Rebel (The Alliance Chronicles Book 4)

by SF Benson

  Backstabbing…

  Self-concerned…

  Ko.

  “Listen, give Tru and me tonight. We’ll stay at the White House. I promise you no trouble.” I need time to regroup with Tru. We might be able to escape before the sun rises.

  “Sorry, son. I can’t do that. She’s going back to North Woods. Her DNA is even more valuable now that she’s pregnant. You and I will leave tonight.”

  Can’t happen. Won’t happen. My fingers lock around the gun’s grip. I say through gritted teeth, “I’m asking you nicely to give me a night with the mother of my child.”

  “And I don’t do nice,” Venter roars. “Get over it. Nothing nice happens in this world.”

  I remove the gun and aim it at his forehead.

  My father’s eyes widen. He takes a cautious step backward. “Are you fucking serious? Would you really kill me?”

  “Says the man who didn’t give my mother a chance.”

  His hands flex. “Taaliba didn’t deserve another chance. She walked out on me, son.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have killed her,” my voice cracks.

  “I gave the order, but I didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Splitting hairs, aren’t you?” I line up the sights and focus.

  “Think about what you’re about to do.” My father lifts his hands.

  “Trust me, I am.” Honestly, I don’t want to take his life. Children don’t kill their parents. I’ve already killed one. The taste from it still lingers in my mouth. Adding another death to my list of crimes is wrong. But if he won’t back down, I’ll have no choice.

  Venter drops a hand to his ear. He tilts his head and listens to whatever is coming through the microphone. His lips purse for a moment as he nods. When the conversation is over, Venter’s eyes lift up and lock on mine.

  “You can have your night, but it won’t change your fate.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I’m not taking any chances. I march across the room, tug on my father’s arm, and place the gun against his temple. “If anything has happened to Tru…”

  He looks at me sideways. “I get it.”

  I shove him forward.

  “Clever and illusory, an expert doesn’t leave a footprint. He is imperceptible and cryptic. It is his actions that will determine the enemy’s outcome.”

  —from “An Introspective on Combative Strategies” by Dawa Zhu

  Tru

  The soldier gripping my arm leans near me while Zared follows his father back into the building. The man’s warm breath hits my cheek as he whispers, “Don’t be scared, Miss Shepard. I’m here to help you.”

  I start to turn my head toward him.

  “No,” he cautions sharply. “Keep looking ahead. Remember, someone may be watching.”

  “Okay, but how can you help me?” I whisper back.

  The man checks over his shoulder. “I work with Carter and Jones. My orders are to get you to the transport vehicle. Carter is waiting for you there. We need to leave.”

  I drag my feet and come to a stop. “I’m not leaving without Zared.”

  “You don’t have a choice if you want to live.” He yanks on my arm and pulls me through the crowd.

  A female soldier cuts off our path. “Where do you think you’re going with the prisoner?”

  “The transport is ready for her,” he announces.

  “Change of plans, Fletcher. CO Bartlett wants to see her.”

  Shit! Not Eden’s aunt! An empty feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Sweat drips down my spine. I just know this won’t end well.

  “I’ll take her,” Fletcher says. “Call it in.”

  The female nods her head, presses the device in her ear, and starts speaking. Fletcher and I walk away.

  He tugs me close. “You know why Bartlett wants to see you.”

  It isn’t a question.

  “Unfortunately,” I admit.

  Fletcher replies, “Then you know what we have to do.”

  “We go in fighting.”

  “Exactly. Can you handle a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  Fletcher eases his grip on my arm before dropping his hand. He presses the in-ear device. “Carter, you there?”

  A few seconds go by.

  “I have the girl, but we have a problem.”

  I listen in as Fletcher relays what has happened—our capture and Bartlett’s request. I’m trying hard to mentally calm the motion in my stomach, but it’s not helping. Eden was supposed to be the last life I took. I don’t know if I’ll be able to kill her aunt, too.

  “Talk to me, Miss Shepard. You’re too quiet. What’s going on?”

  “Just don’t know if I can take another life,” I say.

  We approach a Jeep. Fletcher hops into the driver’s seat. I reluctantly climb in and buckle up. He removes one of the pistols at his hip, looks over his shoulder again, and then passes the weapon to me. I place the gun in the holster I’m still wearing and zip up my jacket.

  “Here’s the thing, Miss Shepard,” Fletcher begins. He starts the engine and navigates the vehicle up the street, retracing the route back to the main building. “None of us, with a few exceptions, want to kill. We do it when it’s necessary. You’re a bright girl. I’m sure you know the difference between need and want.”

  “Doesn’t make it right,” I point out.

  “Survival has nothing to do with right and wrong,” he adds. “When it comes down to your life versus someone else’s, you do whatcha gotta do. Period.”

  I sit back and hug myself against the cold air. Protecting my life—my child’s life—isn’t a question. It’s my soul I’m worried about. On Judgment Day, will my actions be seen as justified and forgivable?

  A woman, the color of warm honey with dark-brown eyes, sits behind Eden’s desk. Strands of wavy hair frame her slightly wrinkled face. Her thin, painted-pink lips are turned down. The high cheekbones, just like Eden’s, let me know exactly who she is. Commanding Officer Carmella Bartlett—the woman who started this war between her niece and my family.

  She stands and adjusts the sleeves on her navy-blue dress tunic. Carmella clasps her hands behind her back and walks toward us. Her eyes dart to Fletcher. “You’re dismissed.”

  He clears his throat. “No disrespect, ma’am, but Leader Venter requested I remain with the prisoner. Apparently, she has escaped a few times.”

  A thoughtful frown knits her sculpted eyebrows together. Her eyes display a momentary flash of temper. “Very well, soldier. You can wait by the door. This prisoner isn’t going anywhere.”

  I flex my fingers but remain quiet. Fletcher’s footsteps retreat toward the elevator.

  The woman circles around me. Her sickeningly strong perfume, a cheap floral fragrance, leaves a ghost trail behind her. “You do know why you’re here?”

  I do. But the overwhelming stench chokes me and makes words difficult.

  “Speechless? I’m sure you had plenty to say to my niece.” She stops in front of me, shoves a finger in my chest, and spits in my face.

  I push back the temptation to strike out. Fletcher told me Carmella will do everything in her power to provoke me. Her goal is to get me to land the first blow. Then anything she does next will be considered self-defense. I settle for wiping her nasty saliva off my cheek.

  “You don’t break easily,” she notes.

  It’s too late for that. I have done all the breaking I’m going to do. I’ve put the pieces back together, and I’m a lot stronger than I was before.

  Her eyes rake over my face. “Too bad. You would have made an excellent soldier.”

  Wrong girl. From what I’ve witnessed, Riza soldiers are automatons. They do what they’re programmed to do. I’ve never been a follower, and I’m not about to start.

  “Explain to me, Miss Shepard, why you killed my niece.” Her head twists side to side like the answer will just appear to her out of thin air. “What did she do to deserve your cold-hearted gesture?”

&
nbsp; My cold-hearted gesture? Is this woman serious? She’s painting Eden out as a victim. There was nothing blameless about her. With great difficulty, I swallow the retort lying on the tip of my tongue.

  Carmella takes a step back. “You surprise me. I expected more of a fight from you.”

  “There’s nothing here worth fighting about,” I quip.

  A thin smile plays on the edge of her lips. “So, that’s what you think? For some reason, Venter thinks your DNA is beneficial. There is nothing special about you. Your DNA can easily be replaced. The authorities have the names of other Creatives to tap. Teens with far more talent than you.”

  My eyes widen. The New Order has a list of the AR’s Creatives. We need to secure that list in order to save them all.

  “Good. I have your attention. Your fate changed when you killed Eden. You won’t be going back to North Woods. This is the proverbial end of the road for you.”

  The knot in the pit of my stomach gets so tight, I can hardly breathe.

  “Fletcher will be escorting you to your execution.” Carmella places a finger against my forehead. “I’m going to pull the trigger myself. Once I blow your brains out, I can enjoy the rest of my life knowing your family no longer exists.”

  When it comes down to your life versus someone else’s, you do whatcha gotta do. Period.

  Be patient. No sudden moves. The moment is coming.

  Carmella walks past me. “Fletcher?”

  As soon as her back is turned, I remove the pistol from the holster beneath my jacket. I make sure the gun is loaded, and steady the weapon with both hands. The sharp sound alerts Carmella.

  She pivots on her heel. “You’re not too bright. Do you think you’re going to shoot me? You won’t leave here alive.”

  Before I can respond, Fletcher steps close with his assault rifle raised. “That won’t be a problem.”

  Awareness hits Carmella, and her facial features sag. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  “But you didn’t.” I wink at Fletcher. Our agreed upon signal.

  He doesn’t hesitate and squeezes the trigger. The slug tears a hole through Carmella’s heart. Blood oozes from between her lips. Her body pitches forward and hits the floor.

  Fletcher toes the body, inspecting his handiwork. The front of her uniform is darkened as the flow of blood continues pouring out. He lifts his eyes. “Like I said, there’s a difference between want and need. Sometimes, however, the line is blurred. She deserved that bullet.”

  “Why would you say that?” I ask and gag on the heavy copper smell filling the room.

  He grabs a nearby trashcan and shoves it toward me. I gratefully put it to good use.

  “I know the story of how she poisoned her niece’s mind about your family.”

  I look up.

  Fletcher takes the wastebasket from me. “It doesn’t matter how I know. I just do. Contrary to opinions around here, there are plenty of Riza who aren’t following the leaders like mindless sheep. We’ve been waiting for our moment to strike back. This is it.”

  I nod. Right now, none of that matters. I need to get back to Zared. My insides quiver like something’s wrong.

  Fletcher taps the device in his ear. “Understood.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We need to get back to the greenhouses. All hell just broke loose.”

  “The vaccine robs creativity and leaves victims in a state of regression—acting like a toddler and unable to function.”

  —from Tru Shepard’s Address to the American Republic

  Tru

  Fear crawls under my skin and shakes my core. This has been a day of choosing between the rock and the hard place. Either choice leaves a body doomed. Honestly, I don’t want to know what this latest obstacle involves. My arms and legs feel like someone’s tied weights to them. All I want to do is curl up and sleep for a week. Keeping up with a fast-moving man who takes long strides is not part of the agenda. I can’t help but drag my ass along.

  Fletcher notices me leaning against the Jeep. “We don’t have time for this. Get in.”

  “Just tell me what’s happened. I need a minute.”

  He mutters something unintelligible and comes over to me. Before I have a chance to protest, he picks me up and places me on the seat. I lean my head back grateful for the help but unable to do anything for myself. Fletcher swears and buckles me in.

  “I’m sorry,” I say after Fletcher cranks the motor. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I understand. Pregnancy makes women tired, but we got problems to solve.”

  Unbelievable! Is my condition the talk of the town?

  My eyes flutter close. “What problems?”

  “Your escape has been compromised.”

  Compromised? My eyes pop open, and I sit up. “How?”

  “Your double was discovered and the body has been disposed of,” he says flatly.

  This is the detail Zared didn’t want me to know. Memories of the girl who looked like me leave an ache in my chest. “What does my clone have to do with anything?”

  Fletcher glances over at me. “Her body was transported back to the CHA for research. The orders were for the body not to be disturbed. Someone disregarded the paperwork. Your clone was cremated ten minutes ago. We were going to use the body to fake your death.”

  Shit! How the hell am I getting out of here now? I bend my neck and rub my forehead. Poor Shara. She deserved better than a hasty cremation.

  “That’s not our only problem,” Fletcher adds.

  He doesn’t have to go into details. Unfortunately, the mob scene in front of us speaks volumes. The Jeep stops near the White House’s driveway. Rifle shots crack in the distance.

  Fletcher throws the vehicle in park and jumps out. I remove my seatbelt.

  “No!” He picks up his rifle and shouts, “Go inside the house. Stay away from the windows.”

  “But—” I’m not sitting still like a child if Zared needs me.

  “You don’t have a choice. I was told to keep you and your baby safe. Now get your ass in the house!” Fletcher runs toward the chaos.

  My heart ricochets and collides within my chest. It goes without saying that I have to think of my baby’s safety. But what about his or her father? Zared can’t fight off a crowd by himself. He’s going to get himself killed.

  I get out of the vehicle, check my weapon, and start walking.

  A loud click sounds next to my ear and my feet freeze.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” A heavily accented male voice asks.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Obviously, nowhere.”

  A hand lands on my forearm and spins me around. The hand belongs to a bald man wearing a dark suit. His stomach protrudes over the waistband. He keeps his pistol trained on me while a soldier takes away my weapon.

  “Your arrogance astonishes me. You have no regard for life.”

  His words drill into me like slugs. I have never taken killing anyone lightly.

  “What the hell are you blabbering about?” My eyes dart past him searching for a possible escape route.

  “You are the one responsible for the deaths of Lieutenant Bartlett and the Commanding Officer.” He speaks to the soldier pressing a weapon in my back, “Bring her along. It’s time we end this charade.”

  The soldier nudges me forward, but my feet stay planted. Common sense overrules my stubbornness. There’s no way I can fight two men with guns and live to tell about it. Slowly, I follow behind the irksome man.

  We spend a few minutes driving past all the long-forgotten sights on New Belle Isle—the cracked tennis courts, the abandoned zoo, and a neglected statue of the German poet Friedrich Schiller—before we navigate through the woods. The curvy road dead-ends, and we’re facing the lagoon. The soldier turns left and then drives into a parking lot. The official building for the Centers for Human Advancement looms ahead.

  The property once housed the Belle Isle Nature Center. When t
he New Order took over the island, the space was converted into the Michigan location of the CHA headquarters. The spherical facade is all that remains of the family-friendly building.

  The Suit enters a code on a panel to the right, and the metal door slides open. Cold sterility envelops us as we step inside. Harsh white lights beam down on us and reflects off the gleaming floors. We stop at a circular desk where the Suit inputs information into a computer.

  An automated female voice greets us. “Welcome to the Centers for Human Advancement—making dreams of a brighter tomorrow possible for all citizens today. Alexei Grekov, you are expected on the third floor. Have a wonderful evening.”

  The soldier pushes me forward into a narrow, windowless hallway. At the end of the corridor is an elevator with its glistening doors open. When I refuse to move, Grekov shoves me inside. The doors close. I watch the infrared numbers, displayed on a side panel, tick up from LL.

  “Where are you taking me?” I finally ask.

  His faded blue eyes settle on me. “The place you should have been weeks ago.”

  Sweat drips down my back. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts.

  “If the correct measures had been taken, none of this nonsense would have happened.” Grekov continues in a firmer voice. “But no one chose to listen to me. In my home country, these matters would be handled differently. Here, you people are too…what is the right word…thoughtful.”

  The word hangs in the air like an expletive.

  Yeah, we’re thoughtful people. We care for those we love. It’s assholes like him that took my family away from me. These pricks forced me to kill anyone threatening my freedom. I didn’t risk my life fighting for my creativity to see it all end with a syringe. I might not be able to take out both of these men, but I’ll die trying.

  The elevator doors swoosh open. We walk down another corridor before stopping in front of a glass entrance. Grekov leans his head near a retinal scanner. The surface of the double door glows green. Another computerized voice—this one male—greets us. “Alexei Grekov, you are permitted entry. Next person.”

  The soldier yanks me over to the scanner.