“Where’s the back door?” Ian said.
“Here,” Sally said.
They made their way through the back, Ian and Michael holding Fran upright. She was losing consciousness fast.
“Come on, sweetie,” Sally said, lightly smacking her cheeks. “Stay with me now.”
An idea came to Michael. He could still feel the power coursing through him from before, when he had stopped the enemy telepath from shooting. This had to work.
“Wake up,” he told Fran, and instantly her eyes flew open. “You can’t feel the pain.”
Her posture straightened. A determined look hardened her face. She was ready to go. Ian glanced at Michael, too stunned to speak.
Outside, wrapped in cool currents of night air, they made their way through the maze of streets. They cut across a long-abandoned industrial yard, left to sit and rust and collect weeds. Michael expected snipers to rise in the windows and shoot at them. A quick scan told him there was no one inside.
That same scan told him that Peter, Eli, and the others were ahead. Reggie was on top of a building at the city’s edge, overlooking the rendezvous spot, most likely providing cover with his scoped hunting rifle.
“We’re safe,” Michael said.
“I felt it, too,” Ian said at his side. “Good work with that smoke.”
“I just used that trick you taught me. Thanks for taking care of that guy, whoever he was.”
Michael caught a glimpse of Ian’s face in the moonlight. His features looked hard, emotionless.
“No problem,” Ian said. “That’s what we do, right?”
Sally interrupted them. “When you boys are finished patting each other on the back, how about we get the hell out of here?”
“We have a truck outside the city,” Michael said. “Come on.”
He led the way, running, until Michael stopped short and Ian and Sally crashed into his back. Spots had appeared; tiny grey shapes in the distance that he could see with his mind’s roaming eyes.
“We’ve got company.”
An old, boxy utility vehicle emerged from the blackness of the surrounding desert, bouncing along piles of junk with wheels that had been fitted for off-road travel. Two men with rifles were standing on the back seat, leaning against built-in metal support rails.
“Over there,” one of the men shouted.
The vehicle turned toward them, its headlamps dull and yellow, coated with dust.
“Decoys,” Ian said.
“Got it,” Michael said, reaching up to press two fingers to his right temple.
He closed his eyes, and with Ian’s support, phantoms sprang from their minds and ran across the yard.
The men in the utility vehicle saw four people sprint across the industrial yard and turn into a street between two buildings. They took shots, but the bullets seemed to have no effect. The vehicle bore down on the fleeing trespassers, though at high speeds the bouncing made aiming the rifles difficult.
“Faster,” screamed one of the gunmen.
The driver slammed the pedal and sent the vehicle barreling forward. They launched onto the road perpendicular to the one they wanted, where the four intruders were about to disappear into the shadows. The vehicle turned with a screech.
The men standing in the back took aim, licking their dry, cracked lips in anticipation. They sighted along their barrels, trying to keep them from bouncing too much from all the cracks and potholes in the dilapidated pavement.
Then the street disappeared. There was no passage, no space between the two buildings whatsoever. They barely had time to scream before the vehicle crashed headfirst into a brick wall.
“Now.”
On Michael’s command, they dashed around the corner and made for the edge of town.
Here, Dominic sent, along with a nudge to guide them in the right direction.
Shots rang out behind them. Michael turned and saw two men crawl out of the hole the vehicle had made in the brick wall. Smoke poured out as they scrambled across broken pavement, firing their pistols at the group.
Michael stopped, turned, and raised his fingers to his right temple. He wasn’t even sure which command to use. The men had gotten down on one knee to take aim and were blown back as if by a fierce wind, not Michael’s doing at all.
One man’s head jerked back with such force that it looked as though he’d been punched by an invisible fist. The other man clutched his left eye, blood seeping thick through his fingers. They fell against what was left of the utility vehicle and slid to the ground.
Reggie slipped out of the shadows nearby, clutching a scoped rifle. He’d gotten down here fast.
“Nice shot,” Ian said.
Michael was still catching his breath.
“What were you going to do?” Reggie said, looking at Michael. “Blast them with your winning smile?” He smacked him lightly on the shoulder, then glanced over at Fran and Sally. “Howdy, girls.”
“Reggie,” Sally said. “Nice to see you’re still alive.”
“You’ve lost weight,” Fran said, looking pale and haggard.
Reggie studied Fran’s wound, then looked into her eyes and spoke soberly. “We’ll get you out of here alive. I promise.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Always the charmer.”
“Come on then.” Reggie led the way.
They hurried into the truck and took off. Two utility vehicles spotted their headlights and tailed them out of the city, taking potshots.
“Shit,” Reggie said. “UVs. Try to take out the shooters first.”
Reggie and the boys fired back as Dominic drove. The women huddled in the center of the truck’s bed while the boys shot out the sides. Occasionally Fran let out a sharp moan as the truck pitched over the terrain. Rocio and Sally held her steady and comforted her.
The only shots that seemed to be doing any good were Reggie’s. He fired and reloaded his rifle with the speed of a man doling out playing cards in a casino, and the boys alternated between shooting the enemy and studying his technique.
Ian didn’t speak the entire way. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone, even as Dominic and Reggie congratulated them. Michael wanted to ask Ian what was wrong, but it wasn’t the time.
Ian seemed to be carrying a weight heavier than anyone else’s.
As usual.
Chapter 10
Gulch was dark except for a few misty lights in the windows at the center of town. Sunrise was an hour away, the sky a deep blue from its approach.
Midas took Fran Baker away for treatment, and after he removed the bullet, allowed her family to come see her. Word spread quickly that day, and by lunchtime, everyone in town had heard a version of the previous night’s events. John Meacham and his men were nowhere in sight.
Michael wasn’t there for the reunions between the women and their families and friends. He went straight to Silo Street, collapsed into his bed, and slept for twelve hours straight.
The first evening after their return, the boys showed up outside the jail where Louis Blake was still being detained. They were met by Warren, Elkin, a man with a port-wine birthmark on his face—a new addition to their team apparently, this one just as mean-looking as the rest—and two others who worked full-time at the jail, answering directly to John Meacham. The looks they gave Michael were an obvious challenge.
“He’s a free man now,” Michael said. “That was the deal.”
“I don’t remember no deal,” Warren said, pulling a revolver out of a holster attached to his belt.
Peter smirked at the men, and Eli was in a staring contest with the one with the birthmark. Ian stepped forward and spoke to Warren directly, his shoulders raised a bit higher than usual.
“My father said he’d release Blake if we came back. You’re his lackey, so you’ll do what he says. Got it?”
One of the jailers spit by their feet. Ian gave him a murderous look.
Warren spoke. “What if I don’t?”
“We killed men in Praetoria,
” Ian said. “We didn’t even need guns.”
“You threatening us?” Warren said.
Elkin curled his lips back, exposing the brown edges around his teeth. “Your father gon’ hear about this.”
Ian was about to step forward again when a truck skidded to a halt in the street alongside the jail. John Meacham opened the door and stepped out, his face pink. Angrier than usual, he was mumbling to the two men who emerged out of the back seat after him. Michael already knew what it was about.
Joe Bigg and Gerald Kepplinger were missing. And Meacham had his theories as to what had become of them. Of course, he couldn’t speak up about it without implicating himself. If the people found out the dead ministers had been spending town money to buy and torture a slave woman—one of their own, no less—it would the end for him.
“All right,” Meacham said, seeing them gathered in front of the jail. “The Major goes free, like I said. You boys did a service to the community.” He stopped in front of his son and reached out a hand. “Your mother would be proud.”
Ian turned away and began to cross the street.
“Hey,” his father shouted. “Getcher ass back here.”
Michael put up a hand to stop Meacham from going after him.
“No more,” Michael said, staring into the man’s squinty brown eyes. “He’s one of us now.”
John Meacham said nothing. He stared at Michael for a moment, his neck breaking out in red patches, and then he turned, motioned for Warren to open up the jail, and got back into his truck.
They celebrated at the Cold War Café, late into the night.
Michael wasn’t much of a dancer, but he enjoyed watching everyone else. Eli had a strange way of kicking up his knees and hammering the air as if caught up in some sort of ritual you might see around a bonfire. Peter spent most of his time flirting with Rocio, stroking her cheek and laughing. Ian spent his time with Sally, talking in one of the booths. At one point, she put her hand on Ian’s arm and ran it softly back and forth.
The town’s lights were kept on for the sake of the celebration. By the end of the night, everyone in town was drunk and happy. Peter swung Rocio Martinez around the dance floor, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. He didn’t look away from her all night. Eli, drunker than usual, slouched in a chair against the wall and used a handkerchief to mop sweat from his brow and neck, his eyes dull with pleasure.
Louis Blake, Dominic, and Reggie had stayed in Blake’s office to go over the details of the mission. Michael thought about joining them—he wanted to discuss the telepath they had encountered, as well as the new development in his ability—when Arielle appeared from the café’s back door with two jugs of hard cider. She set them down on a table, grabbed Michael, and pulled him into the middle of the room.
“No way,” he told her. “I don’t dance.”
“Come onnn,” she whined.
“Uh uh. Sorry.”
She seemed genuinely displeased as she turned her attention back to the jugs of cider. Michael wondered about this as he sat next to Eli.
“You think she likes me?” Michael asked him.
“I like you,” Eli said, turning groggily to face him. “Come on, pumpkin. Lemme give you a smooch.”
He grabbed Michael’s head and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Michael pulled away, laughing and wiping at the slobber.
Toward the end of the night, he left the music and laughter of the café for the rasping of the frogs and crickets outside. Ian was there, standing by the front door, leaning against the wall and having a cigarette by himself in the dark.
“Hey, Mike.”
“Ian. I didn’t know you smoked.”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t.”
He took another drag of his cigarette and looked up at the stars.
“I never killed anyone,” Michael said abruptly, as if they were in the middle of a different conversation. “I mean in cold blood. While I was in control.”
Ian glanced at him and let out a low chuckle. Then he went back to smoking and looking up at the night sky. “It haunts you afterward, like a nightmare. I killed Minister Kepplinger in cold blood. I didn’t have to, I guess. It seemed right at the time.”
“Does anyone else know?”
Ian shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“We’ll keep that between us, then. Or your dad—”
“My dad can go to hell,” Ian said, dropping the cigarette and grinding it with the heel of his boot.
“You going back inside?”
Ian shook his head. “Nope. Walking back to Silo Street. I’m not much for parties.”
“You want me to walk with you?”
Another low chuckle from Ian. “You gonna hold my hand, too?”
“Only if you ask me nicely.”
They both chuckled at this. Ian walked a ways down the road, a slouching silhouette in the dark. Then he turned back to face Michael.
“She likes you,” he said. “You should go for it.”
Michael frowned. “Who does?”
“Dumbass,” Ian said, shaking his head as he continued his walk back home. He strolled with his hands in his pockets, shaved head tilted back to take in the stars.
“Arielle,” Michael whispered. “You mean Arielle, don’t you?”
People were still singing and dancing inside the café. The lights were on, probably wired to the generator at this point. He considered going back inside, but it was late, and he was tired of all the noise.
He waited ten minutes to give Ian some space, then began the walk toward Silo Street. He had barely started when he heard the door to the café open and close. A female voice called after him.
“Michael, wait.”
He turned, hoping to see Arielle. Instead, Sally Woodhouse bounded up to him, covered in a light sheen of sweat from dancing, wearing a short-sleeved top and tight jeans. Her beauty and upbeat nature seemed untouched by the horrors she had endured in Praetoria. Clearly she possessed a type of strength Michael would never understand.
“Hi, Sally,” he said.
She frowned at him. “Leaving already? This is your night.”
“I’m beat.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t understand you men sometimes. You’re perfectly willing to rush into battle and face death, and even take a life if need be, but when it comes to approaching a woman, you’re just—you turn into little boys.”
Michael held up his hands to slow her down.
“Sally, hold on. You’re incredibly beautiful and everything. I just—well, for one thing—”
She made a tsk sound and rolled her eyes. “Not me, stupid. Arielle. She was just asking about you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Michael looked over Sally’s shoulder at the Cold War Café, where he could see figures moving beyond the windows, embracing and wishing each other a good night. Arielle was probably in there right now, cleaning up after everyone.
Maybe he should offer to help? And once everyone else was gone, maybe he could pull her aside and speak the words he’d been imagining sharing with her.
“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not meant to stay here long. I have to go to New Dallas at some point. It’s been the plan all along.”
Sally looked away in deep disappointment.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Michael. You’ll be missed.”
He shrugged. “It’s still six or eight months away, maybe longer.”
“And you can’t possibly spend that time with her?”
Michael felt a thrill quiver inside his chest, as if a string connecting his heart and stomach had been plucked.
“If I did that, I don’t know if I could leave afterward.”
“Then don’t leave.”
“What?”
Sally narrowed her eyes at him. “Then. Don’t. Leave. Who’s forcing you?”
He stared past her at the darkened buildings of Gulch, the rooftops a watery, peaceful shade of blue in the moon’s ligh
t. He felt safe here, comfortable, and suddenly the thought of leaving brought a sour taste to his mouth. His reasons had something to do with his parents, and Benny, and bringing justice to the men who had killed them, and Blake’s suggestion that he join the New Dallas Republic’s army so he’d be able to defend himself against Harris Kole’s men; against men like that telepath he’d seen in Praetoria.
With Arielle’s face in mind, none of that seemed to matter anymore.
“Can I tell you something personal, Mike?”
He nodded. “Please.”
“I’ve spent the past five years letting strange men do unspeakable things to my body. And the whole time, all I wanted, all I could fantasize about, was having a good man by my side, someone who would love me for the rest of my life. I didn’t think I’d ever have that. I look at you and Arielle, and you know what I see? I see fear and love, and the fear is killing the love instead of the other way around, like it should be.”
“But Arielle? Does she—”
“Yes,” Sally said, nodding firmly. “She understands what she could lose, too.”
Smiling, she took Michael’s face in her hands. Her palms were cold and smooth against his skin.
“Let your heart surprise you. It’s the only way to live.”
She pulled away and strode back into the café. The door opened and shut, and she was gone.
Michael jogged the rest of the way home.
Chapter 11
“I’m talkin’ about murder in cold blood,” John Meacham said, leaning back in his chair and jabbing the cigar’s wet end between his teeth.
Warren and Elkin sat before the man’s broad desk. There were three others standing around the room, including the man with a port-wine birthmark covering a quarter of his face; the new addition to their team. Warren didn’t fully trust the man, though he sensed a killer’s cold thoughts behind that nasty stain. Good enough.
“You’re saying the boys killed Joe and Gerry,” Warren said. “Why would they do that?”
Meacham leaned forward, resting one meaty arm on the desk and twisting the cigar between his lips. He blew out a burst of smoke before speaking.
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