Collapse Series (Book 7): State of Destruction

by Summer Lane

  Elle is a smart girl. Sharp and decisive.

  “Find him,” I say, “if you can. If he’s still here, we’ll kill him.”

  “We’ll question him before we do that,” Chris adds under his breath.

  I step away from him, agitated. Elle takes Bravo to the body again and Bravo growls softly. She utters a command to the dog and he moves around the hall, his nose to the ground, following an unseen trail of scent. We all follow the canine through the halls of the prison. He does his job with lightning speed, and we are almost running to keep up with his progress. He breaks outside, into the night air, unwavering. Elle runs ahead of us, and the rest of us follow. The dog winds through different pathways, but his destination is, to me at least, clear. We end up at the docks. The cold bay water splashes against the floating platform.

  In the distance, I see it: a small boat, almost a speck, spiriting across the water, toward the mainland. Bravo barks manically.

  “He got away,” Elle murmurs.

  “No, he didn’t,” Chris replies. “Cassidy—”

  “Already on it,” I say.

  I spin around and sprint toward the guardhouse. There are two soldiers inside, keeping an eye on the docks.

  “Commander,” the first one says. “What can I do for you?”

  “Radio the Mainland Docks. Tell them to hold whoever’s on that boat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He picks up the radio. “Do we have a situation, Commander?”

  “A man was killed,” I reply. “The murderer is on that boat.”

  He nods, understanding.

  He holds the radio to his mouth, signaling the docks. I leave the guardhouse, full of anger. Manny walks to the edge of the docks and squints.

  “Something’s wrong,” he mutters.

  “I know,” Elle replies.

  Bravo barks again. This time, it is a desperate sound. A warning.

  I follow their line of sight, watching the boat speed toward the mainland dock. It is not losing speed. My eyes widen, realization dawning. But it is too late. The vessel smashes into the dock and the boat explodes, sending a small Shockwave through the water. A pillar of orange flames leaps into the air, breaking through the foggy mist.

  Vera raises a hand to her mouth. My chest constricts.

  “I don’t understand,” Vera says, turning to me.

  I look at the guardhouse. The soldiers inside are frantically radioing the rest of the island. I sink to one knee and take a deep breath, watching the flames dance across the horizon.

  Alcatraz is suddenly awake. Militiamen and women swarm the docks, bewildered. “Sir, we’ve lost all radio contact with the docks,” one of the guards tells Chris.

  That’s because they’re all dead.

  My mind races, replaying the events of the night. Me, restlessly sleeping in my cell, finding Eli dead in the hallway, a venomous threat, the boat crashing into the docks, killing everyone there…

  I stand up, and I see Uriah rush onto the dock, approaching me before anyone else. “What happened?” he demands. He is armed and ready.

  “Eli Morales was murdered,” I say. “Whoever did it just crashed a boat into the mainland docks. There was a bomb onboard.”

  “Obviously,” he agrees.

  “I have no idea who did this,” I say quietly.

  “We’ll find out.”

  A Coast Guard Cutter is sputtering near the dock. I see Captain Ray onboard. He waves at us. “Come on!” he yells. “I’ll take you across!”

  I sling my weapon across my back and board the Coast Guard Cutter with Chris. Uriah follows, but Vera and Manny stay behind to help organize the troops on the island. I step onboard, feeling a tremor beneath my skin.

  The last time I was on a cutter, the boat was blown up and everyone onboard died…except for me.

  Focus on the task at hand.

  We speed away from Alcatraz, spewing water through the air, freezing droplets splattering on my cheeks and slipping down my jacket. I grasp the railing firmly, and before long, we have cut through the bay, loitering just beyond the mainland docks.

  The docks are gone. There are charred, black splinters floating in the water. The shoreline is on fire. I see dead bodies in the bay, facedown, lifeless. I bite my lip as Captain Ray takes the cutter around the wreckage and docks the boat away from the scene of destruction. We climb onto an abandoned, unused dock. I don’t stick around. I run, breathing hard, pushing myself faster and faster until I reach the scene of destruction.

  Chris is right behind me, followed by Uriah and the Captain.

  The guardhouse has been blown to bits. There is only crackling fire. Some grass and shrubbery are still burning. Militiamen and women from the city are here in their vehicles, pumping water from the bay, hosing down the fire.

  “Why would someone kill themselves just to blow up a dock?” Captain Ray wonders, his face grave.

  “They didn’t kill themselves,” Chris snorts. “This wasn’t a suicide bomber. Whoever did this wasn’t on the boat.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Uriah asks, a note of cynicism in his voice.

  “Because whoever did this was smart enough—and skilled enough—to get on the island, kill Eli Morales, and hijack a boat to blow up the docks,” Chris explains. “This wasn’t meant to be a strategic blow. This was meant to be a warning. A terrorist attack, if you will. And someone that smart wouldn’t kill themselves for something like this.”

  “So you think the killer jumped off the boat before it exploded?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “But the bay is freezing,” I point out. “They’d be dead.”

  “Not with the right diving equipment.” Chris shrugs. “It’s what I would do.”

  I understand. Chris would know.

  “Somebody really wants us to leave San Francisco,” Uriah says.

  At this, Chris tenses up.

  “We’re not leaving,” he states.

  “Nobody’s saying that we’re going to—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

  “They want us to give into the fear.”

  “We’re not going to.”

  “When you talked to Harry in prison,” Chris grits out, “what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “I was asking him what he knew about Red Grove.”

  “You told Harry about Red Grove?”

  “He already knows about it.”

  “Cassidy, you should have never brought that to his attention.” He looks mad. “Omega is hiding everywhere—even in our ranks. Harry could tell anyone.”

  “Harry is a prisoner of war,” I argue. “Who is he going to tell?”

  “Anyone. If someone found out, that could have sparked this attack…”

  I think Chris is wrong. I do not think this is about Red Grove. I think this is about fear. I think this is simply about Omega wanting to get the militias out of San Francisco.

  Chris shakes his head. I can see by the look on his face that he has made up his mind that this is Harry’s fault—that this is my fault. Because I talked to Harry about Red Grove, and because if it is going to be traced back to anyone, it might as well be him.

  “Maybe it’s time we finally end Harry,” Chris says, his jaw clenched.

  I look at him.

  “You said he wouldn’t be executed without a fair war tribunal,” I say.

  “I know what I said,” he snaps, blazing.

  He hoists his gun, avoiding my gaze, and moves closer to the fire. I remain in place, staring after him, wondering what on earth has happened to the two of us. Have we both become so cold to the war—so frustrated with the constant killing and horror—that we are losing ourselves?

  Or are we just tired and afraid?

  “He’s angry, Cassidy,” Uriah says quietly. “But not at you.”

  “No,” I reply. “It’s me. It’s always me.”

  I follow Chris, too charged with adrenaline and anger to cry, trailing after him at a distance. He doesn’t turn to talk to me. He doesn’t
even acknowledge my presence.

  For some reason, this hurts me more than anything.

  We approach the vehicles on the pavement, working on the fire. There is not a lot they can do to fix this. The damage has been done. The flames are dying. The soldiers are dead.

  Chris retreats from the fire, tense and infuriated.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer.

  And I know he is going to see Harry Lydell, and that he is going to kill him.

  Chapter Eight

  I watch Chris go. I tap the holster on my thigh, weighing my options.

  I can stay here and let Chris go to the prison, kill Harry, and be done with him. Or I can follow him, beg him to stop, and to let Harry have a trial.

  Since the beginning—since Chris began training the Freedom Fighters in the secluded hills of Squaw Valley—Harry Lydell has always been a thorn in our side. If Chris wasn’t ready to kill him, then I was, and between the two of us, we were able to keep our urge to eliminate his existence from becoming a reality. As a leader of the Omega movement, Harry is a valuable prisoner of war, and he must be tried before he can be executed.

  Our usage of lawful procedure is what makes us different from Omega.

  We give everyone a fair chance…even those who do not deserve it.

  “Are you going to let him go?” Uriah asks.

  I don’t answer.

  “You should stop him,” Uriah continues. “He’ll thank you later.”

  “Honestly,” I reply. “At this point, I don’t think he would.”

  “You don’t know that it was Harry who caused this.”

  “We don’t not know it.”

  “Cassidy.” Uriah gives me a hard, long look.

  I heave a great sigh.

  “Fine.” I step closer to him. “But you’re coming with me.”

  He nods, a slight smile playing on the edges of his lips.

  I move away and hurry down the street, going after Chris. My only companion in the shadows is Uriah, and together, we move without being seen or heard.

  Chris is faster than we are, though, even at our best. He winds through the city streets. He knows he is being followed, and he does nothing to lose us. We enter the city—the ongoing, dark maze of brick and pavement. It takes the better part of an hour, but we reach the prison building. The guards at the entrance let us right in—they know us by sight. Inside, it is quiet and dimly lit, orange torchlight dancing on the concrete.

  I lead the way through the corridors. We reach the locked doorway that signals the beginning of the maximum-security cells. The door is open and guards are rushing in and out of the hall.

  My heart drops to my stomach.

  I run. I rush into the hall, stopping at Harry’s cell. Chris is standing outside the bars, a troubled expression on his face. Harry is lying on the floor, his throat and shirt soaked in ruby-red blood. I gasp. Harry is coughing, wincing, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  He is still alive, but he is barely hanging on.

  “What happened?” I breathe, swallowing.

  Chris doesn’t look at me.

  “The guards say it was a suicide attempt,” he answers.

  “And failed, by the looks of it,” Uriah remarks, unperturbed.

  I look at the floor, unable to watch Harry suffering like this. As much as I despise what he has done, I will never be able to separate him from the kind-hearted young man who befriended me in the concentration camp so long ago. Regardless of his intentions at the time, he was there when I needed him to be, and although he is evil now, I don’t want to see him suffer. Yes, he deserves it. In fact, he deserves much worse.

  “Coward,” Chris mutters.

  I hug my arms tightly around my chest.

  I remember the look of terror on Harry’s face when I mentioned Red Grove…when he thought Veronica Klaus would trace our operation back to some kind of information that he gave me.

  I wonder if that is what spurred this suicide attempt.

  Is Veronica really so terrifying?

  I walk to the edge of the hall and stare at the wall, unable to watch the bloody mess. Harry makes desperate gurgling noises, choking on his own blood. I leave the maximum-security unit and go into the empty hall just beyond it as the medics tend to Harry, doing their best to treat his wounds.

  Uriah follows me, but Chris remains standing in the same spot, wordlessly staring at Harry’s struggling form. I want to cry, but the tears do not come. I am beyond such a show of emotion tonight. I am dry.

  “You really think he tried to kill himself?” Uriah whispers.

  I search his face. He is serious.

  “Yes,” I reply. “Harry’s fear of Veronica Klaus and the Western Council were very real. He warned me that to challenge them was to bring a fate worse than death.”

  “You sure that’s not Omega talking?” Uriah presses. “They use fear to get what they want. The Western Council might not be as bad as you think it is.”

  I shake my head.

  “No,” I reply. “It’s worse.”

  Several minutes pass. A long, tense silence.

  “Harry will live,” Chris says at last, appearing at the doorway. “Barely, but he’ll live.”

  He looks tired. I nod.

  “We need to scout Red Grove,” he goes on, heaving a deep breath. “Before someone finds out that we know about the Western Council’s location.”

  “They probably already know,” I point out.

  “We’ll just have to chance it,” Chris replies at last. “The safety of California is at stake. Omega has already destroyed too much. They need to be stopped.”

  His words ring true, but somewhere deep inside me, I hear Harry’s words:

  Cross Veronica Klaus, and she will not only destroy you, but everything you love.

  I do not doubt that he was telling me the truth.

  *

  Harry does live, but he is so deeply wounded that he cannot speak or move. He lies on the cot in the cell, staring at the ceiling, tied to the bed and threaded with IV drips.

  I stand at the door of his cell, beside one of the guards in the maximum-security unit. He is tall and dark-skinned, young and strong.

  “I didn’t hear him,” he says, his voice deep. “I was making my rounds, and I found him on the floor, a big, bloody mess. Tried to kill himself with a piece of sharpened metal he’d been hiding under his mattress.”

  “Were there any signs of a struggle?” I ask.

  “No, ma’am. There hasn’t been anybody to visit Harry since you were last here,” he goes on, “aside from the militia chaplain.”

  “Eli Morales?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Did they talk?”

  “They did.”

  “Did you overhear anything they said?”

  “No, ma’am, I did not.”

  My heart sinks.

  “What do you know about Eli Morales, soldier?” I ask.

  “He’s a good man,” the guard replies. “He’s been through a lot. The Collapse took his wife. Died in a car accident the night it all went down.” He shakes his head. “But he’s still got two daughters.”

  “He has family?” I bite my lip. “Where?”

  “Militia housing,” he answers. “Why?”

  “Eli is dead. He was murdered tonight by whoever destroyed the mainland docks.”

  The guard’s eyes widen.

  “No,” he whispers.

  “I’m sorry,” I answer. “Can you put me in contact with his daughters?”

  I do not know why, but I feel as if I need to be the one to tell Eli’s children that their father is never coming home. It only seems fair. He died because he got involved with me.

  It seems to be a common theme in my life these days.

  Those who know me, die.

  “Go to militia housing on the Embarcadero, the eastern waterfront roadway. The guards there can direct you to their quarters,” the guard tells me. “And Commander
?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. He really was a good man.”

  I walk toward the prison door, which is now closed and locked. The guard follows me, pulling the keys from his belt.

  “What are you going to tell his children?” he asks.

  I stand at the door.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Listen. I want you to watch Harry’s cell like a hawk. Nobody visits him except for militia leaders. Nobody. Understand?”

  “Perfectly, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  He unlocks the door and lets me out.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” I ask.

  “Proper,” he answers. “Jack Proper.”

  “Carry on, Proper.”

  I leave. By the time I reach the center of the prison, Uriah and Chris are waiting for me outside on the street. It is nearly dawn, and the gray smudge of smoke still clings to the fog in the harbor.

  “I need to find Eli’s children,” I tell them. “They need to know that their father’s dead.”

  Chris’s eyes become hooded.

  “I’ll come with you,” he offers.

  An apology? A peace offering?

  I don’t know.

  “I’ll go alone,” I tell him. “I need to do this.”

  Chris looks at me. He may not understand my reasoning, and he may not like it, but one thing is clear: even in our disagreements, he still loves me. I can see it in his eyes.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be at the docks.” He looks at Uriah, harshly. “And so will you.”

  Uriah doesn’t argue. Chris is, after all, his commander.

  I turn on my heel and leave in silence. There is something surreal about the aftershock of what has happened. Something dreamlike.

  Am I really here? Is this really happening?

  The sidewalks are empty, and my footsteps are hollow against the concrete. I am familiar with the layout of the city from the many maps on Alcatraz, and I find my way to a large apartment complex near the shoreline, on the embarcadero. I can tell that these buildings were once high-end, expensive living spaces. Now they have been commandeered by the militia.

  There is a perimeter around the complex: barbed wire, watchdogs, patrols and vehicles. The entrance is barricaded by concrete blocks and vehicles. I walk through the blockade and stop at the guardhouse.