“Yeah, we’re headed south,” she said, panic swelling like a balloon inside her stomach. “And does this look like Colorado to you?” Her hands swept outward like windshield wipers, showcasing the barren desert scenery. The blue-green ribbon of water was gone, nothing but orangey sand and prairie scrub in all directions.
“We have to get off this train,” she shouted.
“But there’s no water. No trees—”
“Every mile farther we ride is an extra mile we have to walk.”
“Sybil, the train’s going too fast. If we get hurt out here, chances are we’ll die.”
“And if we stay aboard until it reaches the next UW depot, we’ll definitely die.”
83
District Six, Texas
KYLE MURPHY LEANED back against his desk chair. His fingers drummed against the Chi-pad he had arrogated from Jiang’s briefcase while his mind ticked off the laws he had violated: illegal search and seizure, unlawful arrest, attempted murder.
“I still say you did the right thing.”
“Jessie, I injected a prisoner with something I believed to be toxic.” His hand clamped around his forehead then smacked down against his thigh. “If that doesn’t prove I should resign, I don’t know what will.”
“Jiang said it wasn’t toxic—”
“He was lying—”
“And he was about to inject you, Kyle!” A thin chill hung on her words and migrated up his spine. “Those guys weren’t going to take no for an answer. If you strictly followed the law, you would be dead. You acted in self-defense.”
“I’d buy that argument if I’d only arrested him. The injection was vigilantism and that makes me a hypocrite ... And a criminal.”
Jessie stepped closer and latched onto his shoulders, her blue eyes gleaming with conviction. “It’s different, Kyle, because you gave him a choice. If he admitted it was toxic, you never would’ve given him the shot.”
An agitated rap resounded through the room. The heavy wooden door opened, and Gary rushed inside. “Governor, we’ve got a dead prisoner.”
“Jiang?” Kyle asked, emotions teetering between guilt and vindication.
“No. Kang, the guy from the massacre,” the sheriff told him.
“How?” Kyle leapt to his feet, grabbing the Chi-pad, and lumbered toward the door.
“His neck was snapped. The others aren’t talking, but I’d bet it was payback for tipping us off about the vaccine,” Gary said as they bustled down the stairway. “I’ve isolated them. You get anywhere with Jiang’s tablet?”
“No. It’s password protected.”
Gary exhaled a slow leak of disappointment and opened the door to the holding room. “I doubt he’ll give it up.”
“He doesn’t have to,” Kyle said. “It’s facial recognition.”
Gary unlocked Jiang’s cell. Seeing the Chi-pad, the prisoner defiantly lowered his face and tucked his chin to his chest. Gary and Deputy Turner hefted him onto his feet and wrenched back his head. Like an angry cobra, Jiang whipped to the right and sank his fangs into Turner’s arm. Instinctively, Gary punched him in the stomach, knocking air from his lungs and unlocking his jaw.
Kyle quickly took his picture, then the deputy and sheriff retreated from the cell.
“Did he break the skin?” Kyle asked.
With a fluttering hand, Turner rolled up his sleeve. Bright red indentations mapped each tooth, but there was no blood.
“Thank God.” Kyle’s glance traveled to Jiang, a gasping, lump on the floor. Was he trying to infect the deputy?
Craving answers, Kyle turned his attention to the Chi-pad which displayed an aerial view of the sheriff’s station. Measly dots speckled the rooftop—several open red rings, a large blob of white, and one solid yellow dot.
Kyle clicked on the red ring closest to his location. A window opened, bearing a picture of Deputy Turner. His conversation with Gary began playing through the Chi-pad speakers.
Alarmed, Kyle made a slashing motion across his throat and waved for both men to follow him. He pried his phone from his pocket, placed it on the reception desk, and gestured for Gary and Turner to do the same. All three men entered the sheriff’s office.
“The Chinese are eavesdropping, even when our phones aren’t in use.” Kyle gave a brief demonstration then added, “They’re also using them to track our locations.”
“So they know we’re holding Jiang and his buddies?” Gary asked.
“And that I injected him,” Kyle added, fingers raking his rapidly graying hair.
“What’s the big white spot?” Turner pointed, and his finger accidentally contacted the touch screen. Dozens of empty windows popped open in swift succession.
It took Kyle almost a minute to close all thirty-five, then he clicked on the solitary yellow dot. Four boxes appeared in the window, each with its own paragraph of Mandarin writing.
Turner whistled and said, “What in the name of sweet Jehoshaphat is that?”
The first box contained the silhouetted shape of a face, a symbol commonly used to indicate no picture was available. Posted inside the second box there were large, black numbers that fluctuated between 90 and 110 and were superimposed above a beating heart.
The third box read 37.97 degrees Celsius. “That’s about a hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” Kyle said, thinking aloud. Beneath it, a red line graphed the temperature change over time. The final box exhibited a horizontal bar that bore an eerie resemblance to a video game health continuum, the ones that gauged a character’s remaining life.
A flurry of miniature muscle spasms spread throughout Kyle’s body.
Uncontrollable outrage? he asked himself. Or raw fear?
“It’s Jiang. Something inside that syringe is monitoring his vital signs and he’s running a fever. We need to quarantine him!”
84
Barclay Air Force Base, Colorado
FRANNY MARION SAT on a cot, back propped against the bars of the jail cell, feet protruding beyond the frame while Gwen paced the eight-foot space like a human pendulum ticking off minutes.
“I still don’t understand how Andrews can do this,” Gwen whined. “We’re Americans. What happened to our rights?”
“I already explained it to you,” Franny said, growing impatient. “Andrews declared us terror suspects, which means he can hold both of us with no charges, no lawyer, and no trial.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong—well, except for stealing those antibiotics. And Ty—that was an accident.”
“It has nothing to do with the antibiotics or Ty,” Franny said. “Andrews is holding me because he needs you to translate the files on that laptop.”
“Then he should ask nicely instead of treating me like a criminal. He deserves a good smack upside the head.”
“He saved your life. It wouldn’t take long for the peacekeepers to find you—not with that GPS transmitter in your arm—and they would shoot you on sight. You owe Andrews a thank-you.”
Looking weary, Gwen’s arms folded as if hugging herself. “So if I agree to translate the files for him, he’ll let you go?”
“Frances Marion! On your feet!” Two Military Policemen unlocked the cell door, and a dense thudding of metal echoed against the concrete walls.
“Is this really necessary?” she asked as they shackled her hands and feet.
“Yes, ma’am. You’ve been characterized as extremely dangerous.”
Grinning at the compliment, Franny shuffled through a long corridor into a tiny interrogation room. The gray cube of cement was soundless except for the rustling of her chains. The MPs seated her at a dented steel table that blended into the drab walls and floor, then they left, locking the door behind them.
Franny anticipated a prolonged isolation, a mental game designed to rattle a suspect and dupe them into becoming more talkative. Knowing Andrews would ultimately walk through that door made it feel more like a passive-aggressive game of foreplay. Her mind strayed back to that unexpected kiss, which was surprisingly pleasant. It
was brash, and possessive, and managed to generate as much passion as their verbal sparring. Was the kiss really that potent? Or was it just the shock value?
A full hour later, the door creaked open. “Hey, it’s the kissing Captain!” She saluted sarcastically with her right hand, chains clanging against the table.
Although his expression never wavered, emotion glinted in his eyes. Annoyance, amusement, vulnerability? She couldn’t quite decipher it.
“Enjoying your accommodations?” he asked, smirking as he settled onto the chair opposite her.
Franny denied him the satisfaction. “Hell yeah! A shower beats fifty-degree river water any day. Clean clothes. Hot meal. Real bed. Roommate could’ve been better.” Franny punctuated the statement with a theatrical kiss.
Caught off guard, Ryan’s honey-brown eyes grew large. He rocked back a fraction. “Speaking of Gwen Ling. How long have you known her?”
“Since freshman year of college. Twenty-four years. Let me save us both some time, Captain. Yes, Gwen is a naturalized American citizen. No, she’s not a traitor; she had no idea the Chinese were tracking her. Yes, she’s willing to help you translate those files. And yes, you can trust her. Now can I go?”
“Go where? We collapsed the air shaft and entombed all your weapons, explosives, and supplies.”
“You think I only have one cache of goodies?” Franny extended her hands, urging him to unlock the cuffs. He didn’t budge. “Let’s go, Captain. I’ve got a war to fight.”
A tight-lipped smile emerged. “Gwen can’t go back and Ty’s gone. You gonna operate solo? Keep nipping at their heels?”
“Beats standing around with a thumb up the ass—like you are.”
“Hey, if you want the TEradS in this fight,” he said, index finger jabbing the air. “You’d better start putting some facts where your mouth is.”
“Fine. Give me the laptop and Gwen. The way I see it, time is a luxury you can’t afford. Hell, you took out a cell tower, killed scores of peacekeepers, and stole a computer—”
“Doesn’t sound like I was standing around with a thumb up my ass, does it?”
There was an abrasive, no-bullshit edge to Ryan Andrews that intrigued Franny. Audacious and unpredictable, unafraid to circumvent the rules—he was like a human fortress; and she intended to find out what was so heavily protected behind that tough, unflappable exterior.
“Yeah, the raid was ballsy,” Franny conceded, “which is why you need proof. Fast. And I can do that. Give me forty-eight hours.”
“And how am I supposed to verify the accuracy of Gwen’s translations?”
“You have serious trust issues, don’t you?”
A scalding anger ignited in his eyes. “Fuck you! I watched my entire team get wiped out by traitors. Twice!”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Franny said, her voice calm yet still forceful. “But if Gwen was a traitor, she wouldn’t have helped you change the password and copy the damn files in the first place.”
Andrews’ stare sliced into her, two angry brown bullets of irritation, then he stood. “Flight leaves in two hours.”
“Bound for where?”
“Texas. Congratulations, I just hired you ... as an unpaid, private contractor.”
85
Cimarron River, Oklahoma
SYBIL WATCHED IZZY throw his backpack from the speeding train. Gently, he lowered the butt stock of his rifle toward the ground and let go. The long gun twisted, spun through the sand, and barely avoided a collision with the railroad ties.
“Don’t forget, jump as far as you can from the train,” Sybil told him. “Tuck yourself into a ball and try to roll when you land.”
Izzy nodded, took three huffing breaths as if inflating his courage, then jumped. He cleared the gravel that lined the tracks and kicked up a spray of sand, his little body bounding and whirling like wind-driven tumbleweed before coming to a stop.
Sybil gazed to the south, double-checking for obstacles then threw her backpack. Her mind was chanting, “Go, go!” Her legs remained unresponsive like leaden stumps. The ground, two feet beneath her, was a blur, a giant belt sander awaiting the chance to skin her alive. Izzy was shrinking into a tiny speck as the train sped on; then Sybil’s fear of the peacekeepers broke her paralysis.
She dashed between the crates with three running steps, closed her eyes, and leapt. Time decelerated. She seemed to hang in the air long enough to dread the moment of impact. Sybil pulled herself into a fetal position, then the left side of her body struck the ground. Breath rushed from her as she tumbled. Sand was everywhere, and when she finally came to a stop, she heard someone say, “You all right, Darlin’?”
The voice was masculine with a southwest twang; and for a second, Sybil thought it was her father. He had always called her darlin’.
“I think so,” she said to the tall man striding toward her. “Just a few scrapes and brush burns.”
Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, his left hand clutched the butt stock of a rifle, its barrel inclined against his shoulder, aimed skyward. Curious, dark eyes peeked from beneath the rim of a stained cowboy hat. An ugly purple bruise marred the left side of his forehead, above the temple, and despite his rough, leathery skin, there was an inherent kindness in his face.
Proffering a hand to help Sybil up, he said, “I’m Pastor Peter Muhlenberg, and you are?”
“Sybil Ludington. And that,” she said, arm outstretched to the north, “is Izzy Bissel.” He was running with a backpack bobbing from each shoulder, his rifle up, prepared to come to her rescue.
“Whoa, don’t shoot, Son,” Muhlenberg shouted, making no effort to ready his weapon. “I mean you no harm. Just huntin’ for prairie dogs and snakes.”
Izzy lowered his rifle; and after another round of introductions, Pastor Muhlenberg said, “That was a mighty crazy thing to do, jumping off that train.”
“We didn’t have a choice,” Izzy told him. “It was goin’ the wrong way.” From his backpack, he removed a bottle of water for himself and Sybil then offered one to the pastor along with a bag of dried fish. “It tastes pretty crappy, but it’s all we’ve got.”
“I appreciate the Christian gesture, but you keep that for yourself, Son.”
“Actually, it’s not so Christian,” Sybil confessed. “We stole it from the UW. That’s a sin, isn’t it?”
Chuckling, Muhlenberg said, “Darlin’, I sincerely doubt it. So what in heaven’s name are you two doing out here?”
“Trying to find my dad,” Izzy said. “He’s a member of the TEradS.”
“Well, I’ve got a horse-drawn wagon about a mile from here. Maybe I can give you a ride. Do you know where your father is, Son?”
“Barclay Air Force Base.”
“Whoa, that’s at least two hundred miles away. Too far for ol’ Moses to haul that wagon,” the pastor said, hitching his hat higher along his forehead. “But just ‘cause I don’t see a way, don’t mean the Lord can’t make one.”
“We’re also warning people about the peacekeepers,” Sybil told him, retrieving her journal. “They’re doing all kinds of horrible things. You can read it for yourself.”
With a polite nod, he accepted the journal and each time the pastor turned a page, he seemed to grow sadder. After he finished reading, he closed his eyes in prayer. Minutes elapsed then he unhooked the pen and scrawled a new chapter.
“Why don’t y’all come back into town? We’ll put our heads together and our knees to praying on how to get-cha up to Barclay.”
“We can’t,” Sybil told him. “Not if the UW is there.”
“Don’t you fret, Darlin’. I know how to hide things from those troops.” Pastor Muhlenberg waggled his rifle as evidence. “They’ll never know you’re there.”
86
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
JUST AFTER 1400 HOURS, the C-130 cargo plane touched down hard, sending a jolt of pain through Abby’s ribs. She met Bradley’s mute expr
ession of concern and gave him a stealthy wink.
Emotionally, she had disintegrated last night in a series of sporadic, sweeping waves. She had started with a synopsis of the hazing—the foot roasting, the countersign, and the terror of being strung up on the swing set. Without uttering a word, Bradley’s fingers had gently combed through her hair. His protective embrace had soothed and reassured her, but she had felt his muscles tensing, heard his teeth grinding coincident with her tears.
Abby had sniffled through the UW ambush and crumbled again over Ty’s feigned torture—the needle prick, the dry fire, the threat of manicure by pliers.
Once all her emotions had been purged, she’d apologized for falling apart.
“Don’t be sorry,” Bradley had told her, “because if you don’t deal with your emotions, they’ll deal with you—at the most inopportune moment ... And besides, I was an even bigger basket case when I thought I lost you. If your meltdown was a Barrett .50, mine was a Howitzer.”
Bradley chronicled the morgue break-in and the missing cut on the corpse. He had detailed Captain Andrews’ refusal to listen, the outpouring of support at her funeral, and his plan to go AWOL to search for her.
As the C-130 taxied to a stop, Abby was scheming to recreate the candlelit dinner they had shared back at Sugar Lake. She smiled, recalling how he had convinced her it was snake meat rather than chicken. They had made love for the first time that night, another memory she hoped to relive before she was reassigned to a new team.
“What’s that grin all about?” Bradley asked.
“Re-engaging.”
Enthusiastic surprise shone in his hazel eyes. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”
He slung Abby’s rucksack strap over his right shoulder, his own gear over his left, and she was about to protest when he cut her off. “When you’re healed, I’ll let you schlep it yourself.” Then he mumbled, “But I won’t like it.”
The TEradS exited the aircraft single file with Captain Andrews leading the procession across the tarmac. Given the six weeks Abby had trained at this base and the proximity to her parents, arriving at Langden felt like a homecoming.
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