Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “Alrighty,” Greg said. “Let’s move out.”

  Ashlee’s heart felt heavy as they headed for Jamansky’s patrol car, knowing they were leaving without her. She hated letting them go in her place—especially since she was the only one there with nobody left to live for.

  As Richard opened the back door for his three “prisoners,” Ashlee ran up to him.

  “What can I do?” she asked. “Give me something to do while you’re inside, or I’ll go crazy.”

  Richard O’Brien pulled the car keys from the green, stolen patrol uniform. “Would you like to chauffeur? We’ll probably be coming out on a dead run.”

  Ashlee nodded. “I’ll wait outside of the gate. I’ll wait all night if I have to.” And hopefully her wait wouldn’t be for nothing. Because she didn’t know what she would do if these people she barely knew—but already considered friends—never came back.

  fifty-eight

  “YOU’RE LATE,” A GUARD SAID.

  “Tell me about it,” Greg growled. He was wrestling with Isabel who was putting on a better “traitor” show than Greg had bargained for. She writhed all over the place. With all her training, she was strong and fast. His stiff, black uniform made it hard to keep hold of her. He wanted to poke her and tell her to cool it. Richard, looking surprisingly official in Jamansky’s green uniform, held Carrie and Braden’s arms tightly. Both of them remained perfectly compliant.

  The guard typed something into his computer. “Your name?”

  “Chief David Jamansky,” Greg said, still struggling. At the same time, he worked to control his southern accent so he didn’t sound like an outsider. “Any idea where Cliff Watson is? I’m supposed to deliver these three to him.”

  “Yeah,” the guard said. “Cliff just went back that way.”

  Once the information came up on the screen, the guard studied Carrie, Isabel, and Braden, looking suddenly suspicious. “This says two of the prisoners are teenagers.”

  Braden and Carrie, the younger ones, were nineteen and twenty-three. Obviously not close enough to teenagers.

  “The rebels exaggerated their ages,” Greg said. “To get out of full prison sentences. Believe me, they’re not kids.”

  The guy chuckled. “Alright. They’re about ready to start, Chief Jamansky. Give me your papers, and we’ll get you through quickly.”

  Isabel suddenly jerked to the side, nearly yanking Greg over. “I won’t go down without a fight, you Nazi scum! You’re going to regret—”

  Greg whirled and whacked her across the cheek. He hated doing it, but she’d told him to. With a cry of pain, she doubled over.

  Hand stinging, Greg said to the guard, “I’m going to miss the whole thing if I don’t hurry. Come on. Let me through.”

  “Fine.” The guard waved them back. “If you need help with that dark-haired one, ask the guards at the checking station. They’ll help you escort her back to the holding cell.”

  “Thanks,” Greg said. “I won’t be sorry when her head rolls.”

  Laughing, the guard pointed down the hallway. “First corner on your left. Once they’ve checked the prisoners, follow the hallway from there. Cliff Watson should be near the elevator.”

  Greg yanked on Isabel and started forward. Richard and the others followed.

  As they cleared the first corner, Greg’s pulse kicked up a notch. He’d been in this exact spot before. The cubbies. The poorly-lit hallway. Down the first cubby, sumo-sized guards had strip-searched him and found the marks on his back and shoulder. Then they’d beaten him to unconsciousness.

  If any guards recognized him today…

  His mind screamed at him for dragging Carrie into this. Carrie. Braden. All of them.

  He leaned close to Isabel and whispered, “They’ll check the prisoners for what?”

  “They’re just going to frisk us,” Isabel said. “Make sure we didn’t sneak in any weapons.”

  Frisking was okay. Anything more, and Greg would have to snap a few necks. His gaze flickered back to Carrie. She flashed a quick smile. So far, so good, she seemed to say. He wished he felt the same.

  Facing front again, he caught sight of the bright red spot across Isabel’s cheek.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Don’t be. You hit like a girl.” Then Isabel also smiled.

  Greg told himself to calm down. This could work. Carrie and Isabel obviously thought it would. He took several calming breaths as they marched on.

  A new group of guards met them, thankfully none Greg recognized.

  “What’s this?” one asked.

  “Latecomers,” Greg said, trying to sound official again. “I’m Chief Jamansky from the Kane County Unit. Let us through. The guard back there said they’re ready to start.”

  “We’ll be fast.”

  The guards circled Isabel, Carrie, and Braden. “Hands on your heads,” they ordered. “Feet apart.”

  Greg cringed as they started frisking Carrie and the others. Pockets. Pants. Even patting down Greg’s lucky shirt that Carrie still wore. Intrusively, they checked every possible spot for weapons. Handcuffed and helpless, the three of them complied, though Carrie’s neck turned a splotchy red.

  Once the guards finished with the prisoners, they turned to Greg and Richard and did the same, patting them down. Greg panicked. He hadn’t been expecting that. Sure enough, a guard extracted Jamansky’s gun that Greg had stashed inside his belt.

  Scowling, the guard held it in front of Greg. “No outside weapons, chief. They’re providing a weapon for you.”

  “I knew that,” Greg said. “Sorry. I dumped all my other guns. I forgot I keep that baby tucked in there. Can I have it back after the ceremony? It’s my good luck charm.”

  The guard tossed it in a bucket. “Sure. Check back here after, and we’ll have it for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  As they moved down the next long, empty hallway, Greg glanced back at Carrie. Hands still bound in front of her, she seemed to be holding up fine. He didn’t know how. He felt like he could sleep for a month.

  Now that they were in, he scanned every door and corner as they walked for a dark spot to hide. Isabel did the same. She pointed at a door to the side, a women’s bathroom, and motioned to Richard. Taking the cue, Richard darted inside and was back out in seconds.

  “It’s clear,” Richard said.

  The five of them ducked inside the women’s bathroom. Isabel searched every spot, checking the vents and air ducts.

  Stopping near the sinks, Isabel pointed upward. “I think there’s a room right above us that connects to McCormick’s old office. I can make it from there.” She pointed to Braden and Richard. “This is where we break off. Let’s go.”

  Greg fished out the handcuffs and released Braden and Isabel, but not Carrie. Carrie would remain Greg’s decoy prisoner until they found out where Oliver and McCormick were being held.

  “Good luck,” Braden said.

  “Be safe,” Richard added with a look meant for Greg as much as anyone. Richard O’Brien seemed to be the only other person who saw the endless potentials for failure in this plan. The man seemed to have aged a decade over the last week alone.

  There were a thousand things Greg wanted to say to his stepdad—and to Braden who was too naïve to realize what he’d volunteered for—but Isabel was already up on the counter, pushing ceiling tiles aside. Greg had no clue how they would get up and through, but he trusted her to make it work.

  “We’ll see all of you soon,” Carrie said, remaining the optimist Greg needed her to be. Yet under the bright bathroom lights, her skin looked pale, her pupils, wide as she watched them climb onto the counter. She was more frightened than she was letting on.

  Greg faced her suddenly. “Go with them.” He motioned to the others. “Go, Carrie. I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doin’ now.”

  She shook her head. “No way.”

  “Or stay here as a lookout,” Greg tried desperately. “Please.”

&
nbsp; “If you don’t have me,” she said, “they’ll just send you straight outside to the platform. You need me to find the holding cell with Oliver and McCormick. We said we’d stay together, so let’s go.”

  Without further argument, she started for the hallway.

  Sick, Greg followed. He took her arm, keeping her close to him, closer than an officer should keep a prisoner, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to feel her warmth, to inhale the scent of her hair one last time in case something went wrong—on either side of this insane plan.

  He leaned down and whispered in her good ear, “As soon as we figure out where the holding cell is, I’m gonna release your cuffs, and then you and I are gonna hide until we figure out what to do next.”

  Her head fell against his shoulder for the briefest second. “Sounds good.”

  Sudden footsteps broke out in front of them, around a corner out of sight. Greg stepped a foot away from Carrie just as an older man with large glasses came into view. The man strode right toward them, wearing a federal patrol uniform.

  “Chief Jamansky, I presume,” the man said, extending a hand. “It’s so good to see you, sir. I’m Cliff Watson, Mayor Phillips’ friend. We spoke on the phone. Thank you for joining us today. Glad you finally made it.”

  “Barely in time,” Greg said.

  “Well, it’s an honor to have you all the same.” Cliff glanced sideways. “You only brought the one prisoner after all?”

  “Yeah. I…ended up shooting the younger ones,” Greg said. “They were causing too much trouble. This one is pretty docile, though. Plus, I thought she’d look good on the big screen.”

  The second he said the words, his insides crawled—especially as Cliff looked Carrie up and down long enough that Greg wanted to punch the guy.

  “Definitely,” the man said. “She’ll make a nice addition to our sorry group. They’re an ugly bunch. Here, chief. I’ll walk with you and show you where to take her. Then I’ve got your weapon ready.”

  “Oh,” Greg said, pulse jumping, “just point me in the right direction. I can find the holding cell myself. I’m sure you have a lot of last minute preparations.”

  “It’s no bother. Everything is all set. I need to explain the procedures to you anyway.”

  Cliff started off.

  Frantic, Greg tried to hang back with Carrie, but the man just turned to face them as he spoke, like a tour guide, giving details while walking backwards.

  “We only have about ten minutes in which I’ll get you your weapon,” Cliff said. “Then when we give you the signal, all of you on the firing squad will march, single file, out onto the platform. Try to make it look like you practiced with the rest of them. Left, right, left. I’m sure you remember your training days. You’ll stand at attention during the rest of President Rigsby’s speech. I apologize that I don’t know how long that will be. They don’t tell us that kind of thing.”

  Greg was hardly listening. He was in full panic mode. He had nowhere to stash Carrie. The hall was bare, and the man’s eyes stayed on them, which meant Greg would have to take Cliff down. Considering that the man was armed and Greg wasn’t, that wasn’t a happy prospect.

  He loosened his grip on Carrie’s arm. With his eyes, he tried to tell her to run.

  Go!

  She saw and ignored his warning.

  The hallway was long, blank, and void of hiding spots. There was nowhere. He pushed her away anyway. She came right back.

  Cliff slowed. “Ah. Here we are, chief sir.”

  A giant holding cell sat in front of them. Inside stood a few dozen people, hanging on the bars. They didn’t look like a bunch of rebel traitors. They looked like hungry, homeless people somebody had pulled off the streets. A few wore orange prison uniforms, others wore blue municipality work outfits, but most wore regular civilian clothes like Carrie. They watched the movement around them with blank expressions that looked like they’d already given up.

  Even more frightening, the firing squad stood outside the bars in black uniforms identical to Greg’s. Most were looking out the open doors to the outside compound, talking about how things would play out and who should march in first. Early evening sunlight streamed in from the outside. So did the sound. The noise of a crowd in the commons area floated through, everybody waiting for the big show.

  Though he couldn’t see, Greg guessed some soldiers in that crowd outside—maybe even most—didn’t want to be there. They’d been recruited to fight Rigsby’s battle. They would pretend to cheer, but Greg knew better. Greg hoped Kearney remembered his warning. Leave the innocent out of the fight.

  Carrie gasped softly behind him.

  A man in the back of the cell with dark, receding hair and a long, thin face moved forward to the bars. Oliver. His shadowed eyes were huge as he watched Greg and Carrie approach.

  Greg gave Oliver a sharp shake of the head.

  Don’t react.

  He knew it looked bad: him wearing a firing-squad uniform, Carrie in chains.

  Just trust me, he begged Oliver silently. Don’t react!

  Carrie seemed to compose herself first. Then, thankfully, so did Oliver. He stood next to a man curled up in a heap, groaning on the floor. The broad-shouldered man wore the same everyday clothing he had been wearing when Greg had seen him last.

  Commander McCormick.

  From the little Greg could see, it appeared they’d beaten his former commander pretty badly.

  Greg’s pulse thundered in his ears. This was not going to end well. Carrie. Oliver. McCormick.

  All of them.

  A large screen over the heads of the firing squad showed the countdown to the broadcast. Five minutes and twelve seconds. A flag waved behind the numbers—the new flag of the United States with thirteen stripes but only one, large star in the blue corner. The clock on the screen ticked down. Five minutes. Four minutes and fifty-five seconds.

  Greg tried to push Carrie away again, praying she’d run, but somebody suddenly called his name.

  “Pierce?” One of the black-clad soldiers moved through the group. “Hey, is that you?”

  Greg froze.

  Burke, a guy who had been in Greg’s special op training group in this very place, came forward, smiling. “Dude, what happened to you? I heard you were kicked out. I thought Commander McCormick shot you for mouthing off that day.”

  “No. I was reassigned,” Greg said evenly, eyeing Cliff who listened, but hadn’t noticed the slip of the tongue. Pierce. Not Jamansky.

  Greg’s eyes darted around the small area for an exit. Backwards wouldn’t work—nowhere to hide. It would have to be forward, beyond the holding cell, into another hallway which could lead to anywhere.

  “You’ll never believe who we nabbed this morning,” his former comrade continued excitedly. Burke pointed to the holding cell. “Look who turned traitor on us. Commander McCormick. Can you believe it? McCormick quit his job earlier this week, but Oshan found him this morning, trying to weasel his way back inside. President Rigsby went ballistic when he found out. Totally nuts. Now he wants McCormick front and center on the line, which makes him my target.” Burke’s smile faltered a little. “Crazy, huh?”

  Commander McCormick didn’t turn at the mention of his name—or Greg’s voice. Greg wondered if the guy was even conscious.

  “Yeah,” Greg managed. “Crazy.”

  Growing anxious, Cliff Watson stepped forward and reached for Carrie. “Here. Let me put her in the cell for you, chief.”

  Greg’s grip clamped iron-strong on Carrie’s arm. “No. I got it. Just a minute.”

  Burke, still celebrating the reunion, called over his shoulder, “Hey, Oshan, guess who just walked in. Remember this guy from training?”

  Straight from Greg’s worst nightmare, in the middle of the firing squad, another of his fellow trainees strode forward, excited to see him.

  “Gregory Pierce!” Oshan called. “What’s up, man?”

  Greg froze.

  Cliff Watson whipped aro
und. “What did you say his name was?”

  Carrie suddenly yanked on Greg’s arm, pulling him back away—only back was the wrong way. They’d never make it.

  Oshan didn’t seem to hear Cliff’s question, and neither did Burke who, instead, gave Greg a strange look.

  “Hey, Pierce,” Burke said, pulling out his clipboard. “I don’t remember seeing your name on my list. I’m in charge of the firing squad, but I would have recognized your name anywhere. Yeah. There’s no Greg Pierce on—”

  Greg saw the movement.

  Time slowed.

  He watched Cliff Watson reach for his gun.

  With one step, Greg swung wide and punched Cliff Watson clean in the jaw. The man stumbled back into the bars of the holding cell. Grabbing Carrie’s arm, Greg leapt forward, plowing through Burke and Oshan who didn’t know what had hit them. Greg sprinted forward, breaking through the stunned group of soldiers.

  “Stop him!” Cliff roared.

  Shouts echoed through the room.

  Bullets fired off.

  Within seconds, Greg and Carrie were tackled to the ground.

  fifty-nine

  BURKE AND THE OTHERS THREW Carrie and Greg into the holding cell with everybody else. The metal bars clanked behind them.

  “No!” Greg pounded the metal bars. His wounded arm throbbed with pain, but he kept pounding. “No!”

  Oliver Simmons rushed over to them. “What happened? Why are you here?”

  “Oh, Oliver,” Carrie said. She tried to hug him, but her bound hands prevented even that. “I’m so sorry. We tried to get to you.”

  “It’s okay,” Oliver said. “I’m okay. Well, not really. Why are you here?”

  Oliver glared at Greg with a lecture Greg didn’t need to hear. Greg hated himself so deeply, so thoroughly, for leading Carrie into something that had put her at death’s doors—again—he couldn’t even bear to look at her. But he could release her hands, at least.

  He reached into his pocket for the key and unlocked her handcuffs.

  “Can you help McCormick?” he asked. “On the ground.”