by Summer Lane
“I’ve got three,” he shrugs. “They’re not as good as you or your team, but they’re accurate enough when it comes to shooting things up.”
I nod.
“Good.” I draw a line around the back of the camp. “If there’s five hundred insurgents inside, we’re going to need to blow the whole lid off the camp. We need explosives. Bombs. Semiautomatic weapons.” I look up at Jones. “What kind of weapons do you have?”
“Some rifles, AKs.” He folds his hands together. “RPGs, land mines, grenades. We’ve got a lot of toys. Every time we hunt for these suckers, we come well-prepared.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” I say, smiling. “I want this camp in flames. We’ll smoke them out, and force them to come to us.”
Arlene leans forward and draws a long, curved line along the back of the camp drawing. “There’s a large mountain directly behind the camp,” she explains. “They have no escape. If you could force them forward, you could drive them straight into our waiting arms.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” I reply. “We’ll give them two options: stay in the camp and burn, or run out the front door and get shot.” I lift my shoulders. “Either way, we win.”
I look at the map.
How would Chris handle this? I ask myself. Would he cage them in? Would he force them out?
“Remember,” Manny interrupts, “that we’re after their radio equipment. Without that, we can’t contact Monterey – or the Underground – to warn them about Sky City. We’ll be stuck in the hills for a long, long time.”
“Good point. We want to take down the camp, but we don’t want to raze it to the ground,” I say. “Our priority is to make that call to Monterey. To warn them.”
Vera nods, her icy-blue eyes glued to the crude map in the snow.
“How can we blow the lid off the camp without destroying the radio equipment?” she asks. “I mean, technically speaking, that’s not really doable.”
I think about this before answering.
“We’ll do the best we can,” I say. “At the very least, we can commandeer some vehicles and use them to get out of the mountains. No matter what happens, taking down this camp will be a good thing for everybody.”
Nobody argues with that.
“I’ve got one last question, Commander,” Desmond announces. “If things go south…if we can’t pull this off for any number of reasons…” He looks at me. “What then? Do we peace out or surrender or something?”
“Peace out?” Manny grumbles. “Only cowards peace out.”
“Hey,” I interject. “That’s not a bad question. If things go south, we’ll retreat and head back to Camp Freedom with Commander Jones and the Rangers. That’s our only alternative.”
“We should start moving, then,” Jones says. “It will take us a couple of days to reach the camp, if Arlene’s coordinates are correct.”
“Of course they’re correct,” Arlene replies, obviously insulted. “I don’t make stupid mistakes.”
Desmond raises his eyebrows, looks at me, and points at Manny.
I laugh and stand up.
“Okay,” I say. “We have a plan. Let’s go.”
“This better work,” Vera comments.
“It will,” I say. “It has to.”
In my heart, I have no doubt that I’m right.
*
I’m sitting outside on the front steps of the warehouse in downtown Monterey, California. Chris is inside, talking to someone. Nobody has arrived yet, so I’m just waiting. Down the street, near an old antique shop, a dead body is lying in the gutter. It’s one of our men. He’s young – can’t be older than twenty. His eyes are wide open, staring at the sky.
I rise from the steps and walk toward him, treading softly. When I reach him, I see that the left side of his face is no longer there. It’s been burned off. All that is left is a mass of tissue and white bone. I look at his uniform. The patch above his breast pocket says PETERSON. I take a step back, staring.
I have never seen death in a setting that is not hectic. Men and women have died around me on multiple battlefields, but this is different. This is still, quiet. This is the deep and resounding reminder that our mortality is our biggest weakness.
I turn away from the dead soldier and walk back to the warehouse. I want to tell someone to go take Peterson’s body and bury it, but I know that will be done soon. All of the bodies will be buried somewhere. The Battle of Monterey will be memorialized. And, if God is willing, a hundred years from now, people will remember the sacrifices of these poor young boys.
“Cassidy, you can come in if you want,” Chris says, standing in the doorway.
He looks sad. Knowing.
“Coming,” I tell him.
I stand up.
And I know in that moment that this war is far from over.
It has only just begun.
*
We have been moving toward the insurgency base for an entire day now, camping only for a few hours in the darkness of night to rest. The second day, we are only ten miles away from the camp.
There is not a lot of chitchat. No talking. Everyone is somber, quiet. We are tired, we are cold. We are hungry and homesick. But we keep pressing on.
I am walking toward the front of the group. We move in formation, ghosting through the woods as quietly as we can. I keep my rifle handy. My hand often rests on my belt, reaching for my knife – but it’s not there.
I feel a pang of sadness. That knife was special to me, a gift from Jeff Young.
And now it’s probably been thrown away somewhere in Sky City.
That thought just makes me angrier, and I find myself stomping through the woods, ahead of the rest of the group. I reach the crest of a hill. It has finally stopped snowing, and sunlight is glowing through the dark clouds gathering over the tips of the high mountains.
“It’ll snow again soon,” Manny gathers. “And I sure don’t want to be the one stuck out in the blizzard.”
“What? Being a snowman has no appeal to you?” I ask.
“No. I’d rather maintain my current body temperature.” He helps Arlene up the hill. We look over the scenery. We have dropped at least two thousand feet in elevation. There are more trees here, and the terrain is not as choppy – or as rocky.
“Onward, folks,” I say.
I keep moving. My boots knock the snow off the top of a patch of sweet-smelling bear clover. It reminds me of my family cabin, and I get a flash of pleasant childhood memories. I actually smile.
A gunshot zings right by my head.
The sound of the bullet makes my ears ring. I duck, hitting the ground on my palms. The bullet hits a tree behind me, leaving a hole in the bark. Up ahead, I see a flicker of movement. Dark cloth and rustling leaves.
“What was that!?” Vera yells.
I run. I don’t stop to talk or think. I just follow the flicker in the forest, sprinting as fast as I can. My muscles burn, sweat slides down my forehead. I don’t care. I can see the movement of the enemy up ahead. Whoever attacked us is quiet and clever – but not clever enough. His fear of being caught is making him noisy – panicked.
I am faster than he is. I am quieter. I am angrier.
I zigzag between trees and plow through dormant beds of fern. I am sure that Uriah and most of the Rangers are right behind me, but I don’t stop to look. I am closing in on my target. I can see boots, dark hair and black clothing. I see the flash of a rifle in the sunlight.
I run at an angle. I am moving faster than he is. Our paths intersect and I slam into him. We tumble over and over again, hitting the ground. I taste blood in my mouth, bitter and metallic. I put my knee on his chest and whip my rifle around. I hold it parallel against his throat, pressing his neck against the ground.
“Don’t move,” I warn.
I look at his face. He is young. Very young. He looks like a child. There is still baby fat in his cheeks, his clear blue eyes glittering against the snow.
Uriah catches up to
us a few seconds later.
“Damn, you’re fast, Cassidy,” he heaves, kneeling beside me. He trains the muzzle of his rifle on the boy’s head. “That’s right. You move, you get a bullet in your skull. Understand?”
I take my knee off the boy’s chest and sling my rifle into my arms.
He looks terrified. His pale cheeks are flushed. I look at his uniform. Black. A red band is tied around his arm. I’ve never seen something like that before.
“What’s this for?” I ask the boy, pulling on the band.
He doesn’t answer. He just lies there, breathing hard, glaring at me.
Eventually, the rest of the group pushes through the woods. Jones rests his rifle on his shoulder, shaking his head.
“He looks like a child,” he remarks.
“He is,” I say. “His uniform has no markings. Just the red band.”
“Insurgency,” Desmond says. “They wear the red bands. It’s supposed to signify blood and death – or something messed up like that. It’s not cool.” He shakes his head. “Poor kid. Why can’t these people just take a chill pill and leave us alone?”
No one replies.
“Messed up,” Desmond mutters.
“How old are you?” I ask the boy, kneeling beside him.
He still says nothing.
“Do you speak English?’ I ask.
I look at Manny.
“What do you think?” I say.
“I think he’s a scout,” he replies. “And we can’t let him go.”
“So we kill him,” Elle states.
Commander Jones raises one eyebrow.
“I see your niece is no stranger to taking another man’s life,” he remarks, glancing at Manny. “Is that something she learned from you?”
“I learned on my own, actually,” Elle retorts. “I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking. We can’t let him go – he’ll tell the insurgents that we’re coming.”
I ponder this.
Elle is right, of course. Not only did he try to kill me, he will alert the insurgents at the base that we are on our way to torch their camp.
“We’ll keep him alive,” I say. “For now.”
“That’s a waste of energy and resources—” Vera begins, but I cut her off, an idea forming in my head.
“If he doesn’t talk, we’ll make him talk.” I shrug.
He swallows.
I think of Arlene, how she almost died - how I was tortured, over and over again. Why should I show any mercy to an Omega insurgent?
Why should I be any different?
Still, nothing.
I stand up and press my boot against his throat. No one says anything, nobody tries to stop me. Why should they? I press hard enough to make him cough and sputter. His face turns a pale shade of purple.
“Are there other scouts out here?” I ask. “Has anyone else seen us? How long have you been following us?”
He chokes and struggles against my boot, but I have the leverage. I keep him down. “Cassidy…” Uriah begins, but I give him a look.
He backs down.
“Tell me what you know, or I will kill you,” I say.
“You are militia,” the boy says at last. His voice is heavily accented. “What is your name?”
I lift my rifle into my shoulder.
“My name is Cassidy Hart,” I say, peering through the sights, centering them on his chest.
There is so much fear in his eyes. Pure terror.
“No!” he begs. “Please, no! Don’t kill me, please!”
“Why should I let you live?” I ask, never moving. “You tried to kill me.”
“I was only doing my job, Fraulein.”
I pause.
“You’re German,” I say.
“Please,” he pants, holding his arms up. “When I was very young, Omega brought me here. Slave trade. Human trafficking, you Americans call it. I have trained in these mountains since I was a child, waiting for the right moment to strike.”
I feel a pang of sadness.
A poor, innocent boy, brought overseas by Omega years ago, in preparation for the EMP and invasion.
“And when does Omega think the right time to strike actually is?” I ask.
“Now,” he replies. A strange smile spreads across his lips.
“Are there any other scouts in these woods?”
“Just me, Fraulein. Just me.”
I don’t believe him.
“How many men are at your camp?” I ask.
“Thousands.”
“You’re lying.” I press the cold, steel muzzle of my rifle in the center of his rifle. “Lie to me one more time. I dare you.”
He goes still.
“How many?” I demand.
“Two hundred.” He blanches. “Fraulein, you stand no chance against us with a force this small.”
“Yes, we do, actually.” I take the rifle from my shoulder and sling it across my back. “You’re going to help us, blondie.”
I step aside and Uriah grabs the kid by the scruff of the neck, gathering all his weapons.
“Exactly how is the string bean going to help us take down the camp?” Vera asks. “I don’t think he could figure out how to hunt a deer, let alone a person. He missed you by a mile.”
“Trust me,” I reply. “He will help us.”
I turn to the boy, his hands now tied in front of him.
“You got a name, kid?” I ask.
He glares at me once again.
“Have it your way.” I shrug. “Okay, listen up, people. We’re closing in on the camp. We can assume that there are more scouts like Doctor Obvious over here, so we need to keep a low profile. No more talking. I want silence.” I gauge the position of the sun. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. We need to move quickly.”
“And how does sunshine factor into all this?” Uriah asks, shoving the boy toward me. “He’s just dead weight.”
“We’ll use him to draw the insurgents out of the camp,” I say.
In my mind, I see the pieces of an elaborate puzzle coming together. I feel a jolt of electricity, and I realize that I’m excited. Scared to death? Sure. But excited. The rush of going on a mission is a thrill ride like no other.
My name is Cassidy Hart, I think. I am vengeance.
Chapter Thirteen
It is the dead of night. I lay prone on the crest of a hill, looking at a scene that will probably never fade from my memory. The insurgency camp is nestled snugly against the side of a mountain peak. It is hidden in the shadow of a cliff, invisible from the air. From my vantage point, it is little more than a collection of barracks with a chain link fence around it. Barbed wire tops the fence, and outside that, another layer of fencing surrounds the perimeter. The electric fence.
Dark, dangerous thunderheads are closing fast, blotting out the moonlight. It is difficult to see anything, but dim, orange lights around the camp allow me to make out shapes and movement.
I have my rifle tucked into my shoulder, keeping my eyes on the camp through the scope. I feel oddly comfortable like this. Calm. It is what I am used to – it’s what I know. Uriah lies prone beside me, silent. There are Rogue Rangers all around us, hidden in the trees.
There are only two guard towers in camp – both in the front. Because there is nothing but a rock wall behind the camp, no one is really watching that area of the fence.
“You think this will work?” Uriah whispers.
“It’s the best I’ve got,” I reply.
A muddy road curves to the entrance of the camp. There’s a roadblock and checkpoint there. Cement blocks are set up around the camp, too – probably to keep vehicles from charging through the gates, I guess. The barracks are quiet tonight. Only one building is lit from the inside, flickering with orange lamplight.
“These suckers are quiet,” Uriah says.
“And to think that they’ve been training insurgents for at least two decades,” I reply. “Kind of makes me sick.”
“It makes all of us sick
.”
I sweep the trees, then return my focus to the muddy road that curves toward the camp entrance. I watch carefully as a shadowy figure starts walking down the road. I keep my sights trained on his head.
Please let this work, I pray.
The figure walking toward the camp is the boy that we captured earlier today. Stripped of his weapons, I told him to march into camp and tell the guards at the first checkpoint that a huge force of militia soldiers are coming up the road. The purpose, of course, is to draw the insurgents out of their barracks and send them on a wild goose chase while we take the camp. Their numbers will be cut in half, and when the rest of the insurgents return from their fruitless mission, we’ll be waiting.
But it all depends on whether or not the scout follows through.
“If you do anything suspicious – anything that even slightly looks wrong,” I warned him earlier, “I will shoot you.” I motioned to Uriah, Vera and myself. “We are all snipers. We can kill you from a mile away. You understand? If you alert them to our presence, we will take you out.”
He nodded then, trembling.
“You know what to say. Tell them you were captured by scouts, that you escaped,” I went on. “Tell them you barely escaped with your life. Tell them that we’re coming for the camp, and they should cut us off on the mountain roads, below the camp.”
He nodded again.
“Remember,” I continued, tapping my rifle. “I hold your life in my hands. Don’t mess this up.”
I have no regrets. I am not sorry for threatening the boy – he’s not innocent. Yes, he was trained to kill, and he didn’t have any choice. But the fact remains that, regardless of how he became the bad guy, he is the bad guy. And because of that, I won’t cut him any slack.
I don’t pity the enemy. I pity their victims.
I keep my sights trained on the scout’s head as he approaches the front gate. There is a flurry of activity at the checkpoint. Omega guards – dressed in the same, unmarked black uniform as the scout – emerge from within the gates to greet their missing man. There is talking. I watch the scout’s face. It’s difficult to discern what he’s saying, but it looks like it’s going well.