?” Mother asked.

“They must have used your tap into the Feed, like a honing signal,” Michaels spat. He fixed his attention on Poole. “It seems we don’t have a half hour, Commander.”

The tech put the incomings on screen. They looked like a large flock of birds flying in tight formation.

“You must have defenses,” Poole said.

“We do,” Michaels answered. “The shell surrounding us is reinforced. And the most sensitive sections of our facility are deep under bedrock. We have fireflies, but they’re too slow to intercept tacticals. Most likely some of those incoming are nuclear.” He turned to a nearby console and pressed a button. “To be exact, fifty-three short-range warheads en route. Too swift for our conventional weapons to get all of them. Too many to scramble their trajectory. Some will definitely get through.”

“Has to be everything they have within striking distance,” Hernandez said.

“And enough to blow us apart if they hit all at once, Commander.”

“The weapon?”

“Locked on the DHS targets.”

“Pull it back and knock down those missiles, then reset.”

“Not so easy,” Michaels said. “We can re-task for a new prime. But it won’t expend all the energy buildup from our generators if the array isn’t allowed to finish its cycle once prime is hit. Expend all the energy on the remaining targets in sequence, and the buildup will wipe us out.”

“Can’t you divert power?” Poole asked.

“It’s one or the other once the energy cycle has started. This is a closed system to prevent sabotage,” Michaels said. “Either we deploy or begin a power-down. But the power-down will leave us practically defenseless.”

“And to power back up?”

“Complete. It will take close to an hour.”

One of the techs from her monitoring station reported, “My calculations show changing energy allowances will vary field margins.”

“Explain,” Poole demanded.

“Variable margins mean we can’t control the weapon’s footprint,” Michaels informed him. “It may cause even more civilian casualties.”

My hands slipped to my sides, my knees weakening.

“There’s got to be another way,” Poole snarled. “Hernandez, what about our ground forces? Take rocket launchers and knock the damn things down.”

“Something’s bound to get through, Captain.”

“It may not be enough to blow us apart. But there’s still risk,” Michaels warned. “Some of our materials are unstable if not contained.”

“Damn it! Give me a viable option!”

I wanted to shout, Do something. This was my fault.

“Knock down the missiles with enough discharge to permanently disable them,” Michaels said. “Then carry out the sequence. We’ll still be able to cripple their ability to launch another strike. And by the time they rearm and task long-range missiles, we’d have our shield up and scrambled. They won’t be able to get another lock on us.”

“And the coordinates they have on this base?” Mother asked.

“We can send an eraser through their system to wipe them out. Just as we did as a precaution when we joined you. The process will take time, but not enough for them to stop it.”

“And we can still mount our ground assault after the weapon deploys,” Sergeant Hernandez said. “I’m sorry, Captain, it appears you don’t have any other options but this one.”

“We don’t have to deploy the weapon if it’s unstable,” Mother said, her frail hands trembling. “If you can mask our position. Throw them off—now.”

“It won’t stop those missiles from hitting,” Michaels snarled. “They’ve a lock on us—now!”

Sweat beaded on Poole’s brow. I made a move toward him.

Andrews clasped my arm.

“Fire the weapon!” I cried. “Deploy!”

“Re-task prime target,” Poole ordered. “Deploy full array!”

“As you say.” Michaels gave crisp instructions to his technicians. The prime target was set for the incoming missiles, while the other objectives were reapportioned the remaining energy. The sequence of death was set to begin.

Deven Michaels looked in my direction, ice-blue eyes pinched at the corners, set jaw pulsing. Rage, suppressed and brutal, waited behind his gaze, and that rage focused on me alone.

CHAPTER 18

Tears fell from my eyelashes and slid down my cheeks. I tried to catch my breath as every screen glowed with an unnatural blue. The first wave permanently disabled the warheads. Stopped mid-flight, they whirled to earth in a death spiral. Some slammed into rooftops, breaking through to crush anything underneath them. More flashes of blue. Each objective in turn, methodical, relentless, leaving every DHS base defenseless inside Boston and within a fifty-mile radius around it.

The second wave. The color of hell: a fiery hue. Red. One time an innocent shade; the hot summer beaches of childhood, sunshine glowing through closed eyelids. Red. Remembered Valentine treats, cherry candy, soft rose petals to tickle the nose. But roses have thorns. They prick, cause pain. Leave a splash of blood on the finger. Red, displayed on all the Command Center screens. The mark of death, robbing the essence of life from every living thing it touched. Red.

A final map went up. The tech’s warning about margin stability proved correct. The weapon’s footprint varied around each target, some much larger, a few inside the wire. A number of them covered whole neighborhoods for blocks outside the bases, houses with no way of telling how many had been caught in its deadly reach when the color red descended on them. The whole operation took less than eight minutes. Such a short time to kill so many people. Thousands. And how many were innocents like Bradley’s son, fatalities stricken down by a merciless machine?

My knees barely kept me standing as a terrible guilt battered my heart—a remorse that could never be vanquished. A hungry thing that ate at my being, chewing me down with regret. I should never have tried to spare Poole this burden, one he could bear and one I felt certain I could never survive.

“Please,” I whispered as I choked down tears. Each additional death lay on me, needless waste I would have to account for one day.

Activity filled the Control Center, people talking, electronic signals being sent. All of it melted into a buzzing sound in my ears. Swept away in a stream, I became a pebble of no consequence buffeted by surrounding forces. I tried to disconnect and shut them away before they smashed me to pieces. But they would not let me go.

“Becky Baby,” someone said in an attempt to bring me into the moment. “Becky Baby, please.”

My attention focused on Mother seated in her wheelchair as she strained to look over her shoulder at me. I remembered I’d been standing behind her the whole time. My grasp on the chair had released, and my arms were now clasped across my chest. The color had drained from her face again. Her hand trembled as she held it up to me and said in a soothing tone, “It’ll be all right, my baby.”

Dr. Andrews nudged me aside. “I should never have let you talk me into allowing you out of bed, Mags.” He grabbed hold of the wheelchair’s handlebars with a harrumph and pushed. “It’s back to sick bay.”

“No,” she protested. “The network’s contacting me. They want to mount full assaults. I can’t—”

“Pipe down! I outrank you.”

“No you don’t, Gilly,” she argued as he started to wheel her away. “Not in the militia. Not—” Mother gasped for air as she jammed a hand to her chest and wheezed. “Damn it.”

Andrews stopped, signaled for me to follow, then hurried on. Mother reached out her hand. “My tab, Becky.”

“Leave it!” the doctor yelled as he pushed her wheelchair through the doorway.

I snatched the floating tablet and studied its flickering screen. Clearly it was streaming data, but jumbled in an unintelligible patchwork. About to power it off and head for sick bay, I paused when an argument broke out. Poole, Michaels, and Hernandez were huddled together on the other side of the Command Center. Their gestures were animated, voices unnaturally loud, yet not loud enough to make out what they battled over. I took a step in their direction and stopped, recalling the look on Michaels’ face.

Once more I headed for the door, only to stop when I clearly heard Poole snap, “Those are my orders!” He stormed toward the exit.

I stepped aside, afraid. One glance, a silent rebuke from him, and what was left of me would be trampled underfoot.

“Commander, you don’t understand,” Michaels said, following close behind. “The other Charon facility is fully functional.”

Poole stopped and faced him.

“It’s true,” Michaels said. “Even Homeland Security doesn’t know. We conducted field tests last week. China Lake is live and in striking distance of the National Security Administration’s data center in Utah. Knock that out and you badly cripple the government’s intelligence-gathering capability.”

“Well, your damn weapon is crap. We’re not deploying it again.”

“You don’t understand. The fields were constant with every test. But we had to reset them so quickly. Redistribute the energy load in a matter of minutes.” He took a short gulp of air. “This wasn’t our fault, Commander.”

I instinctively recoiled, cowering at those words.

Poole hung his head, hands on his hips. After an uncomfortable moment, he lifted his gaze and looked at Michaels. “Even so. You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Without a solid ground force, deployment would be little more than senseless murder. It’s not enough to disable the Data Center. In a half hour it’ll be back online. The Feds can access it remotely. You have to blow the damn place to hell.”

“If we could get the local militia to set charges and take out the facility,” Hernandez suggested. “It’s huge, but with the help of any armed forces, it could be done.”

“They must have backups of the data.” Poole shook his head. “It just won’t work.”

“Then take them out, too,” Michaels proposed. “Most are in Silicon Valley, making them in range. With enough of the system down, DC could never restore it.”

“What about their defenses? We could be sending in people only to be slaughtered.”

“Not if we take out the surrounding DHS bases along with the NSA center, Commander,” Michaels suggested.

“You can muster that much power?” Hernandez asked with an eyebrow raised.

“We can hook into the western grid. Even with resources down, we can glean enough power before they reroute it to execute the sequence.”

“It’s almost unholy,” Poole mumbled, then paused, studying the head of the Charon project. “Still, we’ve no direct way of contacting the militias.”

Trembling, I broached the few feet separating us and held up my mother’s tab. “Th-this may help you.”

Michaels snatched it out of my hand and took a moment to examine it. “Ciphers. Definitely militia and coming in from all over the country. Put them under your command, Captain, and we may just have a chance.”

Poole gave them orders. “Michaels, you decipher that code and contact the militias. Hernandez, you start raising any regular units you think may have come over to our side and identify those who may be on the edge. I’m taking the field command.” He started to walk away.

“You need to stay here, Captain,” Hernandez said. Poole stopped again, keeping his back to them. “Coordinate operations,” Hernandez added.

“The sergeant’s correct,” Michaels insisted. “You can’t risk your life out there.”

Poole finally turned and faced them. He gave Michaels a sharp look, then spoke to Hernandez. “You’re the better tactician. I can lead the ground force, David. If we get a foothold in Boston as planned, we’ll have even more people coming to our side. We’ve located enough armament and regulars, and with the base in Vermont, there may be a chance. Being in the field is where I belong and you know it.”

“No, Captain,” Hernandez disagreed. “Not now. I can head the ground assault on Boston.”

Hands planted on his hips, Poole hung his head once more as if thinking over what had just been laid on him. He groaned. “You have the command, Sergeant.”

“As you say, sir.” Hernandez gave his commanding officer a crisp salute and walked off.

“David!” Poole called after him.

The sergeant stopped and peered over his shoulder. Poole returned Hernandez’s salute. The sergeant smiled before heading out the door. In that moment, I understood my sister’s growing affection for David Hernandez, a scholar turned warrior in this savage world.

The captain went off with Michaels.

Hopelessness sank deep inside me. I’d become mutilated already by this war, and now was being executed by my own silent guilt. Each of those innocent deaths rested on me, not Poole. I stood there trying to wipe away the renewed tears, willing them to stop as my stomach churned and a bitter bile rose in my throat. I needed a moment alone, someplace to mourn, someplace to put this awful day aside.

But it wasn’t over yet, not by half.

Not asking for help, not wanting any, I attempted to find the sick bay on my own and got lost in the facility’s underground maze. There were no signs in that complex. People passed by in the sterile corridors, eyeing me momentarily. Their mouths opened with unvoiced demands for my identity before they seemed overtaken by an inner epiphany. They knew who I was. Everyone there seemed to know. It was as if an advisory had gone out identifying Poole’s concubine, the lover of a man they now called “Commander.”

I finally found the sick bay. Off to one side, there was a room with what looked to be a stained-glass display in a small non-denominational chapel. The hospital itself had white walls and spotless white tiles, making it feel even more barren than the corridors I’d just ventured into. But it wasn’t as barren in comparison to the room I’d shared with Poole earlier in the day. No, those white walls belonged to an even starker landscape. Deven Michaels’ quarters wore no semblance of humanity.

The air in the sick bay smelled of some sweet outdoor scent…close to pine. Definitely a disinfectant, one that tugged at my senses, a reminder of the world outside that antiseptic space. Everything appeared quiet, nearly deserted. I stood in the main hallway, uncertain into which room they had taken my mother. “Ms. Sanders,” someone said in a barely audible voice.

I turned to a woman who had on a simple light-blue, short-sleeve shirt, with matching slacks pulled tight at the waist by a drawstring. Her graying hair was tucked under a cap. Such a small, stupid detail to be fixated on. She was wearing hospital scrubs.

“You must be looking for your mother.” She motioned for me to follow. “I’m the doctor in charge of this unit.”

I couldn’t move. I swallowed. “Sorry, it’s been a rough day.”

“On all of us. Now this way, Ms. Sanders.”

I trailed her to a room at the far end of the hallway. A soft rhythmic beeping chimed, the echo of a beating heart. Inside, Mother lay on a hospital bed, her jeans and sweatshirt replaced with a gown. Toasted air blew in through the vents, warming the room. It was still sterile and not at all comforting. Dr. Andrews sat beside her bed, checking the monitor and adjusting various gauges.

“Becky,” my mother said in a weak voice.

I came up beside Dr. Andrews as the woman in charge slipped out of the room. “I’m here, Mom.”

Beneath the clear plastic oxygen mask, her mouth curled into a smile.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my tears from escaping again.

Dr. Andrews slid out of the chair and offered it to me. I would have refused him but I felt so beaten down. I took his place and that’s when I broke in two.

“Mommy,” I said…a child’s plea. “I’m so sorry.”

She threaded her fingers through mine, the smile still on her face.

“Dr. Daniel Andrews.” A device, the size of a ping pong ball, floated in the open doorway. A small beam of light fanned out from a pinprick-sized source on its metal sphere. At the end of the cone of light was a hologram of Deven Michaels. “Dr. Andrews, please follow this pager. We are attempting communication with the militias and your assistance is required.”

“They can’t break my ciphers,” Andrews said with a smug look on his face.

“They could if they had the time. They don’t have any left,” my mother said, her voice even fainter. “Go help them, Gilly. Please.”

He hesitated. Then he let out a deep groan, nodded, and spoke to the pager, “Okay, take me to the little prick.”

When he’d gone, I studied my mother, the way she looked at the deserted doorway. “You care for him just as much as he cares for you.”

“Always….” Her smile grew brighter as her eyes widened.

“Mother?”

“Your father,” she whispered, then her gaze found me again.

“My father?”

“Never anyone else for me…ever…”

I understood now. Everything. How she had sent my father away, helped save him and another woman, her friend. Two people who would marry, lead another life, one in which my mother had no place.

“Let Gilly work. No matter what. Okay, Becky Baby? Let him be for now.” Her grip tightened. “I’m not alone anymore.”

I sat there quietly, never moving, even as her grip softened. Her hand grew lighter as if it had become part of an empty shell. With her eyes still open wide, her smile never diminishing, I sat there, knowing with certainty how much she had loved all of us. I sat there as her soul slipped free and the echo of her beating heart fell silent.

In the next half hour, I managed to make it to the staging area and quickly got lost in the activity. Finding a helmet and a uniform that fit, I armed myself.

With head lowered to avoid being recognized, I clasped the strap of the rifle slung over my shoulder as I entered the troop transport. This would be penance for my mistake. The transport rumbled to life as I sat pressed between soldiers seated on one of the benches inside the armored vehicle.

Above us, the large section of snow-covered asphalt tipped upward. Outside, the sun had broken through the mat of clouds. The first sunshine I’d seen in a long while streamed into the cavernous chamber, and showed on the transport’s video screen up front by the navigator. Somewhere inside me I felt a strange relief, almost a divine peace. I could die, reconciled with the ghosts of all those who had perished that day.

The transport moved, rocking us as it headed out for the Battle of Boston.

CHAPTER 19

The confines of the troop carrier were claustrophobic, no openings other than a ramp, and now that was closed. We were shuttered from the outside world. The only thing we could see was the large vid screen positioned for the navigator’s and driver’s use. It afforded a glimpse of the road ahead and a sliver of sky. We were encased in a green metal box. Long steel benches lined either side of the vehicle, just large enough for ten of us to sit packed together. Opposite were another ten seated across the narrow aisle. The chilled air smelled of sweat and boot leather. Worse yet, the transport shook with every pothole and bump. That and the closeness added to the chaos already plaguing my gut. The messed-up strikes on the bases, the loss of my mother, all in one incredibly shitty day and not even noon yet. I rested my head in my upturned palms.

“Must be a civvy,” someone said in a gruff voice. “And a scrawny one at that.”

I cocked my head and snarled, “Don’t worry, asshole. I’ll fight.”

“Maybe you will.” The man seated next to me chuckled. “As scrawny as you are.”

I sat up and pushed my back against the cold, unforgiving metal. “Are there many civilians?”

“On this trolley?” The man snorted. “Most of us here are from Poole’s company. But plenty of civvies have volunteered. And even more regulars coming to the staging areas to join up. Us regulars will be the backbone. You can count on that. We have the numbers, too. Scrawny, we’re a fucking army now.”

I studied him a moment—a large man, ill-kempt, black stubble on his face nearly long enough to count as a beard, faded uniform worn through in places. He looked ragged but not beaten. There was a certain resolve behind his analytical gaze.

“What about DHS?”

Now he outright laughed. “You are raw. Not on this ride or anywhere in the outfit.”

“But Cap—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I heard Commander Poole was going to give DHS agents a choice. Join up or leave.”

“From what I heard, most are getting a bullet to the head when they’re captured.” He shrugged. “That ain’t much of a choice.”

I hunched over again, my stomach twisting even more, remembering what Poole had said when we were at the captured DHS base. The discussion between the captain, Mother, and Dr. Andrews. Jason was going to give DHS the opportunity to choose sides.

“You look like you’re going to heave, Scrawny. Hell, you should have stayed holed up in your own damn living room. You ain’t got the chops.”

My hands balled into fists as I snapped, “Shut up!”

He whistled.

“I’ll fight. And I’ll have your back,” I grumbled, “It’s one hell of a big target.”

His mouth twisted up in one corner. “Maybe you do have the chops.”

I rested my head in my hands again. I had made my own choice and now I knew the truth. Poole had lied to me, proving himself no better than the people we’d risen up against to win back our freedom.

When we came to a halt, the large panel at the rear of the transport slowly lowered. Without an order given, we rose to our feet in unison, formed two lines, and silently exited the vehicle. My breath caught when I saw we were inside a DHS base. I braced myself for the casualties, the vacant stares of corpses, the wreckage Michaels’ weapon had wrought. But the field had been cleared of bodies. Instead, that snowy parade ground bustled with activity—people exiting transports similar to the one in which we had been ferreted, MRAPs, other conveyances, and a great deal of equipment all either parked or in the process of being positioned for use.

The layout looked familiar. I knew so little, at first thinking maybe all these bases were configured the same. But it was the surroundings, the lack of any buildings in the immediate area, and a large stand of trees not far outside the western fence line. It had all happened so fast that Thanksgiving Day, the way Poole had taken us up to the entrance and into the compound. The hangar with its open bay door, the Command Center and barracks off to the right…I’d been here before. This was the base we’d captured, then abandoned. The exact same place Michaels had used to demonstrate the weapon. A chill ran along my spine, one much deeper than anything the cool December breeze could have caused. My mother had collapsed here, the spot not far from where I stood, and the people from Farmsworth had been herded by DHS agents outside that entrance, brought here as human shields.

“Look lively!” someone barked. I snapped to attention.

We were ordered to form up with another group of recent arrivals. With a sharp turn, we moved together—left, right, left. Our unit marched over, forming two neat lines of ten behind the others. They were regulars, not a civilian among them, at least from what I could observe standing in the back row. Farmsworth, my hometown, and this base, kept nagging at me. I remembered watching as the device was deployed. The DHS agents who had entered with weapons readied were caught by the second wave, along with Lois Bradley’s son. I searched but couldn’t find any sign of her or the child she’d lost or the agents Poole had ordered executed here.

We were told to join up with an even larger contingent. As we marched, I fell back, quietly slipping away from my unit as I snuck through the front entrance. There, just outside the gate, was where DHS had held my neighbors at gunpoint. The same spot where those neighbors had gone on the attack. Traces of blood were still visible on the ground. It’d dried to a dirty smudge and been pushed down into tire tracks. I pressed a hand to my chest and tried to quiet my breathing. But it still came in short gulps as emotions tore at my heart. There had been too much today, way too much…memories piled on top of regret.

The wind blew, whipping up swirls of snow beyond the rutted tracks. It smelled fresh as it carried the promise of a respite from the recent storms. It was the same smell from my childhood, after the snow had stopped falling and we could take out our sleds and ride down the nearby hill. Such a sweet memory to hold as I stood near that ground stained with blood.

I took a step back and looked off into the distance, anything to stop seeing that dirty smudge marring the snow-covered earth at my feet. Sunshine played along the crystals of ice set to flight, causing them to shimmer as they danced and fell back to earth. A cloud skittered across the sky, momentarily swallowing the daylight as it sent its fleeting shadow across the winter landscape. There were shouts, the sound of machinery, and that wind clearing the heavens of clouds all chattering in my ears.

“Rebecca Sanders.”

I started at the sound of my name. Hand tightening on my rifle, I turned to face a ghostly figure standing by the gate. Lois Bradley had armed herself with an automatic. Clothing in disarray, hair tousled, she looked at me with eyes reddened from a thousand tears.

“They killed my son,” she cried in a hoarse voice loud enough to be heard above the clamor behind her and the whistling wind.

I remained mute, not wanting to confess I already knew, or how I knew. It wouldn’t help, not now, not ever. How could it?

She pointed her rifle in my direction, not at me, but to a place beyond. “He’s there. I buried him under that maple tree.” Her voice choked. “He loved maple trees. The candy…really.” Bradley lowered the rifle. “That’s where I buried my son.”

With that, she walked away, disappearing into the activity as we prepared to go to war.

CHAPTER 20

Once again, I sat in a troop transport, this time with no way to see the passing landscape. There were over forty of us sandwiched inside the larger conveyance. Firearms were stowed in easily accessible racks on the ceiling as we sat shoulder to shoulder, our boot-clad feet planted on the steel flooring. The closeness made it feel warm even as our breath, frothing into vapor, gave proof of the freezing temperature. I tried to stretch my legs and not think about the discomfort. But I had little to do but think.

Seeing Lois Bradley at the gate caused me more pain, when I couldn’t even bear what already lay on my soul. I had remained outside the wire for a long while after she’d left. It had taken all my will to head back inside and join my company as we prepared for the assault. We were told what to expect and what was expected of us and what to do when, not if, we came under fire. Still, I hadn’t paid much attention. My focus remained on Bradley, that heartbreaking image of her standing there broken, all alone in the cold December light.

The rumble of the engine shook me out of my brooding. We’d been idling and I had no way of knowing for how long. Now we were moving down the road again. I studied the men and women who traveled with me. Their expressions were stone, their jaws set and their eyes fixed ahead, seemingly locked on something unseen. They were part of an organic killing machine programmed for conquest of their own countrymen. I should have stayed focused. I should have listened. But with my mind in tatters, my soul torn, I’d disconnected, uncertain of the purpose I now served. Were we liberators or executioners? Poole…the man who had taken me to bed. I stared at my boots, studied the waffled pattern of the steel flooring, as I tried to think of anything but Poole.

“Scrawny.” Someone nudged me. I lifted my gaze to see the big lummox who had taunted me earlier on the other transport. He had gotten out of his seat, come over, and touched his index finger to the side of my helmet. “You listening to the tap?”

“What?”

He grunted. “Civvy.” He took that index finger, slid it inside my helmet, and pushed on a spot located close to my right ear.

My line of sight became veiled with an electronic screen, transparent enough to see through but opaque enough to hold an image. A map, or maps, one after the other were being displayed, exhibits for the ongoing dialog I could hear now.

“You see and hear the tap but no one else can,” he said. “You get it?”

I nodded.

“Damn, civvy.” He grunted and returned to his seat.

We were being given orders, along with a continuous tactical feed of our deployment. My education would be swift as I forced myself to move beyond the muddle of emotions and give my attention to the tap being shown on the vids. Our unit belonged to an infantry company with three rifle platoons, our group being one of them. Again we stopped, but this time I knew why. We were forming a convoy, gathering up troop carriers with enough men to make for a full battalion that would be well over twelve hundred strong.

The strategy envisioned concentric rings, each one closer to the city’s heart. We would secure a ring, then push forward. Battalions would be positioned as far out as Cambridge, Brookline, Revere, Somerville, and Dorchester at the start. Then inward, circling downtown as we moved across the Charles River over bridges and through the Callahan and Sumner Tunnels under the inner harbor. We would be an invading horde. There must have been massive desertions and then some to our side. A large number of the rank and file of enlisteds were with us. But I had no idea if the local militias were involved. Could Sergeant Hernandez, our designated commander for this operation, have organized an army and put a plan in place this fast?

We stopped again, but this time, through the tap, we were ordered to exit the vehicle. The convoy had arrived at our first objective, Cambridge, on the eastern edge of the outer ring. Guns locked and held ready, we fanned out from our starting point on Cambridge Street where it intersected Broadway. Leaving Harvard at our rear, we were to secure all the area from there to Charles Park along the river.

The helmet screen guided my advance, giving a template as it showed me the direction and pathway to take. On it were red blurs skittering across my field of vision. Thermals, people attempting to run and hide from our advance. Supply trucks pulled in behind us on Broadway. But these weren’t loaded with ammunition. They were provision haulers, bringing food and other goods to a starved and ragged population. Thermals started to come out of hiding, hands up, surrendering when they weren’t even combatants.

I could see beyond my vid to the hollow-eyed emptiness on their faces, the deep and brutal look of want, as they moved quietly past armed troops to grab stores being offloaded from the carriers. We would win this round of the battle giving handouts from DHS installations that had been emptied of rations. These wearied souls didn’t need a plastic card to redeem the foodstuffs we offered. The only thing they had to do was present themselves. They were easy to identify, Americans who had been cheated of their life, and our first tactical move was to give it back to them.

We met little resistance in the first ring. That evening, we camped along the Charles River. Late that night, I stood watch, the city of Boston lying across the icy skin of the river. There were no lights, no burning fires, only darkness, the pitch of a moonless night. I kept my back straight, my mind alert. Tomorrow we would secure one more ring, then proceed to the city’s heart. I would listen well, follow orders, and fight. I pledged to keep to the mission and leave everything else behind. And with tomorrow would come my penance when I would finally pay for my sins.

By mid-morning, the second ring had been secured. Our battalion crossed over the Longfellow Bridge with the objective to secure the financial district. Biting my lower lip, I watched the tap, studied the layout of our assault, red lines intersecting along streets I couldn’t quite remember. Our family had never gone into Boston all that much, and never to the financial district with its narrow avenues forming canyons between the skyscrapers. For us it had been visits to the New England Aquarium, walks along the Freedom Trail passing the old North Church. The glass towers where money was made never held much interest for my family, even before the collapse.

Again, the transport stopped and we were ordered out, weapons locked and loaded. I made certain I had a full magazine in place as I marched down the ramp. We were massing on the Common. Its baseball field had long been abandoned, the lake choked with debris and ice. Trees were winter bare. Footpaths no longer cared for were covered with snow. Icecap Center, the immense bunker manned by the local militia under where Mother’s farmhouse had stood, provided us air cover. They had been working with the revolution since the beginning. Icecap Center controlled thousands of drones that now flew above us in the cloudless blue sky.

Not long after we’d arrived, the orders came for our advance, quickly dispersing units to the streets. I followed whatever direction was given me through the tap. We swept past the Granary Burying Ground on Tremont Street at a good clip. Not used to the weight of a full pack, I fell to the rear even as bursts of gunfire began to strafe our position. Bullets clipped my body armor, struck the snow-covered pavement around me, splintered trees and chipped buildings. Instinct drove me to find shelter as our platoon radioed for air support. I scrabbled toward a concrete eave overhanging an entrance. Pemberton Square. A tall skyscraper stood before me as I cowered inside a doorway across Beacon Street. My hands shook and I swore under my breath, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” I cursed myself. “Idiot.”

Another round. I spun to face that direction. Thermals. I made them out on my vid. The bastards’ hiding place revealed—several of us fired at once even before the drones arrived. It kept the enemy at bay just long enough. Blessed air cover. Small armed drones, three feet if that in length, fanned out along Beacon. They spewed bullets as they sailed upward along the skyscraper’s face. Some drones were hit, taken down in action. Turned into small fireballs, they tumbled from the December sky. But more than enough found their mark, whirling around shrubbery, trees, shooting through windows. Like a swarm of bees, they moved from behind and out ahead of us, breaking off to hunt down targets.

Just when I thought we were clear, a cry came over the tap. “DHS Rovers! Two o’clock! Rovers!”

I looked eastward, but saw nothing but thousands of our predator drones dotting the sky. The blasts. More small fireballs fell to earth. Crashed into buildings. Shattered into sparks that flared before their flames melted away the snow and their fire drowned in ice water. Larger, with more power, the DHS rovers were obliterating their smaller counterparts. Shaped like overstuffed rockets, they had a much larger wingspan. Eight feet or better from nose to tail. Where were they coming from? We’d taken down every DHS base in a fifty-mile perimeter around Boston. What kind of range did those things have?

“Move!” I heard my orders. “Forward!”

Rifle clutched in both hands, I advanced again as glass and steel rained down on us. A jagged piece caught my cheek. It stung as it cut my flesh. Rocket launchers were being set up along the route to bring down the rovers and take out pockets of resistance. But not quick enough. We were still being shot at. From above. From either side. I squeezed off rounds as sweat ran down my face. Tears clouded my vision. My hands were raw from clutching the rifle so tight. Battered by the kickback, my arms hurt, and my sides. A bullet nicked my left hand, tore off a chunk of it. Dear God, help me.

I made it all the way to the Haymarket Station without being hit again. Exhausted, I tried to rest a moment, to collect what little scrap of courage I could still muster. Both my cheek and hand burned. Such pain.

Orders came again. “Snipers sheltering in parking structure. Guarded clearance.” We were to clear the structure of unfriendlies while they shot at us from the safety of the concrete parking structure.

“Okay,” I muttered. “Okay, Beck. You bitch. Okay.” I hunched down, braced myself, and scrambled. I managed to penetrate the garage’s interior without getting killed. No cars inside. My guess, there hadn’t been any in there for years. Shots. I studied the thermals on my screen. Who was who? Damn it. In here, guessing would get me killed for certain.

I got it. I got it. I spotted the marks. Finally understood. On every thermal image there was a dot. Green—our side. Flashing white—theirs. Pensive, I hid behind a concrete pillar and waited until a whistle sounded. A warning for me—enemy coming up from behind. I slapped on a fresh magazine, turned, pressed my back against the pillar, and let loose. Hits. Several thermals stopped moving. I looked hard, peering beyond my vid to see the blood, puddles of red, bits of flesh littering the concrete floor. Sickened, I cringed, then forced myself to stay focused. I swung the barrel of my rifle in another direction.

“Structure clean.” Our orders again. “Push forward.”

I moved out of the building and pivoted toward the Haymarket Square. So near to the waterfront now, I could smell the salt of the harbor. Charlestown Bridge lay ahead. Another whole battalion had crossed over moments before. They were moving up along the Causeway. No sign of our drones. We didn’t hold the sky any longer, had no air cover at all. DHS rovers had nearly wiped the area clean of Icecap Center’s predators. Now the rovers were aiming for those of us on the ground. Rockets were sent from launchers. More glass, more brick and debris. Hits and misses and death.

“Tactical. Tactical. Flattop located.”

Flattop? I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Suddenly, a huge firestorm rose above the Bay. A gigantic plume of black smoke with flames licking upward. It all came clear. Icecap Center had located wherever it was the rovers were being launched. They destroyed it, and without a way to control them, the rovers were rendered useless. They began to peel away, fall earthward, collide, smash into buildings, causing even more wreckage.

I saw a familiar figure ahead—the same clothing, the blond hair in disarray. Lois Bradley.

Snipers again, one maybe holed up nearby. I looked at my vid, trying to get a bead on the thermal image. I spotted the son of a bitch, the barrel of his gun aimed straight at Bradley, ready to take her down.

I raised my rifle, aimed, and took out the sniper before he could get off another round.

Bradley looked over her shoulder. She made eye contact with me, her mouth drawn into a thin angry line. Without so much as a high sign, some small indication of gratitude for her life, she rushed ahead toward the waterfront.

Suddenly, I went airborne, flew backward. I smacked into a window, crashed through the plate glass, and hit the floor hard. A shell had exploded inches from where I’d stood. I had no idea who had launched it, where it’d come from. It had blown me off my feet. In that last moment, flat on my back, I saw the sunlight and blue sky outside, the cast of shadows along the snowy street.

In that last moment, such peace. So quiet. In that last moment before I died.

CHAPTER 21

A spring meadow with tall green grass stretched out before me and the air was scented with a new rain. Such a deep blue sky, and off toward the western horizon were roiling clouds with underbellies painted a shade of heavy gray. It was a place that belonged to a strange and distant memory. Such a mystical place that stood at an open gateway with a vast uncertain land beyond.

They were just as young as they’d been in the photo album Mom had given me that night in the old farmhouse. Maggie, my dad, Vera and her first husband, the four musketeers who once believed they were defending the safety of a nation they loved by preserving a liberty that had been lost a long time ago. Mother laughed as she unfurled a blanket. Her flowing spring dress fluttered in the warm breeze while Dad took out a bottle and opened it even before the rest of the picnic fare was removed from the large wicker basket. He poured clear wine into crystal glasses.

The four stopped as if sensing someone else’s presence. Heads turned in unison as they looked in my direction. I don’t know what they could have seen. No longer flesh and blood, I seemed to not exist. Yet I experienced everything, the warm kiss of the wind, the cool strips of grass underfoot, the sweet fresh scent of that meadow.

Again, their heads turned as they looked off to the western horizon just before the sun set. A farewell was etched in the pure white light as it drew into brilliant rays that lit the dark shadows beneath the approaching storm. It invited, coaxed…urging me to move on from the spring and be part of that sunset. The battle had ended here with a spiritual truce. No want, no need, no war, no one to rage against, struggle ceased in that glorious light, and in its depths waited a solid peace.

Mother held up her hand and shook her head, sending her short auburn curls to dancing. Lips pursed as she blew me a kiss. It touched my face and passed through me as it broke apart into a thousand pieces. It carried a message that whispered on the back of the spring breeze. “Forgive, Becky Baby. Forgive and let go.”

I wanted to say, I had. That I’d let go of the blame for the emptiness that had been the puzzle of my childhood. That missing part I never acknowledged that vanished one day when I was three years old. But as I looked at their youth bathed in that beautiful light, I knew they weren’t begging forgiveness from me. They had found grace, and for whatever lay ahead, I needed to find my own. One last gesture as they raised their glasses. The wine in their goblets allowed the crystal to magnify the dying sunset and splinter it into shards. They raised those glasses and bid me farewell…for now. It left me with a deep hunger as the last light of that blessed day faded and the world fell into darkness.

“Rib…wake up, Rib. Please, please, wake up.”

My eyelids fluttered open. Sight fuzzy, I was unsure of what I saw…a small baby chick, all ruffled yellow fuzz. Its small peeping sang in my ears. “Tiny?” I croaked, my lips so dry and cracked. “Tiny. Where?”

“I’m here, Rib, right here.”

My eyes opened wider. “You’re a chicken?”

She giggled, such a beautiful sound…her laughter. “It’s Henry Jr.”

I tried to press myself upright but it hurt too much to move.

Settling back, I realized I was in the sick bay over at Charon base under Hadley airfield. Lying in a hospital bed, I had tubes running into either arm.

My brow creased. “How?”

“A trooper found you out there. He called in a medvac. It took almost a day until they finally ID’ed you.”

“Time?”

“Three days, Rib. I’ve been here ever since they brought you in.”

My gaze slipped over to the chicken running around on my chest. “Henry Jr.?”

Again the sound of her giggling. “David sent him to me. He found him in a coop outside of the city. All on his lonesome.” Tina frowned. “David’s still out there fighting.” She tapped Junior, who shrank into a dot and blinked out. “A hologram. They would never let me bring a baby chick in here. David knew that our Henry was probably in a stew pot by now. He got me this chick as an early Christmas present.”

I finally could focus on her face, the dusky glow of her complexion, the light glittering in the depths of her dark brown eyes. Light like a sunset I’d seen, one that kept swirling in the far recesses of memory. “Tiny?” I wept. The warm salty tears stung my cheeks.

“Rib,” she said as if my name were given in prayer. Tina placed a soft kiss on my forehead, then sat up and looked over her shoulder. Without speaking, she stood and pointed to me.

“I got word,” a man said with a voice I recognized, and for some forgotten reason, feared now.

My sister stepped back as Poole came to my bedside, taking her seat as he gently picked up my hand and held it in his. “You’re back, Honey Beck,” he whispered, a wan smile playing on his mouth.

He looked worn…a deep concern mirrored in his eyes. Distrust bubbled up inside me as Poole gingerly touched my cheek with the back of his other hand. “Already healing. Can hardly see them.”

“See what?” I asked in a voice so strained I could barely hear myself.

“Your wounds. Especially the one here.” Another tender stroke to my cheek. “Rapid grafts. Amazing. There won’t even be a scar.” His eyes were glossy now. He seemed to be holding tears at bay. Gray eyes. Ones I’d looked into, knew well, yet still…something.

I tried to remember, tried to dig past the moment to recall a broken pledge. “You,” I mumbled. “Shot…”

“Beck?”

“You ordered them shot. I heard…”

He didn’t let go of my hand even as he drew back.

“That first DHS base,” I said.

Poole sat there a moment with no reaction. He put his other hand atop mine, cradling it still so gently, as he brought it to his lips.

“Please,” I begged with a renewed flood of tears pouring down my cheeks. “Deny you ordered them shot.” I rocked my head back and forth. “Please.”

Silence. Not a word given in denial, no argument, no reason.

Nothing.

“Please.” I wept as he set down my hand, pausing one last moment before he walked out of the room.

A day passed, then another, as my wounds knitted quickly. Early one afternoon, the doctor came in to check on me, an older woman with graying hair, also familiar in some way. She’d attributed my swift recovery in part to youth, in part to the miracle of the rapid grafts that fostered a matrix of my own tissue to regenerate and replace broken flesh. The doctor removed the tubes and saline drip, ordering broth for my lunch. She left me alone again.

Soon, the nurse brought in some broth and set the small bowl on the table beside me.

“Where are the others?” I asked. Her brow creased. “More wounded?”

“A field hospital. And then Boston Medical Center,” she answered. “We’re restricted here to just our personnel.”

I thanked her for the broth, but left it untouched. I lay in that hospital bed with the worse malady of all, a broken spirit. What plagued me could not be easily treated. In my memory was a vivid painting of a soft spring meadow. I’d been there for one moment before it slipped beyond my reach. I had to find that place again, hold fast until its peace sank deep inside my being. Or my sanity would fall into darkness, my soul forever trapped in an unforgiving hell.

With all my will, I pushed myself upright. Dizzy, I paused and sucked in a deep breath as I got on my feet, tottering for a few moments. Another memory of a place of quiet contemplation somewhere nearby. The short hospital gown left me little modesty. I grabbed my pair of jeans, folded neatly on a chair. Seated on the edge of the bed, I slowly pulled them up, then tried my sweatshirt. It proved too hard to lift my arms. So once more, I sat on the bed, dunked my head, and wriggled into the top.

With small tentative steps, I moved forward, gaining confidence as my legs didn’t give out. The chapel I’d seen when I came here to find Mother was just a few doors from my room. The entrance was framed in oak. The dark wood accentuated the space inside. Angular shapes of pure color lit from behind gave the illusion of an abundance of glowing sunshine on the other side of the stained glass. There were only three rows of seats, more upholstered benches with low backs than church pews, just long enough to seat four, maybe five together. The room smelled of cut flowers, roses and jasmine, some incredibly sweet scent. Yet there wasn’t a bud in sight.

The front bench was occupied. I thought of retreat, until that person turned to look in my direction as if sensing my presence. Again, a familiar face, the knowing this was no stranger, yet unable to place him at the moment.

“Come and sit by me, Becky,” he said in a soft voice.

As I walked forward, the carpeting tickled my bare feet. I took a seat beside him.

His features were marked with grief, the eyes rimmed in red, with the whites bloodshot. The heavy jowls framed a downturned mouth as he said, “It’s good to see you up.”

“Dr. Andrews?”

“Becky.” He gave me a pat on the arm, sat up, and clasped his hands together as he studied the stained glass panel before us. “Never did much like these non-denominational sanctuaries. Guess I should be happy to find one. Places of worship being pretty much gone. Somewhere along the line we decided we need God only when we end up in the hospital. Ourselves or a loved one’s illness….” He hung his head a moment, swallowing before he went on. “Loved ones you want to keep from dying. Or when you do lose them. That’s when a person comes here.”

“My mother?”

He nodded. “I miss her.”

“You loved her.”

A moment’s pause, and he nodded again as he crossed his arms and let out a sigh. “So here I am.”

I wanted to tell him she was okay now and relate the beauty of that peaceful meadow. But nothing came out because I wasn’t really sure of the breadth and width of its truth. With my head resting against his shoulder, we stayed silent a long while, gazes focused on that tapestry of light.

Finally, I whispered a question. “Did you know?”

He leaned back, turning slightly.

“Did you know Poole ordered those DHS agents shot?”

“Becky…your mother and I…well, we advised the captain. He had no choice.”

I raised my head off his shoulder.

“You have to understand what Mags and I did. She ran the department when I was reassigned to it. We set up profiles. Made certain who filled what post. That was our job. What we were mandated to do. There are personalities, Becky, born to kill. The government built bases to keep the population in line. Use force. Starvation. Control the masses and subjugate them. Others were designated for handling. That first base. The one we captured. That was a Process Center. An effective one, from what your mother pulled up on it. Over two thousand. Just over. Men. Women. And even some children. And especially those too old to be reconditioned.”

I shrank away.

“You have to understand. The agents at that base were chosen for that function. Were molded. There was no way to rehabilitate them. You can’t leave people like that at your back. Not in a war like this. Your mother and I knew what they were.” He sucked in a deep breath. “We created them.”

My mouth went dry as I got to my feet. The doctor started to get up with me. But he settled back again, leaving me on own. I made it out of the chapel, again hesitating as I looked down the hall toward my room. Instead, I walked out of sick bay, stopping here and there to lean on the wall for support to save my failing strength. There was one place I wanted to be.

When I found it, I was near exhaustion. Nothing but a white, cold space greeted me. The bed was made, the sheets clean and tucked in perfectly. No evidence Poole and I had ever been there…together. The door clicked closed behind me. I lay on that bed, nuzzled the pillow, searching for Poole’s scent but found no trace of him. My hand moved against the sheet, a blank canvas just like it’d been the day when I’d shared that bed.

I wanted the green meadow, the feel of a warm, soft breeze on my face. I hungered for that sanctuary beyond our torn world where one could be at rest, far beyond yearning and want. A place where the ones I loved would never leave me. But the color had been drained from my existence and now I was encapsulated in that stark box. There would be no spring meadow for me. So I lay there in a cocoon of white all alone and without a flicker of hope.

CHAPTER 22

It felt so comforting as he stroked my hair, brushing aside wisps of it. The warmth of his fingers, not calloused but soft against my neck. My own hand moved, back and forth across a cotton field. Still half awake, I remembered…I’d crawled on top of this bed and fallen asleep. Those fingers tangled themselves in my hair. I sighed and rolled onto my back, his hand slipping free as my eyes slowly opened.

There stood Deven Michaels looking down at me.

I groaned as I forced myself to sit up. “Where’s Poole?”

“Apparently not here.” Not a flicker of emotion on his face as he added, “In my quarters.”

Despite being dizzy, I managed to get off the bed, wobbly but able to stand. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes—you son of a bitch! Sorry for whatever fucking chip you have on your shoulder.”

His mouth twisted up at one corner, the first hint of humanity I’d seen on the man’s face. “I’m sure you are.”

Michaels motioned toward the door. I came around the bed, careful of each step on my unsteady legs. When my hand was on the lever, he grabbed hold of my arm. I prepared to muster whatever bit of strength was left in me to fight him off. But when I turned to face him, it wasn’t a cold, empty man I saw. Something brewed behind his ice-blue gaze, a vulnerability encased in the ridged frame of his existence.

“I’ve had that fucking chip on my shoulder for a long time, Sanders. Right after I graduated MIT. Studied physics there. Excelled. In every class. Not bragging. Just telling you, I dreamed of the incredible. Saw possibilities. But damn it, I wanted…” He let go. “Ah, to hell with it.” With that, he pushed past me.

“What?” I shouted at his back.

He stopped. “I wanted the stars.” He chuckled as he turned to look at me. “Stupid of me. Instead of the stars, I got to create Charon. The most tidy killing machine in history. And it was your mother, Margaret Dunn, and her department, who pegged and slotted me.”

“Shut up!”

“Now I should shut up? The truth sure is unpleasant, isn’t it?”

“She was my mother.”

“She sure was. And now you know what she did.”

Dr. Andrews’ words…that’s what their department did. They profiled…pegged and holed and slotted people into the career the government needed.

Feeling faint again, I leaned against the wall.

“Yes. You know all right.” He came close enough now I could feel his breath on my skin. “Her department harvested us. Like some Godforsaken crop. Just after we graduated. Young. Bright. Dreamers. They used us!”

I trembled, but not from fear. Tears, more tears than ever. I covered my mouth with my hand and whimpered, “I’m sorry…so sorry…”

His brow creased with puzzlement.

“For you and h-her.”

Michaels lifted his hand. To strike me, maybe. To dismiss me? I had no way of knowing. As he reached up that hand, the floor shook and bits of plaster rained down on us as a thunderclap rolled over our heads.

It had to be a missile strike, strong enough it nearly knocked me off my feet. Michaels hurried to his footlocker and pulled out something resembling an old satchel. He slung its strap over his shoulder and opened the door wide, ready to bolt down the hallway.

“Don’t leave me here!” I yelled, tottering. I didn’t have enough strength to make it out on my own.

He hesitated, lips pressed into a thin line until he muttered a curse, and pulled me close. I looped my arm over his shoulder and leaned my weight against him. We shot into the hall. People hurried past as a high-pitched siren blared. Thin red lines of light flashed on either side of the ceiling and floor, pulsating to indicate the escape route.

Michaels took me through twists and turns as more explosions, every minute it seemed, rocked the facility. Several people were bloodied by falling debris. By the time we made the Command Center, my fortitude was spent. A great deal of the equipment was missing. But my memory was as weak as my body, and yet…yes, equipment was missing, things just weren’t there. And Poole, where was Poole?

Michaels dragged over a metal chair, sitting me in it just as the captain walked into the room. Poole looked at me for one brief moment, seemingly relieved to see me. Then his countenance grew distant, almost as if the last words we shared stood between us now. He joined Michaels in a quick exchange. The captain nodded once.

My attention latched onto one of the vids. The scene outside the base played across the screen, showing chunks of asphalt and broken concrete scattered around pools of melted snow. Overhead, I saw a contingent of helicopters, long tubes mounted to their sides. A rocket shot out from one of them. More were fired. Some missed the base, almost as if they hadn’t a precise bearing on our location. A few took down buildings, while others blew apart houses outside the fence line. The missile fire became more frequent, some making their target to strike us. Every one of those helicopters bore DHS colors, red on black, and all of them seemed to be armed with enough firepower to break through the base’s concrete shell…something much more powerful than the old bunker-busters of the past.

The next strike hit hardest. Thrown out of the chair, I landed on the floor and found myself momentarily stunned.

Poole rushed over, slipped his arms around me, and helped me to my feet.

“I’m okay.” My eyes turned to the damaged ceiling. “But—”

“Don’t worry, Honey Beck. We aren’t defenseless.”

I wanted to believe his reassurance. But with Hernandez still in the field and the length of time it took to power up Charon, I didn’t think we had much longer until DHS wiped us out. Poole didn’t sit me in the chair again. Instead, he kept his arms around me and shouted, “Fireflies!”

“Primed, Commander,” Michaels said as he sat in front of the only console left in the room. So few people…their numbers had dwindled just like the number of consoles.

“Deploy,” Poole ordered.

Michaels tapped out something on the floating touchscreen before him.

My gaze went to the vid again. Small square-shaped sections of asphalt popped skyward. I had no scale to judge how wide they were, but they were definitely small, a foot maybe in width and breadth. Round orbs swarmed out of their depths. Translucent, they reminded me of soap bubbles. The orbs zipped upward, faster than any bubble could travel. Thousands of them filled the sky. The DHS helicopters lifted higher, blades turning as they banked to clear the objects. The fireflies surged around their tail sections and exploded. Small flaming orbs blew away the helos’ tails, knocked them off balance and caught them on fire. Deadly minutes. It happened so fast. Soon, the sky was empty above us.

“Commander?” Michaels asked as he looked in our direction.

“The order is given,” Pool said.

“As you say,” Michaels responded. He hit another spot on the screen in front of him. The warning siren went an octave higher.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

Instead of dragging me forward, Poole carried me toward the Command Center’s door. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

We traveled in a Humvee, larger than any I’d been in before. There were two bench seats behind the pair in front. It was heavily armed as if fitted for combat, but the interior was given more to creature comfort than military use, with deep leather upholstery, toasty heating, and entertainment vids. Red on black, it was definitely DHS, most likely for ferrying officers. Poole and I were in the middle, Tina and Michaels in the rear, with Dr. Andrews taking the passenger’s front bucket seat while an enlisted drove. Poole had his arms around me as I snuggled against his chest. I had no idea where we were headed, but for now, Tina and I were safe.

We were exiting the compound through a tunnel. We made for a small caravan of refugees, intent on abandoning the underground base. Our vehicle led the way, with its headlamps sending illuminated cones of brilliance ahead to pierce the darkness. Either there were no built-in lights or they’d been knocked out in the raid. As the Humvee traveled, its sides and top scraped the walls of the narrow tunnel, forcing us to maintain a crawl.

After a while, daylight shone ahead, glimmering through the windshield. I craned my neck to look at the welcomed sight, but reality wasn’t all that pretty. Devastation waited aboveground with the holocaust the fireflies had left in their wake. Patches of untouched snow remained, but most of the landscape was scarred with carnage. Wreckage littered the area—rotor blades, twisted metal scraps, whatever remained of the shredded helicopters and their occupants, body parts, human butchery. I clutched the lapels of Poole’s worn jacket and buried my face against him.

He rubbed my back, soothing me, understanding somehow that I had already witnessed more death than I could take. “My Honey Beck,” he whispered and kissed the top of my head. “It’s war. In Boston, you were fool enough to run headlong into it. Could hav-ve,” his voice cracked. “Damn, you could have been…”

I burrowed even closer, knowing I’d been a damned fool.

When we’d traveled a little way, I braved another look. What had remained of the old air force base had been reduced to rubble. I tipped up my chin and looked at Poole. “They never knew exactly where to hit, did they?”

“They had a good idea. They just couldn’t get a good lock on it. We kept deflecting their signals, resetting the frequencies. Anything long range and unmanned ended up blasting their own assets. But we also knew they’d eventually find a way. Even through the chaos and the growing resistance. Took them over five days to organize and get those helos here from their bases. Gave us just enough time.”

I pulled myself up until I looked him directly in the eyes. “To do what?”

“To dismantle Charon and move it to Icecap. Piece by piece as we evacuated personnel. Cloaked by the shields they developed here whenever a convoy was en route so the Feds couldn’t trace us. That’s where we’re headed. To the place where your mother’s farmhouse stood.”

I was going home.

A soft peeping sound came from a small yellow bundle perched atop our seat. I’d fallen asleep, and just like in that hospital room, I was greeted by this miniature barnyard inhabitant. Yet this was no hologram but Henry Junior himself. I smiled and yawned. “Tina, Henry’s a regular hunk.”

She laughed. “He’s just stretching his legs.”

“One day that rooster will have some mighty fine drumsticks,” Poole taunted as he smacked his lips.

“Cannibal,” Tina chided. She scooped Henry up in her palms just as the Humvee nearly tipped over.

“IED!” Andrews yelled from the passenger seat. “Man down!” the doctor cried as he tugged on the driver’s safety belt.

“They’ve booby-trapped this road!” Poole scrambled as we careened out of control. He yanked aside the wounded soldier and took the driver’s seat. The enlisted was bleeding from a deep gash in his forehead.

The vehicle finally stopped, the left side smashed in by the explosive, all four tires blown.

“The column?” Poole yelled.

Michaels looked at the tab in his hand. “Halted.”

“Order them to go solo. Alternate routes. Scanners on full.”

“Done,” Michaels reported.

Poole studied the landscape through the front windshield, a forest of pines and bare trees. “They’re out there.”

“I’m not reading anything, Commander,” Michaels said.

“Covered by your shielding device?”

“A possibility. We were ordered to surrender a prototype to our Central Command several months ago.”

“We tripped their explosive device. What about our own cover?”

“Spotty.”

Poole leaned forward. “And they’re out there.” He went silent a beat, then asked, “Cerberus onboard this wreck?”

Michaels hesitated.

“Cerberus, damn it.”

“It’s equipped. But the unit has never been tested,” Michaels informed him.

“Will it knock out a remote shield?”

“In theory.”

“Power it up.”

“But, Commander—”

“Now!” Poole ordered.

The three-headed dog of Hades. Cerberus was the offspring of its deadly counterpart. If this transport was equipped with it, then Michaels’ group must have developed a mobile unit.

My sister scrabbled over the seat, Henry Junior still cradled in her hand. She slid close. The wounded soldier on the opposite side of me was unconscious now.

“Full power and wide field,” Poole ordered.

“Commander, the unit may be unstable with a wide field.”

“If we wait for them to fire to get a lock, we’ll be ash.”

“Captain,” Andrews spoke up. “You have no idea what that weapon will do.”

“Save us or blow us to hell.” Poole sat erect, bracing himself. “Deploy!”

I wrapped my arms around Tina as a sharp whining noise shot to an unbearable level. A blue wave flew out, swept around to form a huge circle, surrounding our position. Maybe thousands of feet in breadth, maybe less, I had no way of telling. Their shield neutralized, Michaels picked up the enemy’s position, hidden in a thicket.

“Three of them,” Michaels continued reporting, never looking up from his tab. “Setting up what looks to be a rocket launcher. Neutralized but only for now.”

The whining noise increased. “Second wave!” Poole shouted.

Michaels tapped the small tab with his shaky hand. The second wave, more a thick rod of red light than a wave, undulated as it spanned the distance. It struck the DHS armored vehicle, fanned out to encompass everyone near it. The agents collapsed, their vehicle charred but not destroyed.

“Damn thing worked,” Poole said as he stuck out his hand to congratulate the scientist.

Michaels kept working his tab, frantic as he yelled, “The batteries! Feedback surge. Get out!”

I kicked the door wide and latched onto my sister. We bolted and kept going as the screeching whine behind us increased in pitch. Adrenalin rushed through my battered flesh enough that I could break into a sprint with Christina in tow.

Just as the Humvee blew, instinct had me push Tina down and cover her with my body. Moments went by. My sister and I were stunned, but unscathed.

Poole bellowed, “Report!”

Andrews, Michaels, each answered, “Here!”

Tina and I pushed ourselves up. I realized I’d run the distance in my bare feet and hadn’t felt a thing. Even more incredible, that chick Tina clung to was still alive and unruffled.

Cupping my hands, I shouted, “We’re here!”

Then I realized we weren’t all that far apart. Poole was nearest, the wounded driver beside him. He leveled his gaze on Michaels as he wiped the grin from his face. “Son of a bitch. The damn thing sort of worked.”

CHAPTER 23

Instead of waiting for the DHS cruiser to become functional again, Poole had Michaels raise the nearest vehicle in our convoy. The ride proved uncomfortable as we squeezed ourselves into the transport. Tina, Michaels, and Andrews were in front, while Poole and I sat sandwiched between two people in the back seat. The wounded driver lay at our feet. We moved at a slow pace with the scanners set to full sweep to search for more booby traps. As uncomfortable as it was, at least we were headed for safety.

Someone had given me a pair of socks. With a hole in each big toe, they were still good enough to keep my feet warm. Poole managed to doze off, resting his head on my shoulder, arm draped around my middle. But I couldn’t fall asleep. It was more than my bruised flesh and the tight confines of that transport. Thoughts tumbled in my mind of everything that had just happened. Poole’s presence soothed me, the feel of him, his musky scent. It was then I realized what kept me awake, a deep and restless fear.

I turned as best I could and put my arm across Poole’s chest, head tipped to his as I whispered in his ear, “God protect you…please. I love you so much.”

With that, I finally closed my eyes and tried my best to get some sleep.

By the time we stopped again, one of my skin grafts had split open, and when I tried to stand, my knees shook. Every bit of strength I’d possessed was all but depleted. Poole got his arm under mine and helped me away from the transport. We were in a large wooden structure, half of which had been built into the earth. Hay and straw littered the ground, giving the only evidence this place had once been used to shelter livestock. Transports were now housed there.

We were led up a stairway and taken outside. A large snowy field stretched before us with a clapboard farmhouse off to one side. Both the house and what could be seen of the barn appeared worse for wear, paint chipped off, and siding missing. At the far end of the barn lay a gravel road—more a footpath really—that looked to have been expanded to allow large conveyances to pass, as evidenced by tire ruts. We made our way to the all-terrain vehicles waiting nearby. Poole ordered the injured driver taken in the first one. Andrews went with him to see to the young man’s welfare. Michaels, Tina, Poole, and I took the second. The borrowed socks I wore were soaked through with mud and snow. As I started to shiver, Poole pulled them off, rubbed my feet, then removed his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

Soon we were at a small hillock shielded by a stand of trees. The driver of the lead ATV punched a code into a device on his dash. The air quivered as if a barrier had just been deactivated. We drove right through one of the maples, a hologram used to disguise the entrance to a tunnel. Once more, we traveled along a slender underground shaft. This one led to the huge chamber that had been built beneath my mother’s farmhouse. Icecap had become the hub of the revolution. As big as the chamber was, it seemed inadequate at the moment. Overcrowded with personnel, there was the original staff along with the arrivals from Charon base. They had no room for extraneous vehicles and equipment, even as they worked to produce more with the large 3D printer.

We climbed out of the ATV and were left at the entrance.

A uniformed officer met us and gave Poole a sharp salute. “Commander, we need you and Dr. Michaels in the war room.”

Poole seemed reluctant to let go of me.

“I’ll see to my sister,” Tina volunteered.

“She needs medical attention,” Poole said.

“We’ll make sure she receives it, sir,” the officer assured him as he called to an enlisted man to help.

Poole loosened his hold as I looped my arm over Tina’s shoulder. She couldn’t support my weight. The enlisted slipped his arm around me from the other side and led us to what seemed more like a closet, with just enough room for a double mattress.

“These are the only private quarters we have,” the enlisted advised us. “Things are tight here.”

“It’s fine,” I said. All I wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Tina managed to get me settled on the bed.

I noticed something stowed in a corner. “My duffle bag.”

“Poole must have had it taken here,” Tina said, then hesitated to leave me alone.

“I’ll be okay.

My sister took a moment more, then finally nodded and left the room.

After a few minutes, the physician I’d had at Charon base came in to check on me. She repaired the damage to the graft and made sure I ate something. Once she’d gone, I burrowed under the covers, wrapped securely in the comfort of Poole’s jacket as I finally fell into a deep and restful sleep.

I stirred awake, not certain how long I’d been dreaming. I sensed someone in the bed with me even before I rolled over to see Poole lying there. Snuggling closer, I pressed myself against his back. My movement woke him.

He turned to face me, his arms reaching around as he whispered in my ear, “I love you, too, Honey Beck.”

“You heard me?”

He kissed me for an answer.

I remembered my fear…all that was at risk. “Our driver….” I swallowed. “You took precious time to drag him to safety.”

“I can’t leave a man behind,” he said, even before I could finish my awkward statement.

“But—”

“There’s nothing to say, Beck.”

I wanted to argue with him, make him understand how important he’d become. What it would do to this cause if he were killed. What it would do to me. But Poole already knew that, and still he wouldn’t leave one of his men behind…not ever. “I do love you,” I said. “Dear God in Heaven, how I love you.”

I kissed his mouth this time. A feeling of sweet longing welled up in me as he returned it. His hands were at my back, so warm as they slipped under my clothing. I peeled away the jacket he’d given me, moved on top of him, gifting him with more kisses. Poole pulled back. Not want, not need, nothing of the animal driving him now, just a deep concern on his face. This man would never use me again.

“I’m okay now,” I said on an exhale. “Please.” I placed another full kiss on his mouth.

He gingerly removed my sweatshirt and caressed my bare breasts. His tongue felt so wet and inviting against my skin. His hands moved gently, touching me in a secret place. Then his mouth explored that hidden reach. It was so different than the act we’d shared before. That was sex, fueled by a primeval urge. This was the first time Jason Poole made love to me. Even when he entered, that push to complete the act, it wasn’t with a fevered motion but with soft, easy strokes as if he was mindful of how deeply my body had been wounded, my soul battered.

The climax arrived for both us as a shared gift.

For a long while, he remained inside me, my legs wrapped around him as he lay on top. Then Jason shifted to the side, still holding on. He kept me close for a long while as I nuzzled against him, this man I loved more than my own life.

Tensions wound their way through Icecap. Several times I caught Michaels in a heated exchange with one or more of the techs he supervised. His stony veneer had been chipped away by stress and escalating disagreement among the ranks. I knew they were mounting an attack. Dr. Andrews worked with the militias, coordinating them for a widespread assault. But it all hinged on Michaels’ team, and if the China Lake Charon facility was, in fact, fully functional.

A day passed, then another, with pressure increasing on Jason. Yet he never let it escape him, had no outbursts in public or in our private quarters. When we were alone, he confided in me as he tried to find reason in a world that no longer made sense. He wanted to sort through the impossible, grasp and hold on, doing right and owning whatever came of his decision.

Three days had gone; less than two more and Jason Poole would give the order to engage our own countrymen in an outright assault against them.

That night, neither of us could sleep. We talked, facing one another in bed after we’d made love. We spoke of so many things and all of them without weight. And yet there was something buried, something he would make me dig to discover.

I finally asked him. “What is it, Jason?”

“Nothing.”

I groaned.

“All right. It’s the Enola Gay.”

“You’ve been talking to David, haven’t you?”

“You think I don’t know history?”

I arched an eyebrow.

“Okay. I confess. I heard from him this afternoon. Boston is secure. And most of Massachusetts. Well, at least where the DHS have been knocked out. He’s en route to Icecap now.”

I knew American history, even though it bored me. My dad and Vera had done their best to bring it to life. “The Enola Gay,” I whispered. Yes. I knew the history and understood just what it meant for Jason to bring up the plane that had dropped the first atomic bombs. “You talked about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

“Yes.” His gaze broke with mine as he bunched the rough fabric of our blanket in his fist. “I’ve been thinking about all the men and women who’ve made the call. I asked David about it. He started in on the Enola Gay. What it’d been like for her crew. How President Truman gave the order to drop those first bombs that killed so many people. Did all the responsibility rest on him? I mean, he gave the order. Or did it sit on the men who carried it out?”

“That’s a lot to chew on.” There were no easy answers. I could tell him he wouldn’t be held to account for whatever happened. But I didn’t know if that was true; no one did. “Jason…maybe we should just try to get some sleep.”

“Listen, Beck. David told me what one of the guys on the Enola Gay said when he saw that bomb go off. ‘My God, what have we done?’ That’s what the guy said. He was on the plane and saw the mushroom cloud and knew everyone under it was dead. But, you know, none of that crew ever regretted their mission. Years later, it was all documented. They knew it saved more lives than it cost.”

“So it was a tough decision. For the president. For those guys. But you said it, they saved more lives than it cost. So what choice did they really have?”

“No other choice.”

“Just like you.”

Jason whispered my name, “Rebecca.”

“Yes?”

He let go of the blanket and put the back of his hand to my cheek. “David’s the closest person I have…in my life…next to family. You’re my family, Rebecca Sanders. Flesh, bone and blood. I want to marry you.”

I searched his face, stunned.

“We’re going to be a family.”

I put my hand atop his, pressing it to my cheek. “I’ll be your family.”

“Starting tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?”

“Almost too late.”

My skin prickled. Dear God, don’t let it be too late. I put my arms around him. He drew me near. Tomorrow I’d be his wife.

Tina looked me over and gave the okay sign, approving of the white dress shirt and tan slacks. My outfit was the closest thing we could scrounge up for a wedding ensemble. That done, I primped my hair and saw my sister frown as I looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“You don’t like it?”

“We forgot something.” She started to tug on the gold band she always wore on her index finger.

“Wait a minute, Tiny, that’s Vera’s ring.”

“It’s Maggie’s.”

I shook my head.

“It is, Rib. Mom gave it to me when she…well that day we were all at the hospital. She told me it was your mother’s. And what it meant being able to wear it all those years as her wedding ring. She loved your mom and knew, one day, maybe you’d love her again, too. That’s when she gave it to me and told me to keep the truth to myself until I found the right time.” She sucked on her finger to help slip the band free. “It’s the right time.”

I swallowed, trying to steady my hand as I opened my palm. Some more spit and turning the ring around finally wormed it loose. Tina dropped it into my palm and gave me a hug. “You make a beautiful bride.”

“You’ll make a more beautiful one.”

She gave me a wink. “I know.” After another hug, she grabbed my hand. “Don’t want to be late.”

My sister escorted me down the aisle—well, not an aisle, but what remained of my mother’s gravel driveway. Jason and I could have had a quick ceremony inside the safety of Icecap with several hundred techs for witnesses. But I don’t think I would have felt married in any other place than the one we chose. And we were fine as long as Icecap maintained a shield to ward off detection. It seemed fitting to be out under the Vermont sky where my ancestors had dwelled for centuries and fought so hard to remain free. With the house no longer standing, and nothing to mark it but that driveway and the remains of a few downed trees, this place had transformed into a testament to what we were willing to sacrifice.

Sunshine rained down from the treetops, illuminating glittering patches of snow that clung to the rich brown earth. The air smelled fresh, scented with sweet pine, and a cool breeze tickled my face as I walked with my arm looped in Tina’s. Jason stood with David Hernandez, his best man, dear friend, and the officiant for our wedding. There were just the four of us, surrounded by tall pines and the bare branches of sleeping sycamores. But somehow I knew there were others out there in the quiet surroundings, people who deeply loved Tina and myself…even as shadows, their spirits were still present.

We stopped before David and Jason, who were both dressed in fatigues. David held a book in his hand, and Jason had borrowed a black tie from someone. It was expertly knotted and made him look rather dapper in an odd military sort of way. My sister stepped aside and Jason and I faced one another, arms outstretched as we took hold of each other’s hands.

David cleared his throat, his tone as soft as the cool breeze. “My friends, I’m honored to be here for the two of you. Your shaman.”

Jason and I chuckled.

“Quiet,” he playfully admonished. We both pinched our mouths closed.

“Better.” David smiled. “As your shaman, I have to tell you I see something powerful in this union. The Suquamish women were helpmates to their husbands. Very independent and yet incredibly loyal. With a partner like that, two people become a fortress. One that will stand against adversity. I think that fits you two and what your marriage will be.”

“It does,” I whispered. Jason squeezed my hands.

David cleared his throat again. “I should ask you to repeat the traditional vows. But I already know that, for you, it will be for better and worse. For richer or poorer. Through sickness and in health. And, I’m afraid, it will be through many hardships. Under this canopy of trees and blue sky, with God in Heaven as witness, your union will be until death do you part.”

As David closed his eyes, each breath he took seemed to resonate in the hush of that beautiful place. “I pray you will have a long sojourn together. That you’ll live free and live in peace. But for now, you’ll be joined in a fight. Side by side on a difficult road. With setbacks. Disappointments. Loss. But the battles you fight can and will be won. Together.”

He opened his eyes. “My friends....” David paused, visibly struggling to hold back his emotions.

Tina took a step forward.

“I’m all right,” David said, gently assuring her. “My friends….” He opened the book in his hand. “Please let me read this. ‘Therefore I, a prisoner for serving the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of your calling, for you have been called by God. Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love. Make every effort to keep yourselves united in the Spirit, binding yourselves together with peace.’”

David closed the book and lifted his chin, his gaze set on that gilded light from Heaven filtering through the green boughs. “May peace come.” He bowed his head as if in prayer. “And may it come soon.”

“The ring!” Tina exclaimed.

“I don’t have one,” Jason confessed.

I took out my mother’s ring and handed it to him. “It was Maggie’s.”

“Now that’s fine…” he said, his fingers closing around it as he sucked in a deep breath. “Mighty fine.” He placed it on my finger. “With this I pledge all my worldly goods. Which at the moment don’t amount to much.”

“Whatever you have is good enough for me, husband.”

“My darling wife,” Jason whispered, his breath frothing in the cold heavy air.

“Kiss the bride,” my sister encouraged with a sly twinkle in her eyes. “Kiss her good.”

We all laughed. Jason sobered, his own eyes glassy with tears as he put his arms around me and did just that, lifting me until my feet were off the ground.

A shadow passed over the landscape, much darker than a fleeting cloud. All four of us looked up just as a sweep flew by, scanning the area.

The Feds were closing in.

CHAPTER 24

It should have been my wedding night, lying in bed with Jason with all the possibilities of our life together shared in honeyed whispers. But that was something that just wouldn’t happen now. The assault on the NSA center was set for that night. It wouldn’t be the first blow in this war, but it would be a decisive one that could cripple the Feds. They had been gathering data on citizens for years, using that data to cull the herd—wiping out dissidents, tracking people, exacting their pound of flesh. Privacy hadn’t existed in America for years.

I sat next to Dr. Andrews at a console sequestered behind the floor-to-ceiling glass partition separating this Command Center from the large chamber where the 3D printer and stores had been kept. All that had been cleared, except for the printer, to make way for the equipment necessary to run Charon. I pushed back in the plastic chair, wanting to be beside Jason as he orchestrated the events of that evening. Instead, he stood in the middle of Icecap with Deven Michaels.

Tina sat alone in a corner of the Command Center. Well, not exactly alone…she had Henry with her. The chick had become her feathered talisman. Right now, he was on her lap, sheltered in a small box stuffed with cotton balls for warmth. Every once in a while she would take him out and let him eat mash from her open palm. It was her way of dealing with the palpable tension coursing through that place.

The Command Center where my mother had worked solo, and the larger storage area, were both crammed with people. Charon dominated the huge chamber beyond the glass partition, with its techs manning equipment and vid screens jury-rigged into the power supply. But the unit that had been housed at Hadley would be idle tonight. The large screens, one on each side of the space, displayed views from every angle of the fully operational facility at China Lake in California.

I tried to adjust myself in the uncomfortable chair. My injuries still hurt, and the crowded conditions and stale air made it all the worse. Andrews kept his focus on the console in front of him, plump hands shaking as he worked. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill in the room.

“Maybe you should take a break,” I suggested.

“Countdown’s already started,” he said as he flipped a small switch. He spoke, his voice booming over loudspeakers, “Field units at ready, Commander.”

“Regular issue and friendlies?” Jason asked, his question transmitted over the small communication device behind his ear.

“Confirmed. Army and local militia,” Hernandez answered from his seat at another console not far from Andrews.

Jason gave Deven Michaels a nod.

The head of the Charon project cupped his ear and bent his head slightly as he said, “Begin grid interface.”

The large monitors switched to a satellite image. Nighttime had fallen over the United States. Despite continued energy shortages, the cities were illuminated, more on the coasts, and a greater number of them on the eastern seaboard. A diagram superimposed on the image showed the country divided into thirds—west, east, and Texas.

“What does that mean?” I asked, pointing to the screen.

“The three electrical grids supplying power,” Andrews answered. “China Lake is going to hook into the western network. Only way to get enough juice.”

Still uncertain what it all meant, I stared at the large monitor directly across from the Command Center. The image magnified, focusing on the western region. China Lake, California, out in the Mojave Desert, had its position marked, with a counter at the bottom of the screen tracking increased percentages to full power. Clusters of light—whole cities in the western grid’s southern section—began to flicker, then wink out as the counter went from fifty to seventy to finally reaching one hundred percent capacity.

“China Lake at ready,” Michaels’ voice came over the speakers.

“Deploy first wave,” Poole ordered.

“Engage first wave,” Michaels directed.

I glanced at Andrews’ monitor, seeing the videos marked militia feed, coming in from a position not far from the National Security Administration Data Center outside Bluffdale, Utah. A flash of blue started at one edge of the massive complex and ended at the other side. My attention shot back to the large screen across the chamber. Like it had been at Hadley, the weapon deployed in an ordered sequence, this time across Utah, the NSA center being hit first, then each DHS base in turn around the primary target.

“First wave complete,” Michaels said.

Jason sucked in a deep breath, put his shoulders back, and lifted his chin. “God help us. Deploy the second wave. Regular count.”

Michaels relayed the directive to China Lake. My heart thudded as I watched the counter on the large screen mark off three minutes to death. A flawless executioner—the militia stationed outside the wire bore witness to its effectiveness through their video feed. It seemed to take longer, at least felt like it did, that bringer of death, a faceless killer that stopped living hearts, snuffed out life so easily, a machine without human regret.

“Second wave complete,” Michaels confirmed.

Poole pointed to Andrews. The doctor signaled the militia as Jason strode toward the Command Center. I got up from my seat and stepped aside. He gave me a quick pat on the shoulder as he passed, taking a place behind Hernandez. I sat and watched the feed on Andrews’ monitor.

A joint operation with local militia and regular army, there were over a hundred men and women deployed. They moved quickly through the data center. A million square feet when first built, another half million had been added since. The details laid charges where the explosives would do the most damage. No resistance, with everyone who had manned the facility already dead. There had to be thousands, just in that one center. Again, time seemed to crawl, each moment taking far too long as a counter ticked down the remaining minutes until the center would come back online.

“Running the clock,” Andrews muttered. They had only eight minutes left.

“Commander, shouldn’t we order to clear?” the doctor asked.

“Hernandez,” Jason said.

The sergeant leaned forward and spoke into the com, relaying the order.

The remaining troops hurried to evacuate the buildings and get clear of the complex. I watched dfferent video feeds, angles, positions, saw a few stragglers who lingered behind, checking the charges.

“Order them to get the hell out of there!” Poole barked, his voice echoing in the closed space.

The NSA center began to stir as lights flickered on.

“The Feds are tapping into the center,” Andrews advised. He turned, looking at a small screen embedded in the console. “Incoming. Moving fast. Must have scrambled out of Nevada.”

Jason took Hernandez’s place to give orders directly. “Poole here! Clear! Clear now!”

The first incoming, a missile—blew! It hit our troops as they scrambled for cover outside the facility. I looked at another counter—my heart pounding fast again. This one marked time to denotation—if the place wasn’t brought down now, the Feds would have enough time to retrieve their data.

A massive fireball, roiling skyward. Bright orange. Yellow. Black smoke. The sound of it—a terrible roar. I closed my eyes, said a prayer, not certain how many of those who had set those charges survived the blast.

Fire from the ground, rocket launchers, and other defenses. Conventional warfare, or as conventional as warfare got now.

Drones and manned craft alike, now targets for our ground forces as other installations, backup facilities for the NSA, were under attack from our side.

I got to my feet. My head pounded as I walked over to Tina, still seated in the corner of the room. “Are you and Henry okay here?”

“Yes.” Her brow furrowed with concern. “And you?”

“I’m going to lie down for a while. You’re welcome to join me.”

Tina shook her head and adjusted the small box on her lap. “I want to stay here with David.”

“Okay, Tiny.” She was seated in a corner with a baby chick…but for my darling sister, that was as close to reality as she could bear. “But if you get tired, the door’s open.” I knew it would be a long night.

I made my way to our private quarters, intent on taking some aspirin and going to sleep. The pocket door slid open and I stepped in, stopping when I saw the stars. They whorled overhead, danced, a whole galaxy in pinpoints of light that glimmered in the darkness of that small room. Deven Michaels lay on the bed, a tab in his hand as he carefully pecked away at its small screen. As I took a few steps more, the door automatically closed behind me. I could see the empty pill bottle discarded on the floor.

“I’ll get help,” I said, intent on calling for a medic.

“No!”

“Why?”

“Why here?” he asked in a strained whisper. “My apologies. I wanted a private place to die.”

“No, why!”

A small sphere floated above him, the projector that recreated the heavens. The glittering stars were reflected in the cold depths of his eyes. “Why? Because I’ve done everything they demanded of me. Now, Sanders, you and me, all the rest, witnessed justice. Meted out by that hideous thing I’d helped create. Nothing like the beauty of the stars. My creation….” He swallowed and gasped for air. “My creation killed the people who stole my life.”

I came to my knees beside the bed. “Please. Let me get help.”

“No. But you fight them. Fight them and win, Sanders. I understand. There’s so much at stake. Still”—he turned his head to look at me—“beg Commander Poole. Beg him to never use Charon again. Destroy the damn thing.”

“What if he has no choice?”

He gazed at the stars again. “Genies never find their way back into their bottles, do they?” Michaels put his hand on that old satchel he’d rescued from Hadley. “Take care of this for me. Maybe…” He swallowed again. “Just maybe they’ll use it if they ever stop killing one another.” He pressed his eyes closed, took in a deep, shuddering breath, and opened them wide. “God forgive me. If there’s mercy…maybe I’ll finally get to explore the stars.”

As for help…if I’d been honest, I’d have admitted this man was well beyond any the moment I walked into that room. I kept looking at his upturned eyes, the wisp of a smile seen by the faint glow playing across his face. With hushed reverence, I reached out and said, “To the stars,” as I closed his unseeing eyes.

PART 3: SIEGE

CHAPTER 25

I walked through the barnyard with a heavy melancholy pressing down on me. It seemed like another century since that morning three and half years ago when Jason Poole first came to our diner. Maybe the war would soon be over. There were hundreds of thousands of dead on both sides. So much blood—men, women, children, innocents lost who were statistics instead of people to be mourned.

We lived in the Texas hill country where Jason had grown up, one hundred acres of the old homestead returned to my husband by a grateful state government. Well, it was more like I lived there. Jason still battled in the field while I tended a barnyard.

I tugged at my shirt collar. Blistering hot already and it wasn’t even past eight in the morning. I hated the Texas heat and the dusty vistas that were so different from the sultry early summers of Massachusetts with its verdant landscape. The air inside our fenced barnyard smelled earthy but not soured with animal waste. At least the ranch manager, along with our security detail, kept it clean.

A shield protected us from detection. It locked out scans and would trigger an outer line of defenses if intruders tried to breach it. Thankfully, it let in the only thing I wanted from Texas, the touch of a warm breeze…the one Jason had spoken about so often. It sinks all the way down inside a person. I stopped to let that breeze play on my face, and inhaled it.

The landscape beyond the white railing fence was covered with grasses dried to a light tan under the summer sun. The breeze at our compound’s perimeter danced through the scrub oak leaves and caused the branches of cedars to rise and dip. The end of the spring had taken the last of the bluebonnets. I’d become attached to those blooms. They were the only splash of color in all that dry countryside.

Our two mares brayed as they bobbed their heads up and down. They seemed to sense I carried something for them in the straw basket draped over my arm. Jason had gotten the pair five months ago when the last of the compound was completed. He promised he’d teach me to ride. But that never happened. Jason hadn’t had the opportunity to come home until today…maybe.

From the basket, I pulled out the two carrots I’d picked in our garden. I gave one to each mare, rubbing their soft muzzles as they chewed. We had a huge garden and grew enough to feed the twenty troops that made up our security detail, along with the ranch manger, my sister, and me. Inside the chicken coop, I scooped out eggs, some still warm in my hand. I placed them in the straw basket as I walked from nest to nest.

The war haunted me in quiet moments like this.

We’d gained control of most of the West Coast after Charon wiped out a large number of the DHS bases. Genies and their bottles—Deven Michaels’ words proved all too true. Yet conventional warfare proved even more savage than Michaels’ faceless killer. The state of Washington, out of China Lake’s range, erupted in violence shortly after Charon’s deployment. It took over a year of fighting for the local militias and regulars who’d defected to bring order there.

It’d been a long and bloody three and a half years.

Fourteen states stretching eastward from Michigan through Ohio and Pennsylvania and south all the way to Florida were still under the old regime. New York, Mississippi, Iowa, and others had become Border States to a hostile nation where the elites still ruled. Reports of suppression kept coming in, terror with DHS thugs acting as the Fed’s iron fist. And there were two states neither side could claim. Alaska had been taken over by the resurrected Soviet Union, while Hawaii had declared itself independent less than a year ago. If the Union survived, how much of it would be intact?

I stepped out of the coop with my straw basket loaded with fresh eggs and started for the house. It’d been built to Jason’s specs, a replica of the dwelling he’d burned to the ground after authorities claimed his family’s homestead. With state and local governments forming in the free territories, their economies thrived with reopened distribution channels. There had been no end of help and construction materials for the residence, bunkhouse, and outbuildings. With my husband commanding in the field, it was left to me to complete the project, taking just over a month to execute. Jason had spent all of two days here when he’d come to see it finished.

Two stories with light yellow siding and white trim, the main house had a second-story balcony in front. A porch wrapped around the first. An old-fashioned swing hung next to the screened front door. It had air conditioning, inter-web, an iron stove in the den, and four large bedrooms with their own baths. The basement was built with reinforced walls and outfitted as a secondary command center. Not an exact replica of his childhood home, but this place with its wood floors and throw rugs, down to the color of its walls, stood as a reminder, at least for Jason, of something lost.

As I went inside and headed toward the kitchen, I called, “Tina! Henry laid another egg!” I put Henry’s egg, along with the rest, in a big ceramic bowl inside our refrigerator. We had a large flock, but Henry would always be special, even if she wasn’t a rooster.

Married just over two years, my sister, with her hands planted on her lower back, waddled into the kitchen. Tina’s small body was swollen with life, eight months pregnant, and her doctor had advised her to undergo a C-section. The child, a girl, was already large, and my sister’s blood pressure had elevated to a dangerous level. The procedure was scheduled for tomorrow morning. My brother-in-law would be arriving at the compound today, along with Jason…hopefully. David planned to stay a week with his wife and firstborn child, but Jason wouldn’t commit. The situation in the field must be fluid. I hadn’t gotten a complete report in over ten days.

I forced a smile and tried to put aside my dark mood. “The miracle rooster comes through again.”

“You always say that,” Tina grumbled as she lowered herself into one of the bow-back chairs at the kitchen table.

The last few months had seen Tina’s usually mellow temperament sizzle with irritation. It made my sister unpleasant company. I turned my back on her and busied myself at the sink. Seeing my sister like that brought home a bitter reminder. In over three years of marriage, Jason and I had no baby of our own.

“Let me make you something,” I said. Tina hadn’t eaten anything at dinner and nothing at all this morning.

“No.”

I turned. “So you came here just to watch me clean?”

“No. But you can’t cook.”

“And you hardly eat. So how about one of Henry’s eggs? I can make an egg even if I am a culinary nincompoop.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Over hard. With a side of wheat toast,” I coaxed.

“Okay. But don’t expect a tip.”

“Grouch.”

She finally chuckled. That light airy sound always reminded me of how much I loved her, even when she was being a bitch.

Just as I walked to the refrigerator, the warning siren went off. The shrill whine signaled the shield had come down. We both stood at the kitchen window as the large transport helo landed on the pad just inside the wire. The siren sounded again to signal the shield had gone back up.

“They’re home!” Tina shouted.

We both hurried out the back door. As the blades slowed to a stop, our security detail formed two neat lines with ten men each. Standing at attention, they held their backs straight with rifles at their sides. The helo’s door swung open and stairs were lowered. Jason’s command staff and bodyguard exited first, then Dr. Andrews. No longer plump, his face was drawn and creased with deep wrinkles. The man had certainly not weathered the last five months well.

David exited after the doctor. When he started down, Tina stretched out her arm and waved frantically. I knew she wanted to bolt, but time had taught my sister restraint. David crossed the distance, lovingly took his wife’s hand, and walked her to the house. Jason was last to disembark, aside from the flight crew, who saluted him as they stood inside the helo’s doorway.

Jason Poole came up and slipped his arm around my waist. As we started toward the house, he leaned close and whispered in my ear, “It’s good to be home, Honey Beck.”

We made love that afternoon, a long delightful embrace. When it was over, we snuggled close and slept. After a time, I woke up, rolled onto my back, and watched the overhead fan. It whirled quietly above the bed as it sent down wafts of warm air. Jason didn’t care for air conditioning. He still craved the Texas heat.

I pulled back and studied his bare skin, searched for healing wounds, new fast grafts stitching together fresh injuries. There was one near his spine. The faint mesh covered a deep gash. I lightly touched it and felt its texture beneath my fingertip. He moved and arched his back with a long stretch. Jason turned on his side to face me.

“Sure did appreciate your fine welcome home, ma’am,” he said with a wicked grin.

“And how long am I welcoming you home for?”

“A whole week. In celebration of our niece. And aside from the time I have to give to staff meetings”—he patted the mattress— “we can spend most of that week right here in bed.”

Instead of engaging him in cheery—empty—banter, I sat up, swung my legs over the mattress, and sat with my back to him.

He let out a groan. “What is it, Beck?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I got to my feet, went to the end of the bed, and pulled my bathrobe from one of the four posts. I fastened the cotton tie at my waist and walked to the sliding glass door that led to our balcony.

“Hell, lady, you giving me the silent treatment?”

I kept gazing at the hills beyond our fence as I heard the door opening to the small refrigerator built into the bookshelf. “Helping yourself to a beer?”

“Yes,” he snapped.

I turned just as he flopped down on the recliner. He’d pulled on his pants, but not his shirt. Jason tipped the bottle and took several swallows, then wiped his mouth on his bare arm.

“What’s next?” I asked.

“Meaning?”

“Jason.”

“Early dinner. Late lunch,” he teased. “Or we go back to bed and have at it again.”

“Don’t be a son of a bitch with me.”

“Do tell.” He finished off the beer.

I strode toward him with hands balled into fists at my sides. “What’s next?”

“Cut through to D.C. That’s what’s next, Beck. If we can get to the capital, we could put an end to this.”

I came to my knees and rested my hands on his legs. “Jason, I’m going with you.”

“Hell, no.”

“Yes.”

“And I said no.” He leaned forward and spoke with the scent of beer on his warm breath. “For most folks that would put an end to the discussion.”

“Not for your wife. Up until five months ago, I was with you. I’d been with you since the beginning.”

He glared at me. I wouldn’t back down. Jason pushed himself up, brushed past, and headed for the refrigerator again.

“Will you listen?” I yelled.

“Damn it!” He slammed the refrigerator door and turned. “When you make sense. It’s gotten even worse out there.”

“Jason, I can’t stay here. Not knowing. I can’t take it. Not anymore.”

“You get reports.”

“That you haven’t been killed!”

“Well, that’s a hell of a lot more than I got when you were almost blown to pieces in Boston!”

“That wasn’t the same.”

“No? And just last year when you were with me on the front line. That one bullet to the chest could have taken you out. You were damn lucky it missed your heart.”

“And what about you? I’ve seen you almost…” I swallowed. “…almost get killed how many times? Wounded.” I pointed at him. “That graft near your spine. When were you going to let me know you were nearly paralyzed?” I braced myself as I stood. “I am not staying here. That’s the end of it.”

“The hell you say.” His jaw flexed as he tried to rein in his temper. “Drop it, Beck. You’ll stay. Safe and living like a queen in this palace.”

“I’m not staying!”

“I said, drop it!”

I spread my arms wide. “Damn it, Poole. Why should I? It’s your fucking palace! Not mine.”

His chin tipped up as if he’d just been slapped. Jason stood silent a long moment, shook his head, then pulled on a T-shirt and left the room.

The tension shot across the table as we sat in the dining room for an early supper. Thankfully, Tina was absent. Resting in her room, she waited for her C-section the next morning. But David had joined us, along with Andrews. The doctor was next to me with my brother-in-law on the opposite side, while Jason took a place at the head of the table. The only one who seemed to have an appetite was David, who wolfed down his meal. I never much liked Tex-Mex, and the cook, one of the men from our security detail, had really overdone the chilies. Dr. Andrews picked at his food and my husband preferred a tumbler of Scotch to his dinner.

At the moment, I disliked that room even more than the offering on my plate. The walls were a dusky burnt orange, the table a hefty piece, not glossy cherry wood or polished mahogany, but distressed oak. Its grain was stained dark, the top substantial, and its simple legs thick posts. It was a man’s idea of furniture, like everything else in that house.

The air smelled of sharp seasoning and melted cheese. I longed for solid New England cooking. Rich stews and fresh fish, food I grew up with and we used to serve at our diner, my dad and Vera cooking it, then later Tina with her flair for preparing the hearty fare. I’d been starved for a long time, yet it made no difference now. I didn’t want what was in front of me, felt restless, yearning for something familiar…anything at all from my home.

I shoved aside the plate, grabbed the bottle of red wine at the center of the table, and poured myself a helping. I picked up the glass, raised my chin, and exclaimed, “To the Bay State!”

David continued to eat, while Dr. Andrews sat back, crossed his arms, and looked at me.

Jason lifted his tumbler of Scotch. “To Texas.” He gave me one of his crooked smiles. “Our home.”

We both belted down our drinks. I mimicked him, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.

“They sure do raise ’em without much sense in the Bay State,” Jason said, pointing to the red stain on my white shirt. He planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “This here woman lives pretty damn good compared to some of her New England cousins. But is she grateful?” He shook his head. “Is she a loving wife to her long-suffering husband?” He shook his head again. “Is she acting like a damn fool?” He didn’t shake his head this time. “Well, you figure that one out for yourself.”

Silence again. My back stiffened as I raised my glass once more. “To our dear leader from which all good things come. Heil Poole!”

My husband sat there a moment, his gaze deadly steel. He shoved back his chair, the legs scraping against the clay tile floor. He stood, hands pressed into fists as he planted them atop the table and leaned forward. “David, call a staff meeting for eighteen-hundred hours.”

“Jason?”

“I know you wanted to spend time with your wife,” my husband said, eyes narrowed, his gaze fastened on me. “It won’t run long.”

“As you say.”

Jason left. A moment later, the room resounded with the bang of a door slamming shut. He must have headed straight to the command center in the basement.

David got to his feet and scooped up his empty plate. “I have a little time. Think I’ll go upstairs and check on Christina.” He dipped his head to me, then to Andrews.

“Leave the plate in the sink,” I called after him as he went into the kitchen. “I’ll take care of it.”

Andrews picked up his own plate. “Let me help you.”

I shook my head. “It’s okay.”

“No, let me help you.” He gathered up what Jason had left behind, and piled the dirty dish and glass on top of his.

I trailed him into the kitchen, setting my own plate in the sink as he stood scraping off the leftover food. He paused, then pointed the fork in his hand to an old pot I kept on one side of the double sink. “You still saving the scraps for the chickens?”

“Yes.”

He began putting the scraps in the chicken bucket. “Jason has a lot on him, Rebecca.”

“He’s always had a lot on him since I met him.”

The doctor shrugged. “True enough.” He set a clean dish in the drainer. “But then he’s always had you.”

“What are you getting at?”

“He doesn’t do well alone.”

“Then why did he tell me I couldn’t go back in the field with him?”

“Tell you to stay here?” Andrews started in on another dish, the lemon scent of the soap replacing the unwelcomed smell of our dinner. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere you’re cared for. Secure, in a place he loves.”

“I know what he feels,” I snapped, then bit my lower lip. That was out of place. “I know,” I went on, trying not to let my temper escape. “That’s what he wants. To keep me safe.” My tone softened a little as I went on. “But I don’t want…I mean…it’s not being safe. It isn’t about being here. Making this a home. It’s every night. Thinking…lying there in the dark…thinking…maybe, at that moment. Just maybe right then. Jason’s hurt. Wounded. Or…” I swallowed. “Worse.” I shook my head. “He’s not the only one. Not by half.” I lifted my gaze and looked through the kitchen window at the vast landscape beyond the fence line. “It’s so empty out there.”

I turned away, afraid of my tears, of emotion too hard to shut away. I felt a slight tremor as the doctor lightly placed his hand on my back. My voice was barely above a whisper. “Guess that’s the problem with the both of us.”

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and chuckled. How stupid that red stain on my white cotton shirt looked. I sucked in a deep breath and faced the doctor. He had rolled up his own sleeves to keep them dry. That’s when I noticed the small telltale lump just under his skin near a vein in his left arm. “You have a prime.”

“That I do,” he acknowledged as he hastily rolled down his sleeves.

Our father had had a prime in the latter stages of his illness. It delivered morphine directly into his bloodstream to keep down the pain. No wonder Andrews had no appetite and had lost so much weight. The gray pallor of his skin…just like Daddy. “Ho-how long?”

“Not long enough, I’m afraid. I won’t be here for the final showdown.” The doctor squared his shoulders. “Now that’s enough revelations for one meal.” He crooked his arm. “How about a walk outside? Like to visit Henry. Hear he’s still laying at least one egg a day.”

I threaded my arm through his. “That he is.” He was so frail now, a bare whisper of a man. I forced a smile as we walked outside, greeted by the late-afternoon sunshine.

The day waned outside the windows and the white Texas sky deepened to a dark blue as an orange sunset ignited the western horizon before it faded away. I sat out a long while on our balcony, my gaze fixed on the vault of heaven. The stars came out, a few winking into existence at first, to become whole clusters of glittering light. Every time I witnessed that spectacle I would remember Deven Michaels. He had chosen the stars. I always wondered if he ever found them.

The moon rose in the east. Its bright glow devoured the night. It was past ten and Jason still hadn’t come back to our room. I went inside, peeled off my shirt and pants, climbed in bed, and lay on my back. The overhead fan whirred above me. The air ran over my bare skin. It reminded me of early summers at home with our windows open and a rainstorm cooling the world outside our house. I closed my eyes and fell into a fitful sleep. Dreams. Nightmares. Flashes of eastern cities in ruins, death, hardship…so much of what I’d experienced and what I could only fear had become worse.

I woke with a start, tangled in the bedclothes, my face damp with tears. The fan still spun overhead in lazy circles, and I was still alone in our bed. I heard the sound of coyotes yipping to one another over the muffled hum of the fan. They must have had a kill by the way they were carrying on.

One of our horses whinnied. I got up, tugged on my bathrobe, and walked to the balcony. The moon washed the landscape with a steely blue light. With my gaze fixed in the direction of the stables, I could just make out a lonely figure seated atop one of our horses. More a shadow at that distance, whoever it was rode that mount around and back in the arena, putting the animal through her paces. I hurriedly dressed, pulling on one of Jason’s T-shirts, my jeans, and boots. The house was quiet as I stole my way downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door. I could see it was Jason even before I closed the distance. The hoofs of the mare he rode struck the hard earth, sending up dust that looked like wisps of smoke in the moonlight.

I came to the railing, my hands resting on the topmost bar as I watched my husband ride. One more turn around the arena, the horse loping with long, easy strides. When Jason saw me, he pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse to a standstill. “Beck.”

“Poole.”

He hung his head a moment, then looked toward the hills dusted with that eerie light. “My dad died out there,” he said, one hand atop the horn of his saddle, the other resting on his knee.

“You never said anything about your father.”

He adjusted his weight, shifting to one side, then back to the other as if he were no longer comfortable on that perch. “He died right over there,” Jason said, pointing to some distant spot. “Feds had been taking our land for years. Piece by piece. Bit by bit. Habitat for this son of a bitch frog or that Godforsaken lizard. You remember me telling you our family used to lay claim to over five hundred acres. Ran cattle over those hills. But with no cooperation from the Feds, and down to less than ten acres, we had to start raising goats.” He clicked his tongue. “Damn. I sure as hell hated those goats.”

I climbed over the fence and walked to him, stopping next to the horse to look up at my husband.

The mare snorted and pawed at the ground as if she wanted to shoo me away and start prancing around again. Jason tugged on the reins. “Easy, girl. Easy.” He set back his shoulders as he looked at that distant point once more. “My father had a heart attack out there. Dropped dead at the none-too-ripe age of forty. I was only eight.”

“I’m so sorry, Jason.”

“And I’m sorry, too, Honey Beck.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Sorry we didn’t get one minute of normal together. An easy Sunday afternoon. A ride in the hills. One minute of peace. We didn’t get any of it. Just fighting to gain something back what so few of us even remember possessing. They whittled it away just like they did with this land. Stealing our freedom piece by piece. Bit by bit.”

He looked down at me, his voice a hoarse whisper as he said, “I want to bury them here.”

“Jason?”

“My folks. Want them buried on this land.” He snorted. “Suppose that would make you hate this place even more.”

I rested my hand on his knee, my fingertips touching his, wanting him to feel me there, close. “Jason, I don’t hate this place. I never did. I just…well, you’re my family.” I swallowed. “You’re my home.”

A few silent moments. Again, a deep sigh as he held out his hand. “I sure have missed you, Beck.”

I squeezed his hand. “You promised to teach me to ride.”

“That I did.” He slid back on the saddle. “Climb on up here and I’ll teach you, my darlin’ Bay State gal.”

CHAPTER 26

Dr. Andrews collapsed early the next day. Hospitalized in Fredericksburg, he was not expected to recover. He didn’t get to share in the celebration of new life. Christina had her scheduled C-section the same morning. As we welcomed Vera Margarete Hernandez to the family, I knew I’d have to bid someone else farewell.

After visiting my hours-old niece near sunset, I slipped away and located the cancer ward. Given his own room, Andrews lay in bed, face turned to the window while instrumentation clicked and beeped as it measured his fading life. It reminded me of Mother in the sick bay at Hadley. Standing in the doorway, I ran my hand along the jamb, considering retreat. As if he sensed my presence, Andrews turned to look at me.

I stepped into the room and came up beside his bed. His face had become even paler, his breathing choked and hesitant. Dr. Daniel Gilford Andrews was shutting down.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“I just came to wish you well.”

“Please.”

I sat on the chair next to the bed.

“I’m okay,” he said, then chuckled. “Well, not okay like ‘getting better.’ But I’m okay. You understand, Rebecca?”

I hesitated a moment, then nodded.

He settled into the solitary pillow. “No regrets. Well, no regrets besides Mags.” He let out a sigh. “Hopefully I’ve made amends.” He shrugged. “Then again, maybe not.” He sucked in another deep breath and sighed once more. “I stopped looking for forgiveness years ago.”

His gaze fixed on me, eyes locked, nearly pleading. “I’m not afraid of hell, Rebecca. Not of the pain. Not of anything except…nothing.” He paused, lips pinched, brow creased. “What if there’s nothing? Just nothing? It scares me. That one thought. An empty eternity.”

I leaned forward and whispered a cherished secret, “You have to trust me on this, Daniel. I haven’t told anyone, not even Jason. There’s so much. Trust me. They’re waiting.”

His eyes widened.

I nodded, gaze still locked with his.

A moment slipped by, then another before a wan smile played across his ashen face. He patted my hand and turned once more to stare out the window, searching not for redemption but for something beyond the sunset.

At end of the week, we were ready to board the helo. I stood beside Jason, absorbing the melted sunshine traveling on those lazy currents. I tried to hold fast and keep it so I could bring the breath of Texas with me. After that last week I’d spent with Jason there, I knew this place would always be my home.

David cooed and awed over his baby girl. He held her one last time and placed a light kiss atop her head. A week really wasn’t long enough for a father to become acquainted with his newborn, to discover the small details of this special person who had come into his world. I could see it on David’s face. Like me, he wanted to hold onto that moment.

Tina motioned us over, the uncle and aunt. My husband gently stroked the baby’s cheek with the back of his hand. It was that quiet gesture that always demonstrated his affection.

Then it came my turn. I removed my Raggedy Ann doll from the duffle bag slung over my shoulder. “For Vera Margarete.”

Christina shook her head. “Keep it for your own little girl.”

I held it out to her.

Tina finally took the doll as her deep brown eyes glossed over with tears. “She’ll love it just as much as you did.”

I kissed my sister and whispered, “God, please keep them safe.”

“Don’t worry about us, Rib,” she whispered back in my ear. “I’m not Tiny anymore.”

Our gazes locked. Christina was no longer my baby sister and I was going off to war.

We were back at Icecap in Vermont. I cherished the small space of time I had traveling to the underground bunker, looking at the maples and sycamores green with life, their leaves chattering whenever the wind blew. The smell earthy, rich, heavenly, and so different from Texas and its famished hills. I got only a few moments under the trees before we descended into the Control Center of the rebellion.

Icecap had expanded over the three and half years since the war started. It outgrew the nexus my mother and the local militia had built. A section had been added just for the manufacture of ordnance where 3D printers ran continuously. Another area was given over to the development of new weaponry, still another to a war room with state-of-the-art instrumentation, and finally, suitable quarters for the personnel stationed there.

As I walked along the corridor, the clack of my boots echoed against the concrete flooring, making for the only sound in that long passageway. Maybe this would be the end of all the needless human misery. Just maybe it would be over and we could live free. No one was in the war room when I walked through the door and took my place at the large tact table. It was counter height and made of slick stainless steel. It seemed larger than I remembered from five months ago. I put my hands flat against the cold metal, knowing it would soon be alight with images of a world in bondage.

A few officers entered, then Jason and David, who had been occupied with inspections that morning. The entry door clicked shut as one of the techs initialized the map. A 3D image of DC flickered to life and soon covered the whole tabletop. My hands slipped off it and came to my sides.

So much of the capital had fallen into disrepair since I’d last viewed the map. The Washington Monument had splintered along cracks supposedly mended years ago. The peak had broken off; pieces of it were missing, much like the other markers that once were cherished bits of history. Either they were in shambles or outright cannibalized to be used to reinforce buildings. DC had become an armed camp with its perimeter secured and booby-trapped.

“Shit,” Jason said, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at the map. “You sure Charon’s useless?”

“They have civvies at every strategic position.”

The tech enhanced the image. Countless red dots marked individual civilians concentrated around the capital building, White House, and every important target. The Feds had been using human shields for years. But from what I could see now, it seemed as if they’d emptied the surrounding area and pulled whoever they could lay hands on into the city precinct. If we deployed Charon, civilians would be the bulk of the casualties with the second wave. And to just temporarily disable the defensive weapons without using the bio field wouldn’t give us enough time to get a foothold.

“Conventional?”

“The same,” one tactician said. “Missiles. Air strikes. Flying blind with their scramblers functional. Still have a tight shield over the cities. DC and the major centers.”

“Reports from the underground?” Jason asked.

“Spotty,” Stewart, the officer in charge of covert actions, answered. “At least eight of our operatives were executed in Southern Florida. More in Michigan. It’s making it increasingly difficult to organize the militias. In Ohio, they’ve been nearly eradicated.”

“Nearly,” Jason said. “But not completely?”

“No. We still have contact with units around Dayton and Point Pleasant. A few other holdouts. Mostly everyone’s been driven into the cities and screened.”

“Still weeding out the chaff,” Jason muttered.

“We have to launch now. Or lose even more ground,” David advised.

My husband took in a deep breath. “Then it’s now.”

“Through here,” David began, using a lighter, a small device that controlled the map image. He switched to a satellite view of the entire region, also in 3D and filling the whole tabletop. “From the Chesapeake.” A red arrow appeared. “That’s the entry point. Past the prowlers they have scouting the coast.”

“We could pinch their feed,” the tech suggested. “Give them false recon.”

“From air and sea,” someone else piped in. “Scramble from the flattops outside their scoping.”

“Air, sea, and land across through Salisbury. Part of our forces will come over the Chesapeake. Others sweeping north. While every one of them convergence on DC,” David went on, that red arrow split, then increasing in length and breadth as it became one arrow pointing at the heart of the capital.

“And if they’re trapped?” I said, pointing. “Maryland. Virginia. If the Feds cut the entry route, our forces have no retreat eastward.”

David tipped his head to one side as if in thought. “That’s why we have to drain them of resources. Mount whatever insurrections we can muster across their territory.”

“We have good intel in Pennsylvania,” another advisor said. “And we’ve been supplying the rebels there. Have a fair chance of punching holes in their defenses.”

“Same with West Virginia,” still another officer spoke up.

Again, Jason rubbed the back of his neck, a tic he’d developed when under extreme pressure. “The Carolinas?”

“North Carolina is ready to explode on the Feds,” the same officer in charge of covert actions answered. “South Carolina’s iffy. But we do have people there, and supplies.”

“Virginia?”

The man shook his head. “Hard to get a beat there. The Feds have wiped out large numbers of people, those who wouldn’t submit to being rounded up and shipped into the cities. They’ve been systematic. There are still holdouts, like in Ohio, but not that many of them can give us support.”

“Set it,” Jason ordered. “Tactical at 0800 hours. Twenty-four-hour lead from there.” He waved his hand, then pressed his palm flat against his forehead as if in pain. “Dismissed.” With that, my husband turned and left the room. I waited to go after him, not wanting anyone else to see what I sensed. Something was terribly wrong.

After a few moments, I made my way down a passage and stepped into our quarters. The door closed behind me.

“Beck,” my husband said with his back to me. He sat on the edge of our bed, facing the wall, an echoed memory of that time when I found him like this after Lois Bradley’s son had been killed, a casualty of Charon’s power. Jason had been all alone then, locked in a private confrontation with himself.

Our quarters at Icecap were larger than the small room we were first given after abandoning Hadley, but not by much. It sported a queen-sized bed that took up most of the space, and two foot lockers tucked in separate corners. The walls were painted off-white, and the floors cold, stone-gray concrete. It had a few luxuries—private bath, the rug I managed to find in an abandoned warehouse, thick Persian, done up in a colorful weave of reds and oranges. It had afforded us some warmth through the two long Vermont winters we had shared here. And there was a small refrigerator opposite the bed.

I sat next to Jason. Head hung, he had his elbows planted on his legs. I waited for him to speak. A weariness seemed to have overtaken him, almost as if some unbearable weight had been placed on his back and now crushed his soul.

He looked up, staring straight ahead at the wall, his voice hoarse as he said, “Maybe it’ll be over.” He let out a groan and hung his head again.

“It’s been worse, Jason.”

“Hell, yeah,” he grunted as he got to his feet.

“Headache?”

“No. Not yet anyway.” Jason went to the refrigerator. I thought he would get himself a cold beer, something his aides always made certain was kept in supply. Instead, he grabbed the solitary bottle of Scotch perched on top of the refrigerator and poured himself a drink into one of the cups kept on a shelf above it. I could smell the alcohol over the musty scent of that room. Jason downed nearly half the glass before he stopped to take a breath. The last time he’d had hard liquor was when we’d fought our private war in Texas, and then he’d had only a few quick swallows. He never drank hard liquor before battle, certainly not before a major one like the confrontation we would soon face.

“What is it?” I finally asked.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, pausing with an arm held to his face, eyes staring blankly for a moment. The lines around them seemed even deeper, almost as if they’d been carved by a knife. Jason set down the glass. “Been thinking, Beck. Been remembering that night before we used Charon to really give the Feds a punch. Talking about the Enola Gay. Making the call. You remember?”

“Of course I do.” I could never forget that night.

“Well, I’ve made the calls and now I’m wondering about what your mother said to me that morning in the old farmhouse. How her group had analyzed my character. The good and the bad. Pegged and holed me pretty good.”

“That was her job,” I mumbled, then cleared my throat. “Hers and Andrews.”

“From me to those DHS agents trained to eliminate the rabble, they sure knew how to pick them.” He reached for the glass again.

“What are you getting at, Poole?”

“It’s me, Beck,” he answered, his tone nearly remorseful. He took a place on the bed once more, leaving his drink unfinished atop the refrigerator. “It’s just me.” Again, he balanced his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together. “It’s tallying up all the mistakes I made with those calls. In my life. In this war. Thinking of every turn I took and maybe thinking I should have turned different.”

“You did your best,” I tried, knowing I was giving him empty reassurance. Something ate at Jason, something deep.

“Sure.” He shrugged and stared at the blank wall as if he could see beyond it. “If we do make it into DC, it won’t be the first time I’d been there. In high school. Government civics class. How to be a good and productive citizen. I flunked it. Never could keep my mouth shut.”

I chuckled, then willed myself to keep my own mouth shut now.

“Yeah, Beck, I haven’t changed much, right?” He shook his head. “Well, I flunked. And that bitch of a teacher threatened to make sure I’d be slotted in the lowest job she could recommend. Track me real low because I was obviously unfit.” He snorted. “Maybe that teacher was right.”

“I’d say she was dead wrong.”

“Sure. That’s what you’d say.” He groaned. “My mama thought like you. She scraped together some cash. Hard-won and working herself stupid. We took a trip to DC. Saw the Constitution. Visited the Jefferson Memorial. And every one of those war monuments out on the mall. Even went out to Mount Vernon. And all the while I’m thinking these were better people than me. Thinking it didn’t matter. Not where I was headed, to the lowest job that ornery teacher could get cemented into my record. Didn’t matter at all because I wasn’t nearly half the person as any one of those people remembered in stone.”

Now I understood what tormented him. It wasn’t worry over the battle. If we won in the end, he would be leading us forward. Repairing a broken nation. Helping a beaten people find purpose. He couldn’t see in that moment that he was the catalyst for a reawakening. That every one of those monuments he saw a long time ago made of stone were dedicated to flawed, imperfect people who had done the right thing when their moment came.

I leaned up against Jason, my head resting on his shoulder now. Could I really give my husband what he craved, the reassurance that he would continue to find the best in himself when pressed? Words seemed like an empty currency in that moment. He had been asked to find his better self a hundred or more times since that first morning when he’d walked into our diner. And sometimes he’d failed; other times he had surely soared. And there would be more of those moments on which fate pivots, where the highest stakes could be won or lost. I took his hand in mine. He squeezed tight and held fast. That one moment on which all of life would balance would come soon enough.

CHAPTER 27

Shoulders hunched, head bent, I scrambled forward and pulled myself up into the sand cat, a small armored vehicle more like an old-style SUV that could be blown to hell and survive. We were falling back from the hotwire surrounding DC. Two months were wasted trying to push across that spit of Maryland dividing the Chesapeake Bay from the gray Atlantic. Two months of igniting insurrections in what we called the captive states. We had losses, great and bitter defeats, executions carried out en masse, extreme brutality from the old regime against anyone caught siding with us. But that regime had frayed around the edges, and Pennsylvania was nearly free. The DHS had been wiped away in huge pockets there. Virginians, fighting hard, were just beginning to break the Feds’ hold on their state. So we had pushed forward, slogging through the abandoned farmlands of Maryland, using scramblers to conceal our advance. Every once in a while our troops were taken down by a tripped explosive. As primitive as they were, those IED’s were as deadly now as they were in the Iraq War years ago. So now we were falling back, taking time to regroup and rearm. The sand cat was accompanied by a small convoy, two other vehicles. Jason wasn’t with us and would be with the last of our forces to retreat from our forward bunker. Fed prowlers, the large drones armed to the hilt, zipped overhead in formation, then fanned out to scout the area. They couldn’t see us, not with our mobile shields disrupting their scans, but every now and then a huge explosion pitted the countryside in the hopes they would take one of us out.

“Where the hell are you, Beck?” my husband yelled.

I tapped my helmet, hoping to turn down the volume before he broke my eardrums. “Friendly,” I answered. We were just inside that Maryland town with its red brick homes long abandoned, their green shutters dangling by broken hinges.

“Where?” he barked.

“Friendly!” I screeched, just before the road blew in front of us.

More explosions came from behind us as my driver slammed on the brakes. But he couldn’t stop the cat in time. It nosedived into the gaping hole in front of us, deep and wide and created by the blast. The vehicle hit bottom and flipped upside down, crushing the roof. A metallic scent, copper…I knew it all too well by then. The wreck made it difficult to move.

“Mason!” I yelled into my com. “Mason, you read?”

I barely managed to turn my head in his direction. The driver’s side had crumpled. Blood, there was too much blood. The man must have died instantly. I broke out of my seat harness and found the passenger side window jammed. No power, no way to manually take it down. Pressing up against the window, I saw there was just enough room. I unlocked the door, lay on my back, and kicked both boot-clad feet against it. The door gave a little, then a little more, until I had just enough room to wriggle out of the cat.

I stopped midway, my head spinning. I’d had bouts of dizziness lately, twitching rounds of nausea, but this was so much worse. Concussion? Not sure. I sucked in large swallows of air in an attempt to keep down my morning rations. It took a few moments to feel better before I had the wherewithal to make it through the narrow opening and start to claw my way out of the blast crater.

More explosions overhead. I tried to get the helmet vid online. Dead. Nothing functioning. The com was down and I was cut off. It must have been damaged in the crash. I managed to remove the useless gear and drop it. Using the wrecked cat as a wedge, I hefted myself upward. With my fingers grasping the hole’s ragged edge, I stopped and listened. Nothing but silence up top. Not even the rumble of an engine now. What happened to the convoy? It must have been hit.

My heart thudded. Was I alone? Out here unprotected? I looked down at the ruined cat. Even with some of it concealed by shadows, I saw there was no way of salvaging anything from the wreck. I waited several moments, listening hard. Jason had been traveling behind us, somewhere close as we retreated from our forward base.

“Pulling out now is just a small setback,” he’d told me.

I had closed my eyes and grumbled under my breath, “Sure.”

Now, I peeled my fingers away from the edge of the hole, intent on waiting it out while being concealed inside the blast crater. I started to lower myself atop the wreckage.

“Halt!” someone shouted.

I froze at the sound of clicks, people chambering a round, shotguns, maybe other arms. I looked up and saw a stone-blue sky empty of prowlers, nothing but four silhouettes, all with their weapons pointing at me.

“Out!” came the order.

I pushed my way up, landing flat on my stomach, face down when I finally made it to the street.

“Get on your fucking feet. Hands up,” a woman’s voice demanded.

I got to my knees and rose slowly, hands held high.

“Shit!” the woman snapped.

I blinked several times, not sure if I recognized her at first. “Lois Bradley?”

“This is Commander Poole’s wife,” my former Farmsworth neighbor told her companions.

The three men with her looked at Bradley, then back at me. “We thought you were Fed,” one of them said.

“They’ve been doing random strikes since Poole started advancing on DC,” Lois explained. She pointed her rifle toward the blast crater. “Nothing we have could make a dent like that. Prowler strike.” She pointed. “They hit those two behind you.” I looked at the smoldering wreckage. Unrecognizable. “We couldn’t be sure if they hit one of their own.”

The woman had changed in the years since I’d last seen her at the Battle of Boston. Bradley’s blonde hair had grown long. She wore it down in wild tangles. Skin tanned, her arms showed evidence of just how toned she’d become, most likely from wielding that rifle. Her features were no longer soft and gentle, but hardened, her eyes reflecting a deep bitterness.

A high-pitched alarm sounded. One of the men looked at the small device strapped to his wrist, then his tone was crisp as he yelled, “Incoming!”

“Move!” Lois ordered as she latched onto my hand. We made a dash for what looked to be an open manhole. She shoved me toward it. “Down!”

I grabbed the ladder’s rusted rungs. Down I went into the darkness. Lois and the three men followed. The space directly under the open manhole was large enough for all of us to stand erect. On either side was a storm sewer, less than five feet in diameter each way. One of the men had a flash. The beam shot out from the tip of his finger as he pointed it. The light briefly illuminated what looked to be a cave-in. I realized what it was, the spot where the cat had crashed through after the prowler strike.

He swung the light to the other side, illuminating our only escape route just as an explosion rocked the ground above us. We hurried through the undamaged pipe, hunched over. That beam of light, focused ahead, showed us the way. Our boots splashed in the thin river of water running through the pipe, soaking our footwear. It smelled rancid, and the walls were covered with slime and muck. The stench choked me and made my stomach churn.

We moved forward, quickly, making several turns, and we went through a broken area in the pipe, squeezing ourselves out. A tunnel, dug through the red earth of Maryland. Sandy in places, clay in others, that tunnel was reinforced with roughly hewn timber and wooden planks. It didn’t look all that stable. Maybe it was the crash, the hurried retreat, I felt so weak, so lightheaded. Thinking I would pass out, I bent over, trying to get the blood to rush to my head.

“Move!” Bradley snarled.

I snapped up, straight, nodded, and forced myself to do just that.

After a long trek, I finally saw a wink of light, a blessed promise of some way out of there. As the tunnel inclined upward, fresh air wafted by with the kiss of a late summer breeze, close, so very close. We made our exit into a densely forested area. The arching canopies of trees allowed splashes of sunshine to dapple the forest floor. I took in a deep breath and let it sink down, delighting in the sweet fragrance of living greenery.

There was a small encampment, more functional and set up to break down quickly if necessity demanded a hasty retreat. With Bradley’s contingent, there must have been thirty people, maybe a few more, including children.

“You!” Lois yelled to one of the older boys. He turned toward us. “Take the newbie over to Johnson.”

“Me?” I asked.

“Not you. The newbie.” She pointed to one of the three men who’d made it through the tunnel with us. “We salvaged him from DC.”

The boy motioned for the newbie to follow him. “And bring us something to eat,” Lois dictated.

The boy stopped, looked over his shoulder, his dirty brow creased.

“Do it!” Bradley growled. “Now!”

The young teen rushed away with the newbie close behind.

Lois motioned for me to follow her. We went to a makeshift lean-to, nothing more than dark fabric draped atop some branches stuck into the ground, and beneath it a bedroll. “My quarters, Mrs. Poole.”

“It’s Rebecca.”

Her countenance finally softened, shaded with a certain melancholy. “I remember. Beck for short. My son was still…” She shrugged and shook her head as if setting aside a painful memory.

The boy came back with a tin of tuna fish. I took it and said, “Thanks.”

Without a word, he turned heel and ran away.

“That’s the best we have,” Lois said as she unfurled the bedroll.

I nodded, acknowledging their gift of hospitality.

We sat. She popped open the can of tuna and held it to me. “Bon appétit.”

I scooped out some with my fingers. “Was a great year for tuna.” I savored it and smacked my lips. “Perfect blend of mercury and oil.”

She laughed, but it was more a gruff chuckle than anything close to being amused.

“You all part of the underground?” I asked.

“Part,” Lois answered, helping herself to the tuna. “Well, my part.” She cocked her head toward the encampment. “My unit. Such as it is.”

“You been out here since the Battle of Boston?”

“No. Not even by half. Only six months, maybe a little more.” She tipped up her chin, looking at the tree canopies a moment before continuing. “Lost track. Before then, I was with the resistance until they caged me.”

I stopped licking my fingers and looked at her, silent. She’d been captured by the enemy.

Lois shrugged again and helped herself to more tuna. “For over a year. In DC. Toiling away…in bed.” Her toughened features grew even harder, jaw flexing. “That’s what I did to survive. Government-issue slut. Lying on my back and letting them have at it.”

My mouth went dry. At that moment, I wished I had something to wash down the tuna. “What did you have to do to get them to set you free?”

“No one gave me a pass-through, if that’s what you’re inferring.”

No one’s gotten out of DC in years. Unless they had a pass-through from the Feds. And those were given only to insiders, not government-issue sluts.

Bradley scooped out some more tuna. “You think I’m a Fed plant?”

“No.”

“Come on, Beck, easy to guess what’s running through your head. You haven’t learned to hide your feelings like I have.”

I almost laughed at that remark, almost—but I was smart enough to keep myself in check. Her feelings were displayed in every cell of her body.

“Trust me on this one. If I could, I’d blow every last one of those bastards to hell.” Lois chuckled again, without humor and laced with acid. “No, I got out through the underground. Same as everyone in my unit. Been slipping people past the wire for months. Which, as you can tell by how many we got here, hasn’t been all that often.”

“I don’t understand. There’s no way in or out of the city unless it’s through the checkpoints. We haven’t been able to punch through their defenses.”

“When I said ‘underground,’ I meant it.” She raised an eyebrow. “The way in and out is all under the ground.”

CHAPTER 28

Lois led me back to the crash site and from there I gave her a coded frequency to raise our nearest base. Within minutes, they dispatched a helo and we were soon airborne. I looked out the window as we raced over fallow farmland and had a fair idea where we were headed. I cocked my head to Lois seated next to me to ask if she’d ever been on a flattop. That hard crust of a woman was chewing her fingernails, biting off slivers and spitting them out.

“You afraid of something?” I asked.

“Never flew anywhere.”

I looked out the window again just as we zipped past the shoreline. We were definitely headed to the USS Liberty, stationed off the coast. As we hovered over the flattop, Bradley pushed back in her seat and tugged on the harness strapping her down.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her, suppressing a smile. “They hardly ever miss the deck.”

She swallowed hard.

After the helo set down, one of the crew swung the door wide. I got out of my seat and waited by the opening for the blades to slow to a stop. The scent of the ocean, the wash of salty air, smelled like heaven after my crawl through that pipe. I spotted my husband, hunched down and minding his head as he made a dash toward the helo. In moments, he had his arms around me, a quick strong hug and a whisper in my ear, “Damn it, Beck, this is why I didn’t want you to leave Texas.”

I gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “You son of a bitch, you’re going to be thanking God I am here.”

He gave me a quizzical look. Then his expression changed, eyes widening, mouth slightly agape. I turned to see what he was staring at, and it was Lois Bradley standing behind me.

“You remember me, Commander?” she asked.

“I do,” he answered, his voice a rumbling whisper. “Inflicted the first casualty and—”

I squeezed his hand to stop him.

“And?” Bradley prodded, an eyebrow arching.

“And Beck’s neighbor,” he said.

She dipped her head slightly.

“Thanks for saving my wife.”

She dipped her head again.

“And thank God,” he added as his gaze latched onto me.

“Yes, thank God, smart ass.” I stepped back and swept my hand toward the woman behind me. “Lois Bradley is going to give you the keys to the city.”

We settled into the Command Center, a conference room of sorts that served the Liberty’s officers when they discussed strategy. It was larger than most of the spaces onboard, with better decor, a polished wood floor, and light tan and blue walls. Lining the walls were vid screens and instrumentation, all placed at eye level if one were seated. In the center of the room was a smaller version of the tact table at Icecap. For now, it remained a blank surface as we took our seats around it.

Bradley settled into a padded swivel chair as my husband leaned on the table, his gaze squarely on her. David was the only other person in the closed room besides me, his face reflecting puzzlement at having been summoned out of a meeting in the ready room.

“So where are these keys to the city?” Jason asked.

“Underground,” Bradley answered, her tone cool despite his intense scrutiny.

“There’s no way underground,” David said. “All the old Metro tunnels have been blown. The storm sewers, too. Sewage is treated onsite. Stormwater held in cisterns.”

“Not all of the system, General,” she said, addressing David by his rank. “There’s one route that was kept open.”

“Not possible,” Jason said, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Everything’s been scanned.”

“Still there is a way, Commander. Ask your wife.”

Both Jason and David looked at me. “I know there’s some kind of passage. How far it goes, I’ve no idea.”

“But I do,” Lois said, speaking directly to Jason. “It runs all the way through the city. Two of my men along with me were escorting a salvage out of DC when your wife almost fell on us.”

“A prowler strike,” I explained. “It blasted the street and caused a crater right in front of us. We couldn’t stop.”

“That’s what forced my party above ground,” Lois explained. “We saw someone trying to get out of that crater and thought it may be the enemy. You can see how it turned out.”

“I can see,” Jason conceded. “And I hope you know how grateful I am. But are you telling me the Feds left an open route? For escape?”

“Yes.”

“And where does it terminate?” Jason asked.

“The capital building. It’s shielded all the way through the city. That’s why you couldn’t detect it.”

“How do you get into it?”

“There are several entry points along the route. You just have to know the right codes to gain access.”

“And there’s the problem.” Jason leaned forward again. “How would anyone who doesn’t have high-level clearance know them?” For the second time, Lois seemed uncomfortable, and we weren’t taking off in a helo. She looked at the table, chewed her lower lip, and tried clearing her throat, but she remained mute. “You have an answer for me or not?” Jason demanded.

Another uncomfortable moment, then a timid nod. “I did rank pretty high. But not as an elite. They sought me out. Real good at my work. I whored for them, Commander.” She straightened her back in an attempt to sit tall. “There was one. He was my customer. No one else’s. A senator. Older. Much older than me. He never wanted anything but to talk. He…” She shook her head, eyes glittering with tears. “He just talked. First about his son. A little boy just like mine. He died a long time ago. Then his wife died shortly after that. This man was all alone. Isolated. And in all his loneliness, he confided in me. Confessed. Sorry. He kept saying it. How sorry he was. Told me over the months. Every few days when he would visit the club. And pay. And never touch me. In my room he’d say—‘sorry.’ And finally…on one of those days, he told me about the escape route. And he gave me a dot.”

She dug into her pants pocket. With her palm up, she lay her hand atop the table and uncurled her fingers. Cradled in it was a small case. She opened it to reveal its contents. “This one, Commander.” Inside was a small black circle, a data dot. “The underground route is on it. Along with codes and access points. He gave it to me so I could get out. ‘Leave DC,’ he said. ‘Be free. That they would all get their ‘well-deserved death sentences.’ Then he gave me a kiss on the forehead. Like a friend. Like a father. He left and I never saw him again. I heard he carried out his own sentence, and took a gun to his head.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. I went to put my hand on her shoulder to offer comfort. Bradley flinched, shooing me away, that small box and the black circle inside it held out as an offering.

Jason finally took it. “David, pass the order to stand down and call in the techs. We’ve got a lot to do.”

The afternoon had given way to a long evening. I needed some fresh air and wanted to leave the confines of the Command Center crammed with officers. Forgoing the elevator, I walked up the flight of stairs to stretch my legs and went outside. It was the only place on the flattop with railings, sheets of gun-gray metal. The carrier’s island housed the flag bridge, bridge, and primary flight, and at its bottom, the Command Center. Located on the ship’s starboard side, the island grew out of the deck and was in function and design like a land-based air traffic control tower.

I leaned against the railing and looked below at the jets secured with down chains. After a few moments, I lifted my gaze and focused on the endless sea. A full moon lay close to the horizon, its light scattered across the water, momentarily igniting the tops of choppy waves with sparks of restless brilliance.

In the Command Center, the 3D image of DC—the capitol and White House, all the avenues and open spaces, a city recreated in miniature—had filled the length and breadth of the tact table. And now Lois’s information had been added. Along with the decaying buildings and faltering monuments, underground burrows were displayed beneath Washington as blue strands, remnants of the Metro, the old congressional subway between government buildings, along with storm sewers, cannibalized to create an escape route if an order to evacuate was called. Finishing off the hologram’s latest edition were bright red dots marking strategic points of entry along the tunnels.

I inhaled the rich salty air, squeezing my eyes shut. Every bit of me was so incredibly weary. In that moment, it felt as if I’d been born at war. I looked out again just as another hot flash shot through me. With sweat beading on my forehead, I peeled off my old Harvard sweatshirt. A relic now, it was nearly worn through in places. I tied it around my waist. The thin fabric of my sleeveless cotton blouse gave me some relief, along with the feel of the railings’ cold steel against the flesh of my bare arms. The night was so different out here beyond the shoreline. Lonely, with just the sounds of the ship, thrumming machinery, and the empty sea.

“Beck.”

Startled, I clutched the railing.

“Don’t jump overboard,” Lois said as she slipped beside me, leaning against the railing. Her gaze set on the rising moon, her voice a hushed whisper as she breathed, “Look at that.”

A breeze blew through her hair, caused wisps of gold to dance. In that moment, she reminded me of Tina, the way the streetlight streaming through our frosted window caught in my sister’s hair that night before it had all begun, the night before we had drawn a line and said we’d had enough.

“You remember that last Fourth of July in Farmsworth?” Lois asked, her voice more a faint echo than a soft mummer now.

“Yes,” I answered. I did. That Fourth of July, we had all celebrated in the town square, with the last of the sparklers and fireworks, that summer before it had all disappeared.

“We’d just moved to town. My husband and my”—she swallowed—“little boy. It was our first big celebration. Everybody was so friendly.” A faint smile curled her mouth. “Welcoming us to town.”

“I remember,” I said, my voice dropping nearly as low as hers. My father had just been diagnosed but we’d gone to the town’s square like we’d gone every Fourth of July since we’d moved to Farmsworth. “It was a good day.”

“The best.” She tipped up her chin, her eyes set on the vault of heaven. “He laughed. Our little boy. I thought the fireworks would scare him.” She slowly lowered her head, dipping it to the side. “He was just a baby. All the noise, all the strangers there, but nothing scared him. Maybe it would have been better if things had. Maybe.”

“I remember how hot it was that day,” I offered. “How the fireflies were all around us that night, even before they started the show.”

“You know, there were fireflies the night I told my husband we were expecting. Upstate New York. We lived in the most beautiful place. Long green grass. Flowers in the spring. And in the summer, a lot of fireflies, especially that summer night. We were so happy. We turned up the music and danced on the patio. Had an old homestead overlooking the Adirondacks. No one had been allowed to build there in years. And the Feds eventually ordered us off. The president signed an executive order designating the area part of a national monument. That’s when we moved to Farmsworth.”

She turned her back to the railing and crossed her arms over her chest. “And you? Suppose you and the commander didn’t get a chance to dance.”

“Meaning?”

“Come on, Beck.”

I knew exactly what she meant. It had been a shadow dogging me for weeks. “No, we didn’t have a chance.”

Lois was silent a long moment. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure.”

“Easy to find out now. The truth is, you didn’t want to know.”

I hesitated a moment, then nodded. “He’d have sent me back to Texas.”

“To keep you safe,” she grumbled. “Charon.”

My back stiffened.

“That’s right,” she said. “I figured it out a long time ago. My son died the first time Poole ordered the weapon deployed.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“It’s war,” she spat. “Two of the saddest days of my life…always when the sky was red. My husband died of cancer. Damn, he went so fast. Died right at sunset. The sky filled with this hot bright light. It was the end of summer that second year after we’d moved to Farmsworth. And that light when my son…red…”

She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then stood erect, pushing herself away from the railing. “I’d rather remember the two best days in my life. When I told my husband I was pregnant. And that Fourth of July. There were fireflies both of those nights. Imagine that.” Her eyes grew distant, then latched onto me again. “It’ll make the commander so happy when you do tell him.” She squared her shoulders. “And maybe you’ll be lucky enough to see fireflies.”

She walked away, leaving me alone. I looked out to the sea again. There was nothing but the moonlight skipping on the waves, and a quiet wish…to see fireflies again and to find a way to tell my husband we were expecting…and not be sent away.

CHAPTER 29

Just the garage of the house remained standing. That’s where we set up with a small team under my command. It was the same team I’d led for a year before going on my temporary exile to Texas. Four techs, John Miller our lead, and two enlisteds acting as my bodyguard, we’d developed an expertise in providing backup for sensitive missions. So there I was in the town of Friendly Maryland again, near the spot where the sand cat in which I’d traveled had crashed. According to Bradley, it was a good place to access the DC tunnel system. So we’d made base and were tracking the squad tasked with punching a hole in DC’s defense line. Not a large hole, but just big enough to push through a surgical strike force under David’s direction aimed at their main command center. Hit that and the whole outer shield would fall, along with their defensive drones.

Lois and I sat side by side on piles of scrap wood. With the coms behind our ears and the floating monitor before us, we could hear and see everything. Ten sets of images from the squad’s cams fed into that monitor. We enhanced one at a time, trying to find the best angle as the squad advanced. After a two-hour stretch, they made it through the tunnel and emerged in what looked like an old Metro stop. The team crossed the tracks and heaved themselves onto the platform. Thin sheets of chipped plastic decorated the concrete wall opposite the tracks, old ad screens that once touted a host of products, relics from a time of abundance.

“Up the escalator to your left,” Lois said, her voice coming over the com. She knew this particular urban landscape better than anyone.

Ten in all, the squad had eight crack troops and two of our best techs. They heeded Lois and filed up the escalator, a metal staircase frozen in place, its steps dulled with disuse. The squad entered a cavernous space of the Metro station. The crowds of commuters were long vanished, the ticket and food kiosks abandoned. There was a vaulted ceiling with what looked to be some kind of fanciful mural, a marble floor littered with dried leaves from endless autumns, and street debris blown in through broken windows that had once lined the entrance.

“North through the passage,” Lois said. “Connects to the office building.”

Gunfire. I heard it coming through the com. My breath caught, eyes focused as I yelled, “Report!”

“Under fire,” came the advisement.

I punched an image, the one showing an opening to the street. Outside stood a DHS Humvee with its turret gun pointed into the station. The squad scrambled for cover as they returned fire. The gun battle was over in minutes. What remained of our troops walked out, hands up, weapons given over.

I turned back to our lead tech as he sat at a small portable console. “Miller, DHS contacting base command?”

“Can’t get a read,” John responded as he kept fiddling with the instrumentation.

“Lone patrol,” Lois suggested. “They probably already radioed back they captured intruders.”

“Mission compromised?”

Lois sat silent a moment, then shook her head. “Not yet. But once they get whoever survived back to headquarters, we may be.” Torture. The team could hold out for hours, but not days. I’d learned over the years to what lengths the Feds would go to get the information they wanted.

I stood up and started putting on gear. “Signal base,” I ordered. “Kit up! We have to go in.”

Everyone scrambled. We took a quick inventory of all the armaments we had on hand. Our team would deploy, four techs, Lois and I, along with the two enlisted. Not exactly the crack squad that had gone in ahead of us, but the best we could hope for now. I pulled on my helmet and adjusted the feed. We were ready. “Beck.” It was Jason with our main force. My husband, friend and lover, commander…and I still hadn’t told him about my condition. If we failed, I’d be compromising more than the mission.

“Don’t worry, Poole, I can watch my own back,” I assured him on a private channel.

“You better.”

I sucked in a deep breath, wanting to tell him that I would protect the two of us, our child and me. What my husband did know was this was our best chance of breaking through. I had to go.

We ran past the blast crater where the sand cat had crashed and went west, then down a manhole a few blocks away. It felt cramped as I moved forward, hunched over with a heavy pack on my back. The smell, the closeness, all of it made me nauseous, and my shirt sticky with sweat. I willed away the feeling, pushed it down with each slap of my boots against the rancid water puddled along the tunnel.

After nearly two hours of moving at a fast clip, we stood on the Metro platform. I gave the order to arm, rifles ready as we bounded up the escalator steps. Our team stopped just short of entering the train station. Five bodies were lying out in the open. All our people. Their armaments had been stripped. But not everything; DHS had left something behind. I spotted a thin sliver of silver…what looked to be a small pack with one of the two techs from the squad, dead and lying on his side.

“Miller, look.” I pointed.

“The stunners…maybe,” the lead tech said.

DHS must not have recognized the pencil-thin devices as weapons.

“Give me range.”

Looking at the small tab in his hand, the tech reported, “Nothing in the immediate area.”

I bolted, bent down, rolled the dead man onto his stomach, and unclipped the pack and two rods. With the weapon secured, I ran back and handed the device to Miller.

He checked it. “Fully functional.”

Lois seemed puzzled, but there was no time to explain the latest weaponry.

I waved, signaling our team to advance. We kept down, going behind kiosks and counters, staying clear of the entrance. The train station connected to an indoor arcade of sorts; storefronts, dusty and broken, looked as if they’d been looted eons ago. We raced through the passage and made it to an enclosed courtyard. The skylights, nearly three floors above, were cracked and dingy. The planter directly beneath must have been lush with plant life when this place was a bustling office complex. But now there were only dried reminders of greenery, chipped tiles, and decorative sculptures that had been cannibalized for their metal. Only bits and pieces of them remained, shadows of a time when one could afford the luxury of art.

We skirted the courtyard and found the stairwell leading to the basement. “Miller,” I whispered.

“No scans,” he responded under his breath.

They weren’t scanning for intruders, even after the skirmish. What we could learn from intelligence about the facility under this particular building led us to conclude it was a small security substation. Lightly manned, with a few techs and a solitary guard on each shift—the perfect target. I pointed to the two rods now clipped to Miller’s belt. He nodded, triggering the pack next to them. A quiet hum sounded as the stunners armed.

“Get the guard,” I ordered quietly.

We switched our helmet vid to night vision. It went black for a moment, then brightened again, giving me a clear view as I entered the darkened stairwell. My heart thudded as we made our way down each step. We finally reached the bottom with only a door separating us from our target. Again, I pointed, this time at the metal lever. Miller used a low-level pulse and electronically picked the lock. He tapped my arm, signaling it was open. I played out the scenario in my mind: the two enlisted could strafe the room. But if they hit the equipment, then what was the point?

No, in this, I’d rely on one of Charon’s offspring. “Miller, ready?”

“Yes,” came his answer.

I signaled to one of the enlisted. He kicked open the door and we all stepped back as the tech threw the two stunners inside. A brief flash, a tint of red, and everyone inside collapsed, rendered unconscious. A new development from Deven Michaels’ brainchild. Stunners emitted a low EMS field set for bio frequency.

It would temporarily incapacitate any living thing. The drawback—using so little power, the effect was short-ranged and lasted only minutes. The two soldiers on our team pushed past me. Rat-tat-a-tat, the cold sound of no mercy, the soldiers performed a grim necessity with so much at stake.

I walked into the room and took inventory. The equipment was still operational. The three Fed techs, two men and a woman, were waking up but the guard lay lifeless in his own blood. I only hoped Miller and the other three would be up to the task. They took places at the numerous consoles. Lois came up beside me, visible shock on her usually hardened features. I realized with a cold chill, she’d never seen anything like that stunner with the exception of the day her little boy had died, killed in a flash of red light.

Half an hour went by—a lifetime, under the circumstances. “Shit,” I snapped at the lead. “You close to upload?”

Miller looked over his shoulder at me, sweat beading on his brow. “We can’t get past their wall.”

A wall was more than just an old-fashioned firewall, more than simple virus protection. A wall could keep resetting itself to prevent any foreign code from being uploaded. Only the lead tech on a team would know how to get in and reset, allowing a way to update software. If we couldn’t break through their wall, we couldn’t upload our runner, programming much more powerful than any common worm. If we couldn’t do that, then it would be over, and sooner or later we would be found and eliminated.

I walked to the three captured techs, and examined each of their identity badges dangling from their necks. One of the men bore the rank I was searching for—Adam Tao, their lead. I pointed my rifle at him as he stood next to the lone woman on their team. She looked at me, chin raised, a defiant glint in her eyes.

“You’re the damn lead,” I barked at the man I’d singled out. Tao nodded.

I jammed the rifle against his forehead. “You ready to help us, Mr. Tao?”

With eyes wide, he looked to be fishing for courage. Tao managed to puff out his chest just a little and finally shake his head.

The crack of a bullet reverberated in the room. The female tech’s expression changed from defiance to surprise as she slumped down, her knees buckling, her chest painted with red splatter. One second more and her eyes rolled back in her head as she slid to the floor, lifeless. I turned to see Lois standing behind me, her rifle still pointing to where the woman had stood. Bradley’s eyes, cold crystal, were void of feeling.

For one terrible moment, I thought if I’d made a mistake and the dead woman had been the lead, Bradley could have just destroyed our only hope for success. Lois turned her rifle on Adam Tao.

“Don’t!” Tao yelled, hands held out a moment before dropping to his sides, his voice a whisper as he said, “I’ll help you.”

I took a step back as he came forward and claimed a place beside Miller at the console.

“Watch him,” I ordered our man, the barrel of my rifle pointed at the back of Tao’s head.

Visibly shaken, the Fed worked the touch screen with unsteady fingers. In five minutes, we had the runner uploaded into their security system.

I finally pulled back my rifle and eased its strap over my shoulder. Turning, I saw Lois, those eyes of hers still blank. I needed to reprimand her for acting without orders. Discipline, that’s what Jason had told me, was the key to any military success. But those words stuck in my throat. There was nothing left of this woman, no humanity, no compassion. The Lois Bradley who had crumpled under the guilt for killing the first casualty in this war was no longer present. My neighbor from Farmsworth had died along with her son.

I signaled Jason, a single code word sent out on the Fed’s network—the only way we had to get anything through before we punched a hole in the shield. “Washburn”—short for “Washington Burning.” The clock was now ticking.

CHAPTER 30

Our runner worked. The monitor showed a break in the outer defense shield. We had only minutes to clear out before the Feds traced the security breach to that substation. My team locked down the equipment and made ready to take our prisoners with us. A few seconds, just that quick, and I caught sight of Bradley, her rifle raised and pointed at Tao.

“Stand down!” I snapped.

She glared at me, rifle still held ready. “I said, stand down!”

“You going to leave them at our back?”

A tense moment, with the two enlisteds’ weapons trained on Bradley.

“Stand down,” I said, my gaze fixed on Lois. “Now.”

She finally lowered her weapon. With hands bound, we led the Fed techs out and started up the stairwell just as a shrill whistle blew from inside the substation.

I looked back at Tao, the Fed lead.

“They’re arming the self-destruct!” he yelled, trying to push by me.

We sprinted up the steps. Just as we got to the exit and made a turn to the left of the doorway, a thunderous boom resounded. The explosion jolted us, knocking some of our team off their feet. An orange fireball roiled up the stairwell, licking flames spewing from the doorway. A terrible stench—whatever was left behind had been instantly incinerated. The floor buckled as the substation’s ceiling in the basement level collapsed.

I ran. The weight of my backpack, the rifle clutched in my sweaty hands, felt like nothing. All I could do was run, focused on every bit of ground I could gain as we raced through a passageway connecting to a different office building.

Another explosion boomed nearby. I could see the plume curling skyward thorough the passageway’s plate glass windows. Something had hit blocks away. David. It had to be. Orchestrated well beforehand, the surgical strike would have to be swift to succeed in knocking out as much of their security as possible before the Feds could scramble frequencies and close the breach.

We made it to another enclosed courtyard. It was in the same state of disrepair, its marble flooring cracked and littered with debris. I stopped and looked at the broken skylight, catching sight of the sweeps overhead. The unarmed probes were searching for heat signatures.

I turned and pointed to the two techs. “Cut their ties.”

One of the enlisted followed my order and slashed the cords binding the Feds’ hands.

“You’re free to go,” I said.

“Then we go with you,” Tao responded.

I glanced at Bradley, her head tilted slightly, her mouth pressed into a scowl.

I studied the techs, then motioned for the whole party, Tao and the other Fed included, to move. We headed out a rear doorway, away from the office complex. More strikes farther away. Behind us, gunfire strafed the train station.

“Bradley!” I yelled over my shoulder.

She came up beside me, easily keeping pace. “Shelter!” There was no time to have the techs check.

One curt nod in response and she took the lead. We kept close to buildings, any place to protect us from being spotted. A bullet whizzed past me. I spun, aimed, and hit the small drone tailing us. It burst into a compact fireball and fell to pieces on the cracked pavement.

Lois bolted down a stairway leading to the Metro.

“Stop!” I shouted, fearing that’s just where the Feds would search for intruders. More bullets—one of our enlisted, along with a tech, were hit. The Fed tech crumbled into a heap at the top of the stairs. Our enlisted keeled over and tumbled down the concrete steps, his body coming to rest at Lois’s feet. For a crazy moment I thought Bradley had killed them both. But she’d been standing looking up at me, never moving, her rifle pointed at the ground. Another round—two drones were locked and ready to take out the rest of us.

The surviving enlisted finished them off with a few clean shots. We rushed down the Metro stairway. But instead of leading us through the subway tunnel, Bradley stopped on the platform. With the flat of her hand, she pushed against a darkened ad panel, struck it in several places, over and over, using a set pattern, until it slipped aside. She went through the slender opening, then came out a moment later when we didn’t follow.

“Damn it, it’s one of the entry points I showed you people.”

“An entry to where?” I yelled.

The ringing of gunfire from even more drones. “Safe shelter.” She took a step back, turned, and disappeared into whatever lay beyond.

The ad panel slid shut, leaving us in complete darkness. Bradley switched on her helmet’s headlamp and shined the beam forward to reveal a narrow tunnel, as bullets pinged off the closed panel. The air smelled stale as if that passage had been sealed for centuries.

“Move!” she barked.

We followed. Every now and then, missiles pounded targets overhead. The claustrophobic tunnel quaked with each explosion, causing debris to pelt down on us. I mumbled a prayer under my breath that that tunnel wouldn’t become our tomb. Bradley picked up the pace as she navigated twists and turns, pushing us to go faster until we stopped at a place where the tunnel constricted.

“Down!” she shouted.

Down we went, crawling on our hands and knees. The gritty surface cut into my palms. Once back on our feet, we resumed the hurried tempo, led by a mad woman who navigated by an inner map we couldn’t possibly retrace.

Nearly an hour passed before we came to a halt again. Bradley’s headlamp illuminated what looked to be a solid rock wall directly ahead of us.

“Bitch!” the surviving enlisted snapped. “She led us to a dead end.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bradley wheezed as she put both hands flat against the barrier.

Minutes, long and drawn out, ticked away. My breath, I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt trapped as the tunnel closed in on me, my head spinning. I pulled off my helmet and leaned against the wall to keep from fainting. Bradley’s bare palms slid across the ragged surface, searching.

“Find it,” I muttered, knowing it had to be one of the hidden locks she knew how to open. She had to find it soon. I didn’t have the energy to go back. I ran my hand over my stomach, thinking of the baby, my baby, Jason’s…

Lois patted around a small jut of rock illuminated by her headlamp. She repeated a sequence several times until her efforts set off a sharp beep. Bradley put her fingers on either side of the protrusion and turned what looked to be part of the solid rock surface. She pushed the protrusion up and out of the way, revealing a keypad. Bradley punched in a code, then leaned close, letting a red beam sweep her eyes. The rock barrier slid back and away to expose a concrete passage. Lights flickered on, revealing some sort of room at the opposite end of the hallway. The lighting shone bright in the passage, but not in that room. Whatever lay inside was hidden in shadows.

Bradley took a few steps forward, stopped, and looked over her shoulder.

“Your friend…the senator took you here?” I probed.

“Yes”—she shrugged—“my friend. I’ve been here. It’s the safest place in this damn city.”

Our steps were measured, each footfall echoing as our boots hit the concrete floor. When we finally made it to the other side, I realized why this was the safest place in this particular city. I tipped up my chin to Lois. “We’re under the National Archives.”

“Yes. In the vault,” she confirmed. “Sunk deep in the ground and surrounded by steel plates and concrete. Nothing can reach us here.”

The walls were lined with drawers, numbered, and each with its own digital keypad. There were two cases, their contents sealed with thick glass on top, steel sides and bottom. They were illuminated with a faint spotlight. I walked up to one, but was unable to see through the caked dust. I bent my elbow, leaned forward, about to use my jacket to wipe it clean.

“Stop!” Bradley snapped. She came over and used the keypad next to the case.

We looked at one another, her eyebrow arched for a moment before she went to the other case and deactivated whatever safeguard protected its contents.

I cleaned the glass, clearing away the neglect until I could see.

My hands trembled as I read in silence.

“The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.—That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…”

Bradley broke my concentration, saying, “You’re reading out loud.”

“So what?” I grumbled as my hand balled into a fist atop the glass. Every word was loud and clear as I kept reading, conscious the others were listening now. “That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”

“Don’t you get it? Damn it.” I chuckled, a bitter sound in my own ears. “They let us know there’s a way out.” My vision clouded with tears. “Told us we could throw off our shackles. They compelled us. At whatever cost. By whatever means.” I turned to the others. “They let us know we have a duty to be free.”

I went to the other case and used my sleeve to hastily polish it. The tears slipped down my cheeks and splashed on the glass when I found it was really there. “Here…it’s all here. The Constitution. Our republic.” My heart broke. “What did we do with it? Please tell me…we didn’t…” I swallowed. “Didn’t throw it away. Piece by piece. Tear at it with greed. Grabbing for power. Replacing it with whatever the hell we thought was better.” I pushed my palms against the glass, a river of tears falling now. “Tell me we really weren’t that fucking stupid.”

Someone’s hand rested on my shoulder. Someone who wanted to comfort me, reassure me they understood. I reached up, crossing my arm to find that hand with my own. It felt so cold, as if the life had been drained out of it,.

I slowly straightened, swallowed again, and faced Bradley. Behind her, Adam Tao, his own eyes misted with tears. And even Lois’s features were painted with regret, yet still darkened by so much inner pain. I pressed the calloused flesh of her hand in mine.

“He brought me here,” Lois muttered.

“The senator?”

She took a step back and pulled away her hand. “Lots of times. By way of the Capitol building. That way is easy. I had to take you through the punk tunnels. The Feds were always destroying them. Executing whoever dared to build one. But some of them are still there. Ones people built over the years for different reasons. Trying to escape, mostly. But there’s a clear way here from the Capitol. And the senator had the highest clearance. Taught me the codes and ordered my eye scan added to the security database. Highest clearance. No one ever questioned him.” She stopped, shaking her head, her voice barely audible. “He wanted me to remember when all I ever wanted to do was forget.”

The soft sound of each breath we took, in and out, was the only sound. I looked at the ceiling, all the walls with thousands of sealed compartments labeled and secured with digital locks where the bulk of the documents must be stored. “The safest place in the city,” I echoed Bradley’s statement. “The best place. But without air vents and supplies, we can’t hold up here for long.”

“There’s enough good air coming in from the tunnel system,” Miller, our lead, pointed out. He looked at his tab. “But there’s no signal. We’re cut off.”

Lois walked to the opposite side of the room. Using her finger this time, she tapped a specific spot, again in a pattern. After a brief chime, what looked to be a part of the solid steel wall transformed into a large screen. It detached, floated free, and came to a stop, hovering in front of her. She touched one of the icons.

Fresh air poured down on us. From where, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. I savored it. The air smelled of earth, sweet wet grass, and late summer rain.

Adam Tao stepped forward, but Miller made him stop. Our lead pushed aside, Tao came up next to Lois to work the monitor. The screen buzzed to life, filling with pixelated snow, then congealing into a clear view of a wide thoroughfare. It was marked on the screen—Pennsylvania Ave. Miller switched the view from static to roaming to give us an airborne perspective. To the west stood the Washington Monument. I got a closer look at it. The stone spire was in even worse condition than when I viewed it on the tact table. A deep, jagged crack ran from the bottom to nearly the top of the monument where the pinnacle had been broken off.

The sky bore a sheet of slate-colored clouds, with a light shower falling. Flashes off in the distance weren’t summer lightning, but rockets, so many of them it made me wonder who was firing at whom. I leaned closer. “Did you see that?” It looked as if a missile had been triggered in mid-air.

Miller checked a few readings on the monitor. “Their shield is still up.”

“Just the CAP,” Tao said.

We all turned to him.

“There’s an auxiliary command center under the Capitol. Secured just like this vault. Entirely separate system from the grid. They can control all the city’s defenses from there.”

“I don’t remember being told about anything like that,” Bradley snarled.

Tao snarled back, “Because maybe your fucking senator didn’t know!”

Bradley hefted her rifle. I used mine to knock hers clear just as she fired. The bullet ricocheted, luckily missing us and doing no harm to the document cases.

“That’s the third time you kept the bitch from blowing a hole in me,” Tao said. “There’s a control center under the Capitol. I worked on it before being given the lead at the substation.”

“You didn’t say anything about this command center at the substation,” Bradley snapped.

“You were the enemy,” Tao spit at her before fixing his gaze on me, “then.” The Fed pointed to the screen. “They’ll blow your forces apart before they can make a dent in the city’s defenses.”

“Nukes?”

He nodded.

“But even small tacticals would take out a huge number of civilians.”

“You think they give a damn?”

“Can we get inside?”

He didn’t answer.

“You better think, Tao, whose side you’re on now.”

He nodded.

“Can you raise the base?” I asked Miller.

Our lead made a few adjustments, the screen again pixelating for a moment before forming a perfect image. He had reached our base on a secured channel. The Command Center bustled, officers and enlisted, so much activity as they prepared for the invasion.

“Jason,” I leaned forward and shouted, “Jason!”

“Commander!”

My husband made it over to whatever com had been activated. He had on his gear, prepared to lead the assault. He stared at the screen for a brief moment, his brow furrowed. “Beck?” He set down his helmet. “Beck, where the hell are you?”

“In the belly of the beast. Listen, Jason, I have a plan.” I tried to tamp down my panic. “And we have to move fast.”

CHAPTER 31

Bradley got us to the Capitol building, but Tao secured our slim chance of success for the mission. If we could disable the shield long enough to destroy their command center, Jason could strike it and the city would fall. Dressed in one of the red and black uniforms Tao had secured for each of us, I shouldered the standard government-issue rifle, adjusted the armament belt, and pulled down the helmet’s visor. Tao made one last check of our chips, ID transmitters, pinned on the left side of our uniforms, one for each of us. He nodded. All good. We were ready.

I cocked my head toward the door. Tao led the way down a long corridor beneath the Capitol. Scanners swept us. I saw them through the helmet’s vid, wave after wave of red light. No alarm. No hail of bullets. Whatever ID’s Tao had programmed into the chips allowed us safe passage, until the final hurdle. We’d made it through all the scanners and automated checkpoints, but the last checkpoint barring us from our goal was manned. A detail of four DHS agents stood watch at a doorway secured behind steel panels.

“Facial recog!” one of them barked.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, and made as if I were raising my visor to allow a facial scan.

Almost in unison, the rest of our party snapped up their rifles and fired. The four DHS agents dropped. Tao scrambled, ripping a tab from one of the dead agents’ hands. A piercing alarm sounded just as the steel plates slid open. I tore a clutch of thin tubes from the arms belt at my waist and hurled the grenades through the open doorway. Several explosions—bam—bam—bam—as the grenades went off.

We rushed in, rifles ready, the floor slippery with blood, the air tainted with the scent of copper and acrid smoke. Bits of metal and plaster and human flesh lay everywhere. Those explosions had torn apart everything within reach. I had to stay focused on our objective, nothing else, a single purpose—eliminate the shield. A countdown—I heard it, the minutes being marked off—to launch. The Feds were firing the nukes. We got off more rounds, hitting personnel, downing agents. I couldn’t tell how many, didn’t stop to think, didn’t stop to look back or weigh how many I’d killed. Even when the enemy took out one of our team, I went on, my finger pressing the trigger again and again.

Tao made it to the main panel. I saw people, seven, maybe more, all with President Whitman—what was left of his cabinet, the governing class. I swung my rifle, aimed it at Whitman while Bradley and the rest of our team picked off the few surviving DHS bodyguards. The president raised his hands, the cabinet members following his lead. They were our prisoners.

The countdown ceased. “Shield’s down!” Tao shouted.

We completed our mission—the shield had come down. The alarm sounded again, even more shrill than before.

“Clear!” Tao shouted and bolted for the closest doorway. “Incoming! Yours—ours—damn it—clear!”

Whitman and his entourage beat us to the exit. The sons of bitches slammed the door shut. My sweaty palm slipped off the handle. One of the men pushed me aside and got it open. Bradley grabbed at my sleeve as we rushed into a marbled hall. Directly in front of us was an elevator, its polished metal doors sliding closed. Whitman. Defender of the ruling class. Traitor to the Constitution. Thinking, as always, of his own survival, even after he had ordered nuclear weapons be used on American ground. I yanked a grenade from my belt, set the trigger, and threw it into the elevator before the doors completely shut.

The grenade blew—the polished metal buckled.

“Hurry!” Tao yelped as he ran down the hall. “Hurry!” He turned and disappeared.

I made it to where he’d turned, into a stairwell, switchbacks countless stories high. Tao had already climbed several of them by the time we rushed after him. Up and up and up. I grew winded, my arm aching from the weight of the rifle. But I wouldn’t let go of it, wouldn’t stop. Up and up and up.

A swack sounded as Tao flung open the door at the top of the stairs. Out we went and through the rotunda, the grand hall with its reminders of a long lost past, with marble statues and the fevered sound of our flight, boots pounding against the floor. I could almost hear the echoes of lawmakers. People who were great and small, those who had built America and those who had torn it down. I shut out the echoes to focus on getting to the mall, to the large expanse of grass outside. I had to get away, forget everything else. I had to think only of myself, about the baby, about two lives, no one else. My head spun again as I ran down the steps in front of the Capitol. I couldn’t catch my breath. I yanked off my helmet and threw it to the ground. That single need drove me to run—get away. Get far away!

A massive explosion. So intense I could feel the heat on my back even as the late summer rain pelted me. Like Lot’s wife, I couldn’t resist. I stopped and looked back. The Capitol dome had been hit. It collapsed as I watched, folding in like cardboard as flaming tongues of fire licked at it. Another missile strike. Missile after missile—our missiles—smashing that grand building to dust.

My energy spent, tears streamed down my checks again as a sharp pain shot through my gut. Nearly unbearable. I came crashing to my knees on the wet grass. The last thing I saw was unbelievable. The whole world had caught on fire. I fell backward, tumbling free. Then nothing but the blessed darkness.

I slept. For days, it seemed, for years, drifting in peace. This soft unknowing bliss of being disconnected and with no one to account to enveloped me, caressed my soul. Then someone called me home, someone who had just entered the world in which I resided, who had rested a comforting hand on my belly.

I slowly opened my eyes, at first staring at the ceiling, letting the acoustical tiles come into focus, their dappled white framed with bright steel. The strong odor of disinfectant, the stark lighting…I realize this was a hospital room. And that hand, the feel of its warmth on my belly, was someone I deeply loved. I pushed down in the soft pillow to let my head tip just a bit, my gaze landing on my husband as he touched me.

My lips parted with his name, a sign, a welcome as I said, “Jason.”

“Honey Beck,” he whispered in return.

He cocked his head to me. For a moment, my breath caught. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and streaks of dried tears traced his cheeks. In all the time I’d known Jason Poole, even when I’d been gravely wounded at the battle of Boston, this man had never wept.

“What’s wrong?” I whimpered, pushing myself up to sitting, fearing a pronouncement I didn’t want to hear.

He remained silent.

“Tell me!”

“Tell me?” he grumbled. “You didn’t tell me, Beck.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Nearly four months?”

I swallowed. “That far along?”

His mouth tipped up in one corner. “It must have happened when we were in Texas.”

Tears slipped from my eyes now. “The baby?”

“Is fine.”

The news I ached to hear, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. It came in a wave, the crying. He got up from the chair, sat on the bed, and put his arms around me. Jason kissed my cheeks, each one in turn. “You should have told me.” He kissed my mouth. “You should have, Honey Beck.”

I realized he was weeping as well, renewed tears from his own eyes, salty tears that anointed me and the baby that I carried as his family. After a few moments, his hold eased as the back of his hand pressed softly to my wet cheek. I touched his face, felt the bristles against my fingertips. “Would you have sent me back to Texas?”

“Yes.”

“Back to our home,” I murmured.

Someone cleared their throat and muttered, “Excuse me, Commander.”

We both looked at the doctor, one hand in the pocket of his lab coat, the other raised, his finger pointed at my husband’s boots atop the white sheets. Jason unlaced the pair and slipped them off, letting the boots fall to the tiled floor.

“It’s good to see you awake, Mrs. Poole,” the doctor said as he stepped to the bed. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness since being brought in.”

“Where am I?”

“Arlington. Virginia Hospital Center. Just outside of DC.” The physician’s gaze slipped to Jason. “We weren’t situated where the fighting was, but close enough to tend the wounded.”

“Was I wounded?”

“No, Mrs. Poole. But you almost lost your baby. Someone with you made certain you got medical attention.”

“Bradley,” Jason said. “She raised the base. We sent a helo for your team.”

The doctor looked over his shoulder and called, “Nurse.”

A man walking by in the hall stopped, nodded, and entered my room.

“Do you mind, Commander?” the doctor asked as he pointed once more, this time to Jason’s hand resting atop my belly.

My husband shook his head and retook his seat.

The doctor didn’t pull down the sheet, or do an actual physical exam. Instead, with the nurse working at a small console, the doctor used a slim handheld sensor and swept it slowly over my abdomen. He smiled. “Strong. Very strong. Signs are all good. Yours and the baby’s.”

He nodded to the nurse, who turned the monitor with the tip of his finger.

I exhaled, “Our baby.”

There on the screen was a small human being, the outline of a head, and a body with all the extremities. It was a crystal-perfect image, arms and legs, its tiny heart pumping so fast.

“Well, will you look at that,” Jason said as he swiped away his tears.

The image was so much better than the old-style ultrasounds. “Is that what I think it is?” my husband asked as he did some pointing himself this time.

“Still early, but I’d say, probably, yes. From the image.” The doctor smiled. “A definite yes from the DNA we did this morning.”

Again I whispered, this time my own prayer. “A boy, Jason…who’ll be just like you.”

In a few days’ time, I was discharged from the hospital. My doctor shook Jason’s hand as a nurse helped me settle into the wheelchair. The doctor reminded me to take my vitamins and that he would come and see me in a week for a quick checkup.

The nurse pushed the wheelchair down the hall as Jason walked beside it. We entered the elevator and rode it to the roof where a helo waited on the landing pad. Jason didn’t tell me specifically where we were headed. For that matter, neither did anyone else. All I cared about was that I was leaving that hospital in my husband’s company.

When we got to the helo, I lifted myself up from the chair, refusing help. I climbed into the chopper with Jason right behind me. We pulled out the harnesses and strapped ourselves in, my husband giving mine an extra tug just to make certain it was secure.

The helo lifted, banking toward the river. Within minutes, we swept over the Potomac. Now I could see the carnage, the rumble where the Capitol had stood, the Washington Monument, toppled completely to become a broken relic. Only the Lincoln Memorial stood unscathed. As the helo swung around it, I could see the seated likeness of our 16th president carved in stone. So much destruction, so many losses. There had been so much rebuilding after the Civil War and yet the Union had survived, the Republic saved. Maybe it would take longer, but we would rise out of the ashes. Beneath us were knots of people, some military, some civilians, gathered near supply trucks. People who would, like others before them, be tasked with reclaiming our freedom.

I squeezed my eyes shut and I took my husband’s hand.

We flew near the White House. It, too, had survived the war intact. A few scars from direct hits, but nothing to damage it beyond easy repair. The iron fence in front was still in place. A large crowd had gathered outside that fence. They raised their arms almost in unison as we flew over. Though I couldn’t hear a thing, it almost seemed as if they were cheering, those arms waving wildly in greeting, hundreds, maybe thousands of them.

“For you?” I shouted above the engine noise.

“For all of us!” he yelled

The helo started to descend. It set down on a large expanse of untended grass behind the building. The engine wound down as I said in disbelief, “The White House?”

“It ain’t Texas, but it’ll be home for now.” Jason turned to me. “The states we just liberated. It’s all a mess. It won’t be easy.”

“Nothing’s been easy since the day I met you.” I kissed him.

Something that no one had seen in years, news crews—real news crews—jostled for position, competitive…definitely not state media. I recognized some of them from past encounters, underground citizen reporters who’d risked a great deal to get the truth out through networks like my mother had been in contact with, all brave souls.

As the blades wound down, we climbed out of the helo, heads bent as Jason helped me navigate the stairs.

David strode over and greeted us. “So, I’m going to be an uncle.”

“You know?”

“The whole damn country knows.” Jason pointed in the direction of the news corps. “Free press, and they’re as nosy as hell.”

I laughed.

The three of us walked away from the helo, shortening the distance to the eager press. That’s when I caught sight of my team, Tao, Lois Bradley, and the rest who had survived, all waiting.

“Why are they here?”

“Why?” David seemed perplexed by my reaction. “So Jason can shake their hands and honor them. People consider them heroes.”

A quiver shot through my spine. Lois looked different, her wild hair tamed, the smile meek, her gaze softened, my neighbor from Farmsworth once more.

“Come on, Beck, the press won’t bite,” Jason chided. I hadn’t realized my gait had slowed.

“You finally know, Commander,” Lois said as Jason held out his hand to her. “Congratulations.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing, as she pulled out a small pistol that had been tucked away in her waistband and pointed it straight at me.

“No!” I screamed just as Jason shoved me clear.

Knocked off my feet, I tumbled backward, hearing a single gunshot when Lois fired the pistol. The shot hit Jason square. She looked surprised, her gaze catching mine for a moment as she aimed that pistol at my belly again. Her body exploded with red. A strange smile replaced that grim determination she’d just displayed. Lois Bradley, my one-time neighbor, seemed to surrender to the gunfire that blew her life away.

In all the commotion, Jason had managed to reach hold of my hand. His grip stayed strong as he lay there, gaze fixed on me as I knelt beside him.

“Hang on,” I cried. “Dear God, hang on.”

But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Even as he looked at me. His gaze was earnest with a yearning to live. But he couldn’t stay. His grip loosened, his head rolling to one side as his soul released. My blood should have flowed, not his painting my hands red. That was her intent. Bradley wanted to steal that moment from him. Break him by killing his little boy. That bullet had been meant for me. My husband died protecting his family.

EPILOGUE

Frosted crystals collected on the window. They were perfect specks of ice sticking to the slick surface before melting into tiny droplets that would slip free and disappear. A guest in this house, I’d stayed up all night watching the world outside the window, remembering another snowy evening, and being so afraid. The eve of the revolution, the cusp of one world’s end and another’s beginning, over thirteen years ago in Farmsworth.

“Mom!”

I turned and saw Jason standing in the open doorway. He was almost ten years old, his dark hair disheveled, eyes gray and intense at the moment—his father’s eyes.

“Aunt Tina wants to know if you’re ready to come to breakfast.”

I stood and spread my arms. “I’m dressed.”

“Looks like you never went to bed, Mom. Or slept in your clothes.” Blunt, and at times, what a mouth on him, and still I loved him more than my life, just like I loved his father.

“Same goes for you,” I taunted. “Did you even try to comb your hair?”

“Mom,” he huffed. “I don’t have to go. So why do I need to comb my hair?”

“Just comb it,” I huffed back at him, trying to suppress a smile. “And go tell Aunt Tina I’ll be there in a minute.

“Comb my hair,” he mumbled. “It isn’t even Uncle David’s inoculation.”

“Inauguration,” I corrected.

He chuckled, knowing he’d successfully teased me, revenge for my goading him. His expression soured. “You didn’t make me comb my hair before.”

As if he would remember the two times his uncle had been sworn into office. I put my hands on my hips. “Junior.” He hated being called that even more than combing his hair.

Jason huffed again. But he had no choice.

Soon I was ready, makeup and dress suit all in order.

Tina was in the breakfast room, still seated at the table while her son and daughter played with Jason. The kids squealed as they huddled together in one corner. Vera Margarete, older than Jason by a little more than nine months, had always been so much more mature. She watched over her little five-year-old brother, especially when the boy was in Jason’s company. Somehow the two of them managed to get into trouble, my son always being the instigator in whatever mischief they cooked up.

My sister looked at me, her eyes wide and sparkling as if she were devising her own mischievous deed.

“Something up?” I asked as the maid set a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I inhaled, savoring the rich aroma.

My sister shook her head. The children giggled and resumed their whispered huddle. Tina wore her mother’s old cable knit sweater. The yarn showed its age, frayed around the bottom despite the loving care given to its preservation.

David came into the room. Dressed in a black suit and matching black tie contrasting his blue shirt, he smiled and nodded to me. The years were mapped across his face with deepening wrinkles, and his dark hair was speckled silver-gray. It hadn’t been easy, just as Jason had foretold that day in the helo.

He kissed Tina on the cheek. “It’s time to go.” Tina looked to me.

“It’s okay,” I said, taking one last sip of the hot coffee. “This is all I want.”

The maid had Tina’s suit jacket. My sister slipped off the cable knit sweater, took the jacket in one hand, and gently turned the sweater over to the maid’s care.

There were tears in the servant’s eyes. “I’ll miss you.”

“Carol, please.” Tina placed her hands atop the maid’s and smiled. “I’m sure the next First Family will be wonderful. And I told you how much you’ve become a part of ours. You can always come and visit us as our guest. I’m not a bad cook. Ask my sister.”

I put up my hand and gave the “okay” sign.

“It’s moving day!” one of the children shouted.

David pointed to them. “You behave while we’re gone.”

“We always do, Father,” Vera said, acting the young lady. David swung his finger to Jason. “And especially you.”

My son got up on his knees and put both hands over his heart. “Sure thing,” he pledged, then fell backward, landing on top of his cousin.

The younger boy giggled and shouted, “Help!”

David groaned.

“He’s Jason,” I offered.

David smiled, more wistful than sad. “That he is.”

We walked down the hall side by side, Tina’s arm looped in her husband’s. She had been such a fine First Lady with her quiet strength and tender grace. The hallway was lined with staff, most as teary-eyed as the maid. I stopped when I saw Adam Tao. He’d been one of David’s top aides.

“I hear you’re staying on,” I said.

The tech looked weathered by the years as well, his black hair grayed at the temples, despite him being only in his mid-thirties. The creases around his eyes deepened as he smiled. “I love punishment.”

We shared a chuckle. “One thing I’ve always wanted to ask you. My spiel in the Archives…the one about the Constitution…people say it convinced you to switch sides and help us. Did it really?”

“The legend? The truth?” Tao leaned forward and whispered, “I could see which side had the best chance of winning.”

Now I laughed out laugh.

“Rib!” my sister called, waving me over.

I gave Adam a pat on the arm. “Coming, Tiny!”

We settled into the limo for the ride to the new Capitol building. Driving down Pennsylvania Ave., I could see the outline of the Lincoln Memorial. I recalled my brother-in-law giving a speech from the steps shortly after Jason had been killed. Still in shock, I’d been admitted back into the hospital because of the fear I’d lose our baby. I had to watch David on the vid. He urged us to pull together. To no longer stand divided. To heal a battered country just as the nation had done after the Civil War. We would go on…free.

Now, I felt chilled even with the heat blasting from the vents. I drew my wool coat about me.

“You really that cold?” my sister asked, slipping off a glove as she prepared to give the pair to me.

Maybe it was those memories. Maybe not. I shrugged. “Guess I just got thin-skinned living in Texas.”

“Never gets cold in the hill country,” Tina said, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “I remember that one visit to the ranch. We got snowed in along with our whole detail.”

“That you did.” I took her gloves and put them on. “Y’all nearly plum ate us out of house and home.”

I looked through the car window again. So many people were already gathered outside the Capitol building for today’s inauguration.

Again the memories. There had been so much disorder in the newly liberated states. To bring peace, some harsh measures were taken, but only against the last of the old guard who had refused to let go of power. There were trials, open and for all to see, recounting the most heinous crimes against the American people, the days of want, of government control, countless citizens murdered. No, it hadn’t been easy at all to rebuild what had been lost.

We parked in a secure area behind the Capitol. An agent opened my door. I looked up at the rebuilt structure as the Secret Service surrounded us. For me, it was a ghostly reminder of the past, an exact duplicate of its predecessor. It had gone up in less than two years after that fateful day, just in time for the Article 5 Convention of the States. I attended that, though I did my best to stay out of the public eye as much as possible. It had been a historic moment, with all the representatives from the reorganized state legislatures. They peeled away amendments and voted on new ones, restoring the Constitution and the Republic. They gave the power back to its rightful owners, the people of the United States.

When we walked inside, we were greeted by representatives and senators and the newly elected president and her family. I looked at the domed ceiling, then down at the statues that had been recreated of Washington and Lincoln, and another one that had been dedicated just before the Convention—my husband’s. All three men had been turned to stone. Men like Jason who were flawed, in doubt at times, and imperfect. Human. Now they would be forever remembered for the outcome of their struggles and not the pain of their mistakes.

I begged a moment and walked over to it alone. Life-sized, the likeness was perfect. Washington and Lincoln were immortalized in the finery of their day, tailored coats, dress suits. But not Jason, with his rumpled uniform, tousled hair, his eyes set ahead, his gaze intense, his jaw set.

I raised my trembling hand and set it on his, touched the cold fingers of polished marble. “We’re okay,” I whispered. “Me and Jason. Doing fine.”

Jason’s body rested with his parents, three simple graves on the family ranch in Texas. My home now, our son’s inheritance, his father’s land. I’d come to love the place, could never live anywhere else. Those dusty hillsides, and the bluebonnets in the spring, had become my soul. We raised quarter horses, trained, and sold them. My stock was in demand…perhaps more for the breeder, JP Ranches, than anything else. Still, it was a living. I never demanded anything from the government. The state of Texas had returned all of the Poole family land, five hundred acres, without our petition. The house had been built out of gratitude for Jason even before his death. The only continuing consideration I didn’t refuse from the government was the security detail assigned to us, a safeguard for our son.

I studied the marble face in front of me, its outlines and unseeing eyes. Deven Michaels, my mother, Doctor Andrews, and even Lois Bradley, people of their times, wounded and broken yet still a part of history. Lois—I hung my head—even her. She had acted out of pain, out of the need to strike one last blow against the brutality that had destroyed her life. I understood her completely, and had long since found my own way to forgive her.

I looked up at Jason again, smiled even as tears started to wet my cheeks. I could picture him in a meadow with my mother and father, Vera and her first husband, even Dr. Andrews, all young again, all waiting for me to join them to watch the spring sunset. I thought about that meadow a lot, especially near sunset on the ranch, a cold beer bottle in my hand as I sat out on the porch. One day they’d be calling me…and one day I’d come home.

I felt someone brush aside my hair, the touch of the back of a hand resting lightly against my cheek. “Jason,” I whispered, eyes squeezed shut.

“Rib, you okay?”

I forced a smile, wiped away the tears with a gloved hand, raised my chin, and faced my sister. “Just fine.”

“We were going to surprise you. David, the kids and me. At the airport. We were going to tell you we bought the property next to your ranch.”

My mouth dropped open.

“It’s the perfect place to write my history of those times,” David said as he came up behind his wife. “With your help.”

“You mind?”

“No, Tina, don’t mind at all.” I gave her a long, heartfelt hug, burying my face against her shoulder.

“Ladies,” David said, pointing to the press, this time staying a respectful distance away. “It’s time.”

“That it is.” I let go of my sister.

Tina looked at me a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Perfect,” I assured her, trying hard to keep more tears from falling. We would be seen by the entire nation, as the next president of the United States was sworn into office. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been worth all the sacrifice to answer the Last Call and stand strong for this American ground.

ABOUT DEBRA TASH

Debra Tash is an award winning American author, journalist and accomplished speaker. Her books have won multiple awards and been sold nationwide.

Debra was born in Los Angeles where she honed her writing skills through various creative outlets including painting, with a few of her pieces touring internationally in Japan.

She also worked as a Docent at the world renowned Getty Museum and Getty Villa where she gave tours and spoke on historical figures and art.

She gets her inspiration from current and past events, focusing on positive morals and uplifting themes. Her most recent book “Last Call America” focuses on the not so distant future and takes the current American political climate to a chilling collusion. From columnist Rich Eber’s review: “Last call America is a page turner…the pay-off is a thought provoking book which is well worth spending the time to read.”

Debra served as Editor in Chief of Citizens Journal, a Ventura County based online news site that covers current and breaking news in the Ventura and Los Angeles County.

She has given lectures for such organizations as the DAR, The American Associated of University Women and the Southern California Federated Women’s Club.

You can visit Debra at the following pages…

Website http://debratash.com

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/DebraTashAuthor/?fref=ts

Contents

PART 1: HARDSHIP

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

PART 2: REVOLUTION

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

PART 3: SIEGE

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

EPILOGUE

ABOUT DEBRA TASH