The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy)

by Benner, Tarah

  “Once the dust settles, get out of there . . . with or without him. If we stay in the city too long, we’ll all be extremely vulnerable. And you’re a sitting duck in that prison. Head to the river and get to the other side. We’ll reconvene there.”

  As we began packing up camp, time seemed to accelerate. There was no time to think — no time to negotiate or change the plan.

  “Sure is nice of them to drop that bomb on us just now, isn’t it?” Max muttered over my shoulder as we loaded a crate of supplies into the truck bed.

  “What are we going to do?” Logan hissed, coming up behind us. “I knew we couldn’t trust them.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” said Max. “We still need them to get into the city and get out, don’t we?”

  As terrifying as the situation had become, I felt a rush of gratitude toward the two of them. Greyson wasn’t theirs to save, yet they showed no signs of abandoning me. It was as though it had become their mission as well as mine.

  We piled into the back of the truck one by one. Amory caught my elbow just as I was hoisting myself up.

  “It’s going to be fine,” he whispered. “We’ll get him out. I have a plan.”

  “What —”

  He shook his head. “Stay close to me, okay?”

  I nodded, and he pulled me up into the truck, his fingertips brushing the small of my back. My heart thudded loudly. Whether it was from Amory’s touch or the stress, I could not tell.

  Inside, everyone was turned in different directions in varying stages of undress. They were getting ready for the mission. Max stood in front of Logan, blocking her from view as she stripped down to her bra and pulled on the shiny shirt and utility vest Ida had given her.

  I dressed all in black and strapped on my holster for knives, my tomahawk, and even — somewhat reluctantly — extra ammunition for my rifle. The one Godfrey had given me was unfamiliar, and I hoped I would not have to use it.

  As I pulled my hair into a low ponytail, I concentrated on counting my breaths to slow the panic seeping into my chest.

  “These are for you,” said Godfrey, handing me a small satchel filled with objects I did not recognize.

  “What are they?”

  “Explosives. You’ll need them to bust into the prison. Remove the pin, stick it on the lock, and BOOM!” He made an exploding gesture with his hands. “Once you put it in place, get the hell out of the way. One of these will blow you sky high.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I stammered. “Can you help me?”

  He shook his head. “This is where I leave you. I’ve got my own part to play.”

  I took the pack and slung it carefully over my shoulders. It seemed like a bad idea to be carrying around a bag of explosives, but I didn’t have a choice. I had relied on the rebels to help me get Greyson out of prison, and this was their method.

  Piling into the back of the truck with Mariah, I got one last look at Godfrey before he closed the gate of the truck from the outside. Looking through the window to the front cab, I could see that Rulon had changed into a stolen postal service uniform, and he wore the face of a soldier. He slid the cab window shut, and we were thrust into total darkness.

  With a roar of the engine, the truck shuddered to life. My breathing was shallow and ragged, and my face was burning with adrenalin. Amory sat down and put his arm around me.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. For a minute, I had the ridiculous worry that the others would see us and know what had happened up on the hill, but no one else was paying any attention to us.

  Logan was curled up against Max, who was stroking her hair and looking as though he couldn’t believe his luck — even if he was being driven to his death. Roman was perched on a pile of crates, staring through the ventilation hole as if he couldn’t wait to storm into battle. Mariah looked as calm as ever, almost bored, picking at her nails with the tip of a knife.

  After what seemed like an hour, the truck slowed and then stopped, idling. I heard the low rumble of Rulon’s voice and another man’s, but it was impossible to hear what they were saying.

  Looking down at the CID on my wristband, I saw a tiny light that blinked red several times before turning green. We must have passed under a rover. Although the highway patrol system would register seven officers entering the city in a control room miles away, the guard at the entry point would never know. That was the one advantage of living in a society enslaved by technology: overreliance bred complacency.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cool metal side of the truck, praying my heavy breathing wouldn’t give us away in the back. I gripped Amory’s shirt tightly, my knuckles white from the pressure. His body felt tense and deadly still next to me.

  Finally, I heard the truck shift gears, and it lurched forward. We were moving again, and he and I exchanged a desperate grin of relief. We’d made it into the city.

  Sector X was situated in what used to be Upper Manhattan, connected to the mainland by bridges. Once a metropolis teaming with people, it was now PMC headquarters. The blocks that weren’t relegated to PMC operations or criminal containment were practically empty.

  When the PMC invaded to reclaim the city from the huge gangs of carriers that ran wild, many undocumented illegals fled. Most of those who stayed were soon driven out by carrier attacks, frequent raids, and property reclamations.

  Finally, the PMC issued a mandatory evacuation. Due to the high volume of carriers and criminal processing taking place at PMC headquarters, the city was deemed unsafe for civilians, and several other large cities across the country were evacuated simultaneously.

  The evacuation of Sector X was much more successful than mandatory migration because not leaving was essentially suicide. All interstate commerce was shut down except for military convoys, and all inbound traffic to the city was meticulously monitored. The few civilians who did stay — holed up in their apartments for weeks at a time — were captured and killed on sight without due process. In Sector X, the officers abided by military law.

  Fresh panic sank in when I realized it was time to perform. In my head, I tried to picture the map of the city again — where the prison was located, and which routes we were supposed to take. I could recall Rulon’s directions, but the map seemed fuzzy when I tried to remember the details.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have time to review our plan. The truck came to a halt, and Rulon killed the engine. The cab window slid open.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Rulon slid the gate up, and we all emerged into the muted sunshine of early morning. I instantly felt disoriented standing in broad daylight out in PMC territory, strapped down with all kinds of illegal weaponry.

  I wanted to run. That’s what we did, Greyson and me.

  The skyline gleamed with empty buildings. It was startling to think how all that steel and glass and brownstone held nothing; the beautiful skyscrapers once buzzing with life were now little more than enormous sculptures. Some were converted to prisons to hold the huge influx of criminals apprehended after the passage of the mandatory identification and migration bills. Those buildings were emblazoned with steel Xs that gleamed in the sunlight. A single “X” signified low-level criminals, like those who resisted identification. “XX” was reserved for the supermax prison that held the illegals who were considered the most dangerous threats to national security, including defectors, rebels, and Internet activists who posted anything anti-PMC.

  After the evacuation, some blocks had been remodeled for training and housing PMC officers. The buildings that the PMC had not converted looked derelict and frightening. Apartment buildings with flickering lights and broken windows leered down like faces with so many broken teeth. Shops and restaurants sat dark and vacant with spray-painted windows and signs that read “Sorry, we’re closed” fluttering in the breeze.

  Streets once teeming with cars and millions of people on foot going about their daily lives were wide open and deserted. Old newspapers and fast
-food containers blew down the streets like tumbleweed. The dusting of fresh snow looked completely untouched except for the occasional pigeon tracks.

  Rulon and Mariah started off down the street, and we followed at a brisk jog, hugging the sides of buildings and looking around corners. I was intensely aware of Amory at my elbow. Sneaking a sideways glance to gauge his plan, I saw him staring straight ahead with lethal focus. He was a soldier in his own right, and this was what he had trained for.

  As we neared the heart of Sector X, I noticed that the buildings looked grander. The structures they had rebuilt had marble steps, gleaming glass windows, and tall granite walls rising up through the sidewalk.

  Finally, I looked up and saw a street I recognized. This was the target.

  Large enough to consume an entire city block, the building’s gleaming walls looked as impenetrable as those of a medieval fortress. The narrow windows and doors were carved into the stone and made of dark, bulletproof glass. We couldn’t see in, but I was grateful that the sparse windows provided limited visibility from the interior.

  Reaching the street corner, I slowed my pace. Rulon’s map had each of us positioned at a corner when the rebels infiltrated the building. Glancing over his shoulder at me, Amory shook his head once and pulled me along.

  Mariah thrust out an arm and caught Logan in the chest. Logan let out a grunt and looked murderous but kept quiet. Mariah signaled that this was Logan’s lookout point.

  Shooting her a fleeting look, I tried to communicate in a brief second how grateful I was to know her. I didn’t have time to worry that this could be my last second with her. The others were already several yards ahead, and I had to quicken my pace to catch up.

  I stuck close to Amory as we fanned out around the block. Roman dropped off from our group, then Max. With one corner lookout post left, I felt a leap of hope that Amory and I would be stationed together. Whatever the rebels had planned, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight.

  I paused at the last corner of the base, and Amory stopped, too. Mariah shook her head and motioned for Amory to follow them.

  “I thought we were supposed to secure the perimeter,” he said in a low voice, inching in closer behind me. I could detect the undercurrent of distress in his tone, but he was prepared to hold his ground.

  “Not you,” said Rulon. “You’re coming in with us.”

  Amory stood motionless. “This isn’t what I signed up for,” he said, so low it was almost a growl.

  Rulon’s eyes darkened. “If you jeopardize our mission, I’ll have to get rid of you myself.” His hand jerked to his belt, and his fingertips brushed the gun in its holster.

  Amory’s hand was on his gun, too, but I knew he wouldn’t use it unless there was no other option.

  I shot him a bewildered look. What was the plan? He couldn’t go in there with them. I had the horrible feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach that they wouldn’t make it. One less rebel I could live with; the loss of Amory I could not.

  Amory met my gaze for a moment, and then a dark cloud of resolve and dread overtook the usual clarity of those eyes. He squeezed my arm once and turned away, following the rebels around the building and leaving me all alone.

  I felt extremely exposed standing undefended in broad daylight in a city full of our enemies. I looked around. The street was deserted.

  Since Amory had gone with the rebels, I saw no option but to carry out my assignment. I self-consciously checked my gun. It wasn’t the shotgun I’d practiced with on the farm; it looked powerful and extremely compact. I knew it was already loaded, and I had a spare magazine in my holster.

  I couldn’t see anywhere to hide that would provide a good vantage point as a lookout. The only car parked on my side of the street was an unoccupied armored truck — the vehicle of the building’s security patrol, I suspected.

  Where was the security guard? I wondered. Perhaps the rebels had already thought that through.

  The truck was the only option for concealment, so I got down on the ground and shimmied underneath. It was difficult to maneuver my weapons lying there on my stomach, but I cocked my gun toward the street. It didn’t feel much safer. I was more of a sitting duck this way, but at least no one would get the jump on me.

  I don’t know how long I lay there. My forearm quickly went numb from holding myself up in a shooting position, and my palms ached from scraping across the rough asphalt.

  How long did it take to launch a rebel attack? Nothing appeared to have happened within the building. No alarms were sounding, but I half expected to see a blazing fire in the window of a file room or hear the pop of an exploding database.

  Where was everyone? Not just the rebels — the soldiers. The streets were empty, which struck me as odd for eight o’clock on a weekday.

  What if the rebels had been captured?

  Amory. I didn’t think I would be able to cope if I lost him, too. Surely he was quick enough, fierce enough, to avoid capture. I envisioned him sprinting out toward me through a torrent of bullets, dodging every one and pulling me out from under the truck.

  Imagining an impossible escape scenario was better than the alternative.

  And then someone was sprinting toward me — a tall figure I couldn’t quite make out. So lost in my reverie, I’d seen him approaching from the east end of the building out of the corner of my eye without fully processing what was happening.

  I fumbled to reposition my gun, trying to control my breathing the way Amory had taught me. My gut twisted, and I was sure I would vomit. I’d never shot a person before.

  But as the figure drew closer, I recognized something in that light, easy stride. It was the graceful canter of a natural-born runner. Surely it wasn’t the hostile gait of a PMC officer weighed down by his helmet and flak jacket.

  Even with two rifles slung over his back, I’d recognize the handsome line of those broad shoulders anywhere. It was Amory.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Amory tensed as I pulled myself out from under the truck, tightening his grip on his gun. When he recognized me, his shoulders relaxed visibly. He looked serious.

  “We need to go,” he said. “Now.”

  “What happened?”

  He clasped my hand and began pulling me back the way we came, glancing toward the back entrance of the building. “We need to find the others, rescue Greyson, and get the hell out of here.”

  “What? Why?”

  His eyes flickered, but he did not answer.

  “Where are the rebels?”

  “I left them,” he said. “We shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have let this happen.”

  I stepped back, yanking my arm out of his grasp. “Stop. Tell me what’s going on.”

  A look of intense distress crossed his face. “I thought . . . I thought we were just taking out a CID database or something — shutting them down.”

  The look in his eye was almost pleading now, and my feelings of dread mounted.

  “What is it?”

  He swallowed, his face screwed up in a grimace. “Haven. That building is full of people.”

  “What?”

  “It’s some big classified meeting.” He looked away, raking a hand through his hair. “They’ve been planning this for a while. I don’t know where they’re getting their information, but the place is full of PMC officials.”

  “How many?”

  Amory shook his head. “I don’t know. A lot of them.”

  My heart stopped. “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “They’re blowing the place up.” He looked helpless. “There was nothing I could do. I-I don’t know where they placed the detonator.”

  My mind flashed through any scenario that might keep the rebels from killing a building full of people. If we caused a scene, we might be able to alert a few, but we would be shot before we could spread the word. They would probably think it was a setup anyway. Why would illegals break in to warn the PMC of something they were involved in?

>   “The fire alarm,” I choked, stopping short. “If we pull the fire alarm —”

  Amory jerked his head. “There’s no time.”

  My heart sank, and I felt my blood go cold. Every second we wasted increased the likelihood of disaster. The rebels could emerge and shoot Amory for abandoning them. The bomb could explode with the others still standing guard outside the building. The building could explode with Amory still inside.

  This time, it was me pulling him along. I’d already lost my parents and Greyson to the PMC. I couldn’t lose anyone else.

  We reached Max first. He’d known Amory long enough not to ask what was going on; he knew something was horribly wrong.

  “Listen,” Amory said, clinging to Max’s sleeve. “Find the others and get out. Don’t wait for the rebels. Get across the river, and keep going until you reach where we camped. Don’t stop until you get there.”

  “What about you?” Max asked.

  “We’ll meet up with you as soon as we can.”

  “But —”

  “Max!” Amory yelled. “Go! It’s now or never. This place is going down.”

  Max shot us both one last look, and I recognized it as the same look I’d given Logan earlier. He thought he might not see us again.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. We ran away from the building as fast as we could, no longer caring if anyone saw us. My feet felt slow and clumsy as though I were in a dream. We weren’t moving fast enough.

  A moment later, a deafening explosion shook the block. I felt it rumble in the ground beneath my feet and then reverberate up my body, jarring my organs.

  Sounds of screams and the groan of steel filled the air. Feeling the surge of heat, Amory froze on the sidewalk, looking up at the immense building with the smoke furling toward the sky. I fumbled for his arm, and he was pliant enough to follow.

  My thoughts felt jumbled as we half ran, half tripped down the street. Ears ringing, I shook my head — as if trying to clear the smoke and screams from my brain. We turned down the wrong street and had to double back. My heart pounded. Every second we wasted was less time to save Greyson.