by Kit Rocha
Staring down at the map, Ryder slowly realized what she meant. "We'll have them flanked. Surrounded on all sides. Even if they take Two, they won't be able to hold it. We can pick them off, thin their numbers."
She nodded. "When they've lost enough of their troops, they'll pull back into the city. They won't have a choice."
"The military police are well trained, but there's only so many of them." Dallas made a rude noise. "And once we breach that wall, the Special Tasks soldiers won't be fighting us. They'll be standing guard over whatever rathole the council scurries into."
Unless the generals at the Base decided to join the fight, after all. With their support, the city would crush the rebellion. "How good is the intel that the Base intends to stay neutral and sit their asses at home?"
"As good as it can be," Dallas said. "I figure the fact that we're still standing here is pretty compelling proof. No point in letting us get this far if they were gonna do something."
"Hard to argue with that," Ryder admitted.
Lex huffed out a soft noise, somewhere between a rueful laugh and a sigh. When Dallas looked her way, she tipped the open binder toward him.
He leaned over to skim the page. When his gaze hit the bottom, he raised both brows in return and shrugged.
She flipped the binder around and laid it on top of the map, displaying the page on Nikolas Markovic, the youngest member of Eden's Council—and the one Jim had chosen as the likeliest to show sympathy for their cause. "You have Markovic on the inside?"
"I had Markovic on the inside," Dallas drawled, sitting back in his chair. "Now I have him in a cozy, secure location under medical supervision."
This time the sound Lex made was undeniably a sigh. "Christ, Declan, you make it sound like we kidnapped the bastard. We rescued him," she explained. "From a cell in Eden. He'd been locked up for months—tortured, starved, you name it."
That was the kind of shit that could kill a man in all the ways that mattered, even if he was left still breathing. "Is he going to make it?"
"I think so." Dallas tilted his head toward Lex. "She's less sure. Maybe I just need to believe it. Because he could do the one thing that'll end this war fast and clean."
Spark an insurrection within the city. Jim had had the same notion from time to time, and there were at least a hundred different scenarios for how it could play out scribbled down in his goddamn book. It was a nice fantasy, the idea that the oppressed in Eden would rise up and fight against the Council that had built its power on their broken backs.
But that was all it was—a fantasy. Ryder knew that better than anyone. "It'll never happen, so don't break your heart wishing for it."
Lex's brows drew together in a stormy frown, and Dallas protested. "If we get the right sort of shit onto their vid network—"
Ryder cut him off, blood pounding in his ears. "The last man who tried to organize the people in Eden got murdered for his trouble. He was ready to go toe-to-toe with the Council, to fight them. My father offered the people hope, but they couldn't stand against the city when the bullets started flying. And I had to listen to my mother cry herself to sleep for the next twenty years."
Dallas hesitated just long enough for the words to hang between them in the tense silence. "We won't count on it," he said finally. "We won't count on anything but ourselves and our people."
"You can't count on it, O'Kane." Two deep breaths weren't enough to calm him, so he took a third. He knew it looked like temper, a fit of childish pique, but the memory of his mother's agonizing, unfathomable grief had seized him and refused to let go. "You can't."
"Then we'll focus on the rest," Lex said gently. "We'll evacuate as many people as we can from Two. Anyone who can't stay and fight. If we get ahead of the city's invasion, we can minimize casualties."
"Mad can arrange it," Dallas agreed. "Gideon's good at taking care of people. We'll let him handle the refugees." A soft knock sounded on the door, and Dallas reached forward to flip the binder shut. "You and I will focus on bringing Eden to its knees."
"It's what I was raised to do." Ryder meant the words to sound lighthearted, or at the very least confident, but they held all the edge of a confession.
Dallas heard it. He eyed Ryder for another long moment before raising his voice. "Come in!"
The door swung open, and Dallas's people began to file in—Jasper and Noelle, Bren and Six over from their current base of operations, and Jyoti and Mad from Sector Two. Hawk and Cruz. Some carried stacks of paper, others tablets and notebooks. Noah carried a slim computer tucked under one arm.
They were all prepared, not just to listen but to discuss. To share information and help Dallas and Lex make their decisions, a collaborative effort that now stretched across the whole of the sectors. It was everything Jim had never had, had never trusted anyone to really give him. It was teamwork.
Maybe Dallas could get this done, after all.
Markovic
On the good nights, he woke in a panic, scared right out of sleep by the sound of his own breathing, by unremembered nightmares. He'd gasp for air, try to claw his way back to sanity before the nurses came running. He'd fight for control, because control was everything.
Those were the good nights.
The bad ones were unspeakable. He'd jerk awake in the darkness, and everything would be gone—the curtains surrounding his hospital bed, the soft but shrill sounds of the equipment monitoring his vital signs, the tubes running fluids and nutrients straight into his veins. Gone, and he was back in that cell in Eden.
Back in hell.
In that cell, he wasn't a man anymore, wasn't him. Nikolas Markovic ceased to exist, replaced by an animal too starved and tormented to lay claim to humanity. On those nights, the bad nights, he lost it all again. Even his name, and that was the worst part. The lowest moment in his incarceration, the point at which he'd almost given up.
That was his dirty secret, the one he would take to his eventual, hard-won grave—if his captors had been willing to let him die, he would have pulled the trigger himself.
This was a good night. He could still remember his name—Nikolas Nikolas my name is Nikolas—though repeating it over and over was the only way he could get his hands to stop trembling enough to lower the side rail on his bed.
My name is Nikolas.
It didn't feel safe, lying under the thin sheets, dressed in an even thinner gown. Nothing did until he got his feet on the floor. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed his feet to the polished tile. It was colder than a mountain lake, colder than the popsicles his mother used to freeze for him in the dead of summer, but it was solid.
He tried to stand. Did. Only sheer force of will held him there at all, but after mere moments, he collapsed back to the mattress with a pained grunt.
"You're up late."
Panic clawed its way into his throat again, but Nikolas swallowed it. Hid it until he recognized the dark-haired man standing in the doorway as Dylan Jordan, the doctor who had been treating him. "I want out of this bed."
Dylan crossed his arms, holding an oversized tablet to his chest. "I'm afraid—"
"Out of this hospital, for that matter," Nikolas continued. "And I want to wear pants. Real clothes where my ass doesn't hang out of the back. Shoes, too."
The man sighed, peeled his glasses off his face, and rubbed his eyes. "Mr. Markovic, you need to be here. Your condition isn't critical, but it isn't exactly what I would call stable, either." He consulted the tablet. "You came in with severe malnutrition and dehydration, multiple contusions in varying stages of healing, broken bones…"
Hearing the reminders of his torture laid out like that should have sent him spinning again, anxious and terrified. But it was too clinical for fear, nothing but a bunch of fancy words that did jack shit to describe what had actually gone on in that cramped, claustrophobic little cell.
He surveyed the doctor mildly. "You're forgetting the cuts and burns."
Dylan sighed again, then pull
ed a sleek metal stool closer to the bed. "You want out of here. Why? What's so important?"
Nikolas swallowed the hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his chest. It was a fair question, a valid one. He was tired, and he hurt, and under any other circumstances, he'd gladly fall back into bed and sleep for a month.
But he didn't have that kind of time. "I can't just lie here, not with a war going on. Your people—" A pain shot through his side—sudden, excruciating—but he left the hand that instinctively twitched to clutch his ribs lying on the bed beside his leg, the perfect picture of casual rest, and breathed through the momentary agony. "Your people may die, but we both know the truth. Mine will be suffering."
Dylan stared at him, his eyes and expression inscrutable. Finally, he nodded. "We'll start with a meal. If you can keep it down, we'll get you off the IVs." He paused. "And we'll find you some clothes."
"Thank you."
He had too much to do to linger in a sickbed. Any day now, Dallas O'Kane would come calling, expecting him to do his part for the war effort. Oh, Nikolas had no doubt that whatever O'Kane wanted he could provide from this very room, if necessary—information, security codes, contacts. Perhaps even to record a stirring speech for Nikolas's loyal constituents back in the city, urging them to fight the oppressive leaders who had tried to kill him.
Let O'Kane demand all that. Eventually he would find out the truth—when the real fighting started, Nikolas planned to be in it, on the front lines, rifle in hand. Because he had some goddamn vengeance to exact.
Chapter Four
It took hours for Nessa to regain her composure.
She steadied herself with routine. War or no war, the liquor had to flow. Water had to be filtered to remove any shit the city had added. Malt had to be ground into grist. The draff went into huge barrels lining the wall near the far bay doors, and a check of the dwindling number of empty containers sent her back to her office.
A pang of loneliness struck without warning as she activated her tablet and typed out a message. Mia had been the one to recognize the potential of the used grain. On top of having a sharp mind, she hated waste—wasted time or wasted materials.
Mia had been the one, with Dallas's permission, to reach out to the ranchers in Sector One. The Reyes family had the largest herd of cattle and horses in the sectors or the communes, and had been more than willing to establish a trade relationship. Now, instead of the O'Kanes wasting time and manpower throwing out the spent grains, the Reyes family paid for the privilege of hauling it away to feed their cows.
Pop would have loved Mia. He would have loved her quick wit and would have cackled over her ability to turn everything into profit. He would have told her that if he was twenty years younger, he'd steal her away from Ford.
Nessa missed the hell out of both of them.
With the message sent and her upstairs tasks complete, she tucked a smaller tablet into her back pocket and headed for the aging room, the one place that always set her world upright.
Instead she found Ryder standing between her and the elevator, and the last few hours of composure building went to shit.
He'd discarded his jacket, and that black T-shirt hugged his shoulders and upper arms like it was seeing them for the first time in a decade. Nessa couldn't blame the T-shirt. Clinging to him appealed to her, too.
He turned at her approach. "Hello again."
At least the tongue-tied stupor faded faster this time. Maybe having him around was good—she could build up a tolerance to all his hotness. "Hey. You exploring, or lost?"
He cast a leisurely look around, like the hallway outside of her office was something fascinating to behold. "A little of both. Headed downstairs?"
"Yeah." Maybe that was why he'd wandered back here. Most newbies were fascinated by the aging room. "You want a tour? I know Jas gave you one, but no one knows the place like I do."
He gestured toward the elevator. "After you."
The elevator was huge—big enough for pallets and barrels to go in and out—but she still felt the flutters as the doors rolled shut. Just her and Ryder, together, alone.
It was the closest thing she'd had to a date in months.
She jammed the down button with her finger and listened to the creaks and groans as the elevator began to descend. "So did you have a good meeting?"
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Define good."
"Don't ask me, man. I'm not the war girl. I'm the booze—"
The pop just sounded like another creaky elevator noise at first—but the grinding didn't. Nessa slapped her hand to the wall as the lights flickered and the elevator shuddered.
Then darkness enveloped her.
For a second, all she could see was the afterimage of Ryder's face. She pressed her hand harder against the wall, trying to ground herself as the world dipped, disorientation hitting her hard. It was dark, completely dark. No stars, no moon, no hint of light under the crack of a door.
No up or down. No anything.
Her breath rattled in her ears, too loud, and her heart thumped until she felt the pulse of it in her fingertips. She wanted to speak, to say something, anything that might prompt a response from Ryder. Something to prove she wasn't alone.
Her teeth dug into her lips. If she stopped biting them long enough to speak, she might whimper.
His deep voice materialized in the darkness. "Nessa?"
She had to reply. She had to be calm. Slowly, carefully, she opened her mouth and let her voice escape on a whisper. Maybe a whisper wouldn't convey her terror. "I'm here."
The rustle of movement. "Are you okay?"
Apparently whispers conveyed terror just fine. Irritation and pride almost overrode the sick feeling in her stomach, but another unsteady breath sent her spinning again. Was the air thinner? It couldn't be—it had to be imagination and dread and the memory of a hundred nightmares where she gasped for oxygen that was in short supply.
His hands settled on her upper arms, somehow finding her without hesitation even in the darkness. "Hey, listen to me. It's a power failure, that's all."
She kept one hand on the wall and swept the other out until it crashed into him. His T-shirt was soft under her fingertips, but his chest was solid. She spread her fingers wide, bracing herself against him until up and down made sense again. "Sorry. I can't—" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed a hysterical laugh. "I don't do small, dark spaces."
"Not many people do." The observation somehow managed to sound sincere instead of flippant, not to mention profound, which was ridiculous.
Maybe she just wanted it to be profound. A universal truth, so she could keep pretending the trip from Texas had never happened. That she'd grown up safe and cozy on Dallas's family ranch, and then had miraculously appeared here, safe and cozy in the heart of the O'Kane compound.
Everyone around her had lived harsh, sometimes brutal lives. She'd had three weeks of uncertainty and danger. Three weeks out of more than twenty years. If anyone found out she cracked that easily, they'd make sure she spent the next twenty tucked in a nice bunker somewhere.
Even knowing that, she couldn't stop herself from inching closer to Ryder. Her leg brushed his, and her hip bumped against his thigh. Every point of contact oriented her, and she didn't feel quite as adrift. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"
"That you don't like the dark?"
"That I'm freaking out." She tried to laugh, but it came out forced and breathless, and she didn't care if it was dark, she still felt naked. "They get overprotective."
His low chuckle washed over her. "They care about you. You can't fault them for that."
Guilt needled her, because he was right. Who the fuck would fault Dallas and Lex and all the others for caring so much that they did whatever it took to keep her safe?
An asshole, that's who. A selfish asshole. "Yeah, but no one has time to be worrying about me right now. So...keep this between us. Please?"
"Sure." He moved a little closer. "I have a
theory. You want to hear it?"
She wanted to hear anything that filled up the emptiness surrounding them. "Yes."
"There are two kinds of people who hate the dark," he murmured. "The people who just do, and the ones who have a damn good reason." He paused. "Which one are you?"
She still had one hand pressed to the side of the elevator car. The metal had warmed beneath her fingers, but it still felt cool compared to him. A shiver ripped through her, and she gave up that last outside point of reference and leaned into him. Her hand landed on his bare arm, and she didn't even try to be cool.
She was clinging to him. Maybe more tightly than his T-shirt was. "It's a stupid story. Everyone I know has worse ones."
"Is that how we're supposed to judge these things?"
"I don't know. It's the sectors, right? If you're alive and warm and not hungry, what do you have to whine about?" She traced a nervous circle on his shoulder, hypersensitive to the brush of cotton under her fingertips. "It's worse outside the sectors, though. At least there's infrastructure here. Utilities. Someone's in charge, even if it happens to be an asshole."
"Ah." The noise was lower, and a little rough. "You're not from here."
"Texas," she replied softly. "Before the Flares, my parents worked for Dallas's family on their ranch. They died when I was little, but my grandfather was there, too. He taught Dallas everything he knows about liquor, and when Dallas set up shop here…"
"You came north too." One of his hands slipped from her shoulder to her back. "Makes sense."
It had. The ranch had been fading rapidly. After Dallas's mother died and Dallas took off, one of his cousins seized control. Pop clashed with the man more often than not over the increasingly harsh treatment of the workers. He had started keeping Nessa close as the mood around them turned sour, and she suspected they might have ended up leaving even if the message hadn't come from Dallas.
"Dallas sent someone with a truck." The words came slowly, haltingly, because she'd never told anyone this story before. "Chuck. He seemed okay at first. He helped Pop pack all our shit and some of our equipment. But once we got on the road, it was slow going. You never knew when you'd come across a road that had been washed out, or abandoned cars just sitting there, blocking everything."