The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy)

by Benner, Tarah

  I felt my rage boil over. “What the hell do you know?” I screamed. “You’ve been holed up in that prison this whole time, plotting your stupid revolution. I didn’t have time to worry about a revolution, Greyson. I was too busy fighting off carriers and trying not to starve or get caught by the PMC. I’m sure it was horrible in there, but don’t act like I’ve been on a fucking vacation.”

  My face was burning with anger. My eyes stung, but tears would not come.

  I glared at him — hating him. “I’ve been in this war. My parents are dead because of these people. I can’t go back home! I have no one left. No one except you, and you’re so far gone, you might as well be dead, too.”

  The words stung in the air as they left my mouth. Worst of all was that as I said them, I felt a noxious cloud of truth hanging over my regret. The words could not be unsaid.

  Greyson was gone. This wasn’t the person I knew. But then again, I wasn’t the person I knew, either.

  We stood there listening to the shouts from the bridge. He studied me with those dark eyes, his jaw cold and taut. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was: we were done, he and I.

  It was Amory who finally broke the silence.

  “Come on. We have to get out of sight.”

  I pulled my eyes away from Greyson and gave a weak nod. Amory walked almost casually up to a shop door, peeked in, and jerked his head for us to follow. He pushed open the door, and the bell hanging over us rang out harshly in the silence of the empty shop. Dust hung in the air, and the smell of old mustiness and mold filled my nostrils.

  We stepped inside what appeared to be an abandoned deli. This wasn’t unusual; many undocumented business owners either fled their homes when PMC presence in the city became too dangerous or were forced out when the city was reestablished as the military capital.

  The glass meat case was broken — probably from a raid — and chairs lay haphazardly around the floor. The only unaffected vestiges of the deli were the garish red and yellow booths affixed to the exposed brick wall.

  We sank into a booth, and I braced my head against the cold brick, listening to the far-off shouts and bursts of destruction.

  “I guess we just ride out the storm here,” said Amory, looking cautiously from me to Greyson.

  I nodded, still angry at Greyson and at a loss for what we should do. We had no way of knowing if Roman, Max, and Logan had made it to the other side before the bridge explosion.

  “Then what?” Greyson demanded. “After the rebels get tired and the PMC go home, we can head for the hills?” He laughed a cold laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed, the bridge has been demolished. Anyway, we probably wouldn’t make it that far between the carriers, the PMC, the —”

  “Shut up,” said Amory. His tone was icy. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve made it this far. Haven was captured by a gang of carriers trying to save you, and she managed to escape then.”

  I felt a swell of pride as he said my name, but I was also reminded why I’d come in the first place. For weeks, I’d been on a mission to save my best friend — the boy I’d grown up with, the boy who was willing to run west with my dad and me. We’d had a plan. We didn’t have much, but we’d had each other.

  Greyson was fearless and tenacious with an unflagging sense of moral duty. I realized he was still all of those things, just dangerously hell-bent on fighting for his beliefs.

  I looked up at him again and spoke softly this time. “I know you want to stay. I don’t agree with the rebels’ methods, but I believe in what you’re fighting for. I just think you’ve thrown your luck in with the wrong people.”

  “They’re visionaries.”

  “They’re terrorists.”

  “It’s a revolution.”

  I felt my voice waiver. “This is out of your control. I don’t think this is what you signed up for in prison. They don’t mind destroying cities, freeing carriers, and hurting innocent people.”

  “Innocent?” His voice was dripping with distain. “The PMC officers aren’t innocent.”

  “I’m talking about all the civilians they’re going to get killed once this spreads. The prisoners — people like you — who are going to get slaughtered in the streets. And what about the carriers? Do you really think the PMC is just going to let them live now that they’ve escaped?”

  “Did you think they would let them live in Saint Drogo’s?” His voice was rising with every syllable. “Do you think they were just locked up for their own good . . . with games and finger painting like a damned mental hospital?” Greyson’s brow was furrowed with disgust. “The way they’re treated — the way we were treated — it’s despicable.”

  “I know that,” I said, trying to regain some composure.

  “And I haven’t —” he spluttered. “I haven’t ‘thrown in my luck’ with anyone. I’m just —”

  “I know,” I said.

  He was just trying to survive and get out.

  “But throw in your luck with me, okay?” I grasped his arm across the table. “This isn’t the way, Greyson. We can’t be involved in this.”

  The harsh line across his forehead seemed to soften at my use of the word “we” — as if I were calling him back from far away.

  “I’m not going to leave you here,” I said.

  I glanced at Amory, worried I was speaking for the both of us, but his face was hardened into a look I recognized to mean he was deep in thought.

  “Either you come with us and we get the hell out of here and run west . . .” I took a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t take back the words once I said them. “Or I — we — will stay and fight.”

  Amory seemed to come back to reality, and his face was calm, unfazed by my promise to Greyson. It was an unmistakable expression of trust.

  “Okay,” said Greyson. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

  Relief washed over me like warm sunshine.

  “You came this far to find me without knowing if I was even alive. The least I can do is believe you can get us out of this mess.” He grinned at Amory and me.

  Amory turned to me. “What about the others? Do you think they made it across?”

  “There are more of you?” Greyson sounded impressed.

  I nodded. “They should have had time to get across before the explosion.”

  “All right. How do we get out of the city?”

  “There are other bridges,” said Greyson. “The rebels will have an exit strategy for sure.”

  “Why didn’t they tell you?”

  “They wouldn’t let me know the entire plan in case they tortured the information out of me. I didn’t even know for sure they would release the carriers. There were rumors, of course, but all information is need-to-know.”

  “You didn’t know about the bridge bombing?”

  “No.”

  Amory looked skeptical. “So they would just leave all their men who helped start the attack for dead?”

  He shook his head. “They’re going to hold a rally once the battle has died down. They’ll need to regroup.”

  “Where would they go?”

  Greyson smirked. “The pub.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  We sat waiting in the abandoned deli for what felt like hours, formulating a plan and contemplating what we were about to attempt. I didn’t like the idea of infiltrating the rebel army, but the only way to discover the rebels’ exit route was to join them temporarily.

  It would be easy for Greyson; he genuinely believed in the cause and accepted their methods. He was also considered a rebel hero for sparking the violence that led to the prison riot. I was concerned that Rulon or Mariah would expose Amory and me as deserters. No doubt they knew that Max and Logan and Roman had fled their posts as well.

  Thinking the others made it safely back to the mainland was my only consolation. I would never be able to forgive myself if I thought they had been captured or killed trying to help me find Greyson.

  Inexplicably, Greyson knew the
approximate location of Uprising Pub. Word had spread among the rebels in prison that a rally would take place there after the day’s events.

  Uprising Pub was actually an Irish bar operating within the parameters of PMC law in Sector X. Although almost every restaurant and grocer had been abandoned or shut down for illegal activity, several bars in the area surrounding the base remained open and thriving from officers’ business.

  According to Greyson, even rebels who had never been there would be able to find the location of the rally. The rebels had developed a system for marking their meeting places. The seeker merely had to find the city block with a burnt-out streetlamp on every corner. On one street, there would be a door with a silver bell. The meeting place would be across the street, exactly three doors down.

  I listened to him explain in awe. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “I mean, how did they pass information to you on the inside?”

  “How does word ever get to prisoners?”

  I shrugged, and Amory looked equally confused.

  “There are moles inside the PMC.” He said this as though it were obvious.

  “But who?”

  “No one knows. It would be dangerous if anyone knew who was helping the cause from the inside. It’s the smartest thing, really. Infiltrate the PMC, and suddenly we know all their plans. We know when raids are going to happen before they do.

  “But if they do have an agent on the inside, why did they get you to start the uprising?”

  “They’ve been planning this for months: the bombing of the base, the carrier release, the bridge — there are way too many moving parts. It had to be highly coordinated, but no one could know about every aspect of the plan. They needed someone on the inside to start the riot today to overwhelm the PMC. I didn’t know what for. But they needed someone who was disposable that the PMC had already pegged as an illegal.”

  “But why you?” I asked. “You’ve only been here for a few weeks.”

  “I dunno. Most of the prisoners don’t want anything to do with it. They’re scared the PMC will lash out against their families on the outside. Some of them made it north. Others are still in hiding.

  “They got wind of me, I suppose. I made some serious trouble for those guards.”

  “But why?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like, day after day. It’s enough to drive you insane: the routine, the hopelessness, no prospects of ever escaping. The only way to survive is to find some purpose — some driving factor that keeps you alive.”

  “You should have known I would come find you.”

  “I didn’t want that for you. I didn’t want you to be a part of this place.” He gestured to the window and the desolation of the abandoned street, looking at me with a sad expression. Then he caught a glimpse of my left arm. I had pulled up my sleeves to cool off from our run, and the scar where Amory had removed my CID was visible.

  “Whoa,” he said, grabbing my wrist. “You defected?”

  I yanked my arm away. I wasn’t sure I liked that label.

  “You did that for me?” He sounded amazed. “I mean, it’s not like you wanted any part of this . . . revolution.”

  I didn’t say anything. I’d just gotten him to agree to leave. If we argued, he could change his mind.

  “So how did you get in here? There are rovers everywhere.”

  I showed him our rebel-issued wristbands, and he looked fascinated.

  “I’m going to need one of those. As soon as all the commotion dies down and the other undocumented prisoners scatter, I won’t be such a needle in a haystack for the rovers.”

  I had almost forgotten about the rovers. My stomach pinched with dread as I remembered the last time Greyson and I had tried to fool them.

  “It’s going to spread,” he said, looking from me to Amory. “Taking down Sector X was only the first phase. They’re going to rally the troops — all the illegals still in hiding — and reclaim the country.” He smiled at me with such hope it made my heart ache. “My mom could come back, Haven. If the PMC is dismantled, she’ll come back.”

  I forced a smile. I wanted to think things could turn around like that, but it was difficult to believe the rebel army could thwart the PMC. And anyway, even if an overthrow were possible, things would never really be the same. Too much had changed.

  “Hey! I think it’s over,” said Amory.

  We crowded near the door, listening intently. Sounds of the riot had died down.

  Cautiously, we opened the door and crept around the side of the building. The sky was growing dark, and the streets were eerily quiet. All that could be heard were muffled shouts in the distance and the occasional mournful sob.

  A thin veil of smoke still hovered over the street like fog. We inched down the block, muscles tensed and preparing to run at the slightest sign of commotion.

  Through the clearing dust and fumes, we could see dark shapes lying motionless on the ground. As we drew closer, more and more dead bodies came into view — dark, shapeless heaps like bags of dirty laundry.

  Most of them were PMC officers, easily discernible in their reflective white pants and jackets. But scattered here and there were rebels — men and women in dark clothing with “XX” painted on their faces. They wore the PMC’s brand for them as an act of defiance, proudly declaring their threat level. My chest ached for them. Many looked about our age, maybe a few years older. Officers or rebels, it didn’t matter; all of them were supremely human, and they were dead.

  Greyson wore a grim expression as he surveyed the scene. “This way.”

  He led us away from the twisted metal remains of the bridge and down a street that looked more desolate and sinister than any of the others. In another city, the conspicuous lack of activity would have signaled trouble, but there we had no way of knowing what he might be leading us into.

  We passed old neon signs that shouted “GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!” even though no patrons had visited the place in months. Dozens of restaurants, shops, and convenient stores sat abandoned, some marked by the PMC during a raid. The big ugly black Xs pricked the hairs on the back of my neck, and I felt nauseated.

  Finally, Greyson stopped at a corner next to an upended hot dog cart and a tattoo parlor with blacked-out windows. He pointed up at the streetlight, which was dark.

  Amory’s face assumed an expression of grim resolve as we followed Greyson down the block. Sure enough, the light at the next corner was out, too.

  “Keep an eye out,” Greyson murmured under his breath.

  I squinted into every threshold we passed, scanning the doorknobs for a silver bell. The streets were now pitch black, and without the glow of a streetlight to guide us, it was impossible to see even five feet in front of me.

  As I passed two golden lions with eerie emerald eyes outside a Chinese restaurant, I caught a glimpse of silver. There, hanging from the ornate golden door handle, was a tiny bell.

  “It’s here,” I whispered, stopping under the awning.

  “No,” said Greyson, staring off across the street. “It’s there.” He pointed down to a doorway hidden in the shadows.

  If we hadn’t been looking for it, we would have walked right past without even noticing the crumbling brick entryway with a weathered wooden sign protruding from the overhang. “Uprising Pub” was burned into the wood in cramped calligraphy with the insignia of a lion just below the text.

  “Maybe that’s a coincidence, but I feel like they could be into lions,” Amory said to me as we crossed the street through the light snow.

  Greyson grinned. Even though he had agreed to give up the cause and come with us, I could still feel the excitement coming off him.

  I took a deep breath. “Let’s hope Rulon and Mariah don’t turn up.”

  Greyson moved toward the door.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Do they really just walk in the front door?”

  He gave me a blank look.

  Amory nodded. “You said the PMC come here. It would make sens
e if there was a hidden entrance that took you down below the main floor.”

  “Right,” said Greyson, backing away and poking his head around the corner. He looked embarrassed.

  There was a narrow gravel alleyway between the two buildings. I crowded close to Amory and Greyson as we shuffled along blindly. Amory ran his fingers down the brick, feeling for a door.

  “Here,” he breathed.

  I looked at him for a moment, but it was too dark to see his full expression. Only his gray eyes reflecting the scant beams of moonlight could communicate his determination, and I felt a surge of strength radiating from him.

  “Let’s go,” said Greyson. He pulled the heavy metal door, and it swung open.

  I couldn’t see anything except a dark passageway and a few chinks of light from the main pub on the other side of another door. Amory pressed a warm hand into the small of my back, urging me inside. He held the door and closed it carefully. Now it was completely dark, but I could hear the murmur of voices rising up through the floorboards.

  Greyson was breathing heavily in my ear. I looked up just in time to see a rare quiver of fear flit across his face before he looked down at me and motioned us to inch forward. He clasped my elbow suddenly, stopping me. I squinted through the inky blackness and could make out the descent of stairs. We were on a landing, and I could hear several snippets of conversation as clearly as if I were standing next to the speakers.

  Greyson led the way, with Amory and me walking so close together that his shoulder frequently brushed mine. The voices grew louder, but not loud enough to mask the sound of my own labored breathing.

  Running out of stairs, I bumped into Greyson’s shoulder and heard a loud screech as he pushed open another door at the foot of the stairs.

  I squinted against the rush of ambient light into the small space. We were in a large basement room packed with rebels. Lanterns hung at intervals from the low ceiling, casting dark shadows on hundreds of faces with the “XX” of rebellion painted in tar.

  Those nearest the door turned their heads in our direction and fell silent. This arrest spread through the crowd, and the voices quieted. Several rebels turned and pointed their rifles at us. In unison, we raised our arms above our heads, and my heart pounded against my ribcage.