Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(27)

“It’s a fake.”

“You … faked an MM document?” I was baffled for only an instant before the floodgates opened. “Well, where is she then? She didn’t have a trial? Did they put her in rehab? Oh, God, was she hurt?”

“Don’t forget to breathe,” he said under his breath.

“Chase! You have to tell me what’s going on!”

There were dark shadows under his eyes that I did not understand. He looked to the side, as though the answer were hidden somewhere in the foliage, and then raked one hand through his black hair. I was getting a very bad feeling about all the things he wouldn’t say.

“I promised her I would get you out of there.”

“You promised—”

“My CO thinks I’m assisting with an overhaul in Richmond.”

I didn’t know what an overhaul was. I didn’t immediately understand why Chase was here when he’d been ordered to be somewhere else. None of it made sense.

“Is she still in jail?” I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff, anticipating a horrible fall.

“No.”

The pieces came together too slowly in my impatient brain. My mother was free. I was free. Rebecca and Sean were right: There were no more trials. And as for Chase …

“You’re not a soldier anymore. You’re a runaway, too.”

“It’s called AWOL,” he said flatly.

I stared at him, remembering what Rebecca had said about Sean running away, how the MM would punish him for defecting. Chase had condemned himself by bailing me out. My mother had asked him to risk his life for me. I couldn’t think of what this meant, if he might not be so terrible after all. I could only think of her and how we were free and whether we were in more or less danger than I’d previously anticipated.

Chase braked suddenly, and made a hard right down a hidden path that I never would have noticed had he not turned just then. After a curtain of low-hanging tree limbs, we came upon a clearing, where an ancient seventies-era Ford truck was parked. The maroon paint was peeling off in bubbles from the side paneling, and the step bar beneath the door was warped by orange rust.

I looked down at my bound wrists. If Chase had intended to reunite me with my mother, why was I still in restraints? Why were we parking in a deserted clearing miles off the main road? I became increasingly aware of how isolated we were. I’d trusted him once, but after what I’d seen at reform school, being alone with a soldier didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“If she’s free, why didn’t you just tell me?”

He heard the tremor in my voice and looked over. His eyes held a depth of guarded emotions.

“That’s a major FBR route we were on, in case you didn’t notice. Any one of those soldiers could have stopped us if they’d been suspicious.”

I thought of how focused he’d been while driving, watching each MM vehicle that passed, demanding silence. He’d been fearful. If we were caught, his life would be at risk.

A moment later he reached into his hip pocket and retrieved a large folded knife. I siphoned in a tight breath, and for an instant I forgot that it was Chase. I saw a weapon and a uniform, and before I could process anything else, my bundled fingers were jerking at the door handle. It didn’t open. A small cry let loose from my strangled throat.

“Hey! Easy. I’m just going to cut the restraints,” he said. “Jesus, who do you think I am?”

Who did I think he was? Not Randolph, preparing to murder me in the woods. But not my friend. Not my love. Not a soldier, either, apparently.

“I have no idea,” I answered honestly.

He scowled but didn’t respond. The knife flipped open, and adeptly he cut the straps off. The second the task was done he jerked his hands away and unlocked my door from his side. I rubbed my wrists, willing my breath to come more steadily.

An instant later he was out of the van, leaving me in a haze of confusion.

I tore out of the seat after him, toward the truck. My feet splashed through cold puddles of mud.

“So where is she?”

Chase jerked open the rusted door, threw his shoulder into the seat, and popped it forward. A stuffed canvas backpack was revealed, along with a large box of matches, bottled water, a steel pot, and a knitted blanket. He emerged with a screwdriver and returned to the MM transport.

“Not here.”

He pushed aside the utility box in the back of the van, ripping away a section of loose carpet covering the floorboards. There waited a slender metal rectangle, which he removed before slamming the trunk closed. A license plate.

“Did you … steal that truck?” I asked after a moment. My mouth was hanging open.

“Borrowed it.”

“Oh my God.” Was he crazy? The MM was probably looking for us right now, and he had stolen a car? I felt a jolt of panic echo through me.

What else would you have him do? a small voice inside my head asked.

He began screwing the license plate in place beneath the tailgate of the truck. “Minnesota” was written in blue letters over an image of a fish jumping from the river to snag a fly.

“Don’t freak out,” he said without looking up. “It was abandoned.” He placed the screwdriver handle between his teeth and rattled the plate with both hands to make sure it was secure.