Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(32)

“We’re moving,” called Chase from the outside of the truck. I shoved the cartridge in my pocket, and with a conceding sigh, slipped the necklace over my head.

“Can’t hurt,” I said aloud, remembering what Chase had told me about protection.

*

CHASE stayed close as we raced west toward the resistance hideout. Both our uniforms were slung over his back in a black trash bag, but the gun, I knew, was still tucked in the waistband of his pants beneath that holey sweater. Up ahead, Riggins scouted the way for soldiers, but I remained watchful anyway. I was pretty sure my safety wasn’t his top priority, despite his show of support at the garage.

The streets were littered with storm debris. Tree limbs, broken glass blinking in the early morning sun, sopping Statute circulars. Fallen power lines that probably were out of commission in this area anyway. I could only imagine what had become of Tent City or the Red Cross Camp in the park, and again felt concern for Sean tingle at the base of my neck. The air smelled like dirt and moisture, cleared, finally, of the crematorium’s thick white smoke that hung like death over the city.

I tried not to think about that place.

My pulse didn’t slow until we crossed the threshold of the Wayland Inn. The foyer was thick with bitter cigarette smoke, emanating from a man sitting on a stool behind the counter. Orange hair, bright as a flame, leapt from his head, and his eyes were bloodshot from too much gambling with the boys.

His name was John, and he was the landlord at the Wayland Inn. I’d only seen him a couple times in the past month, as I so rarely left the fourth floor.

“Your rent’s due for next month, darlin’. Can’t hide forever.” His words flowed with a faint Irish rhythm.

I winced. Though his other tenants had to pay, those in the resistance fed his nicotine addiction, and we had returned without a carton of Horizons brand cigarettes.

“We’ll get you next time,” said Chase. He switched the bag of uniforms to his other shoulder.

“I’d always take a kiss,” he said with a devilish gleam in his eye.

“You’re not really my type,” said Chase.

John laughed. “You’ll come around.” He winked so pathetically at Chase that I couldn’t help but laugh.

We bypassed CJ the stairway guard—a seemingly drunk, homeless man with dreadlocks—and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Each step closer to resistance headquarters brought more relief. I couldn’t wait to tell Wallace and Billy of our success. I hoped it would overshadow the fact that Tubman and Cara had left without his approval. I wasn’t yet sure how we were going to break that to him, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be pretty.

With Chase on my heels, I pushed through the stairway door, which led to a long corridor lined by old beige wallpaper and stained blood-red carpet. Billy’s mangy black cat curled around my calf, purring her greeting.

Home. It wasn’t the home I’d always dreamed of, but the feeling was there, nonetheless, and I smiled, because I’d finally earned the right to stay here.

Raised voices in the hallway drew my attention. We weren’t the only ones back. Chase veered into the surveillance room to see if there were any new updates to the mainframe, but I wasn’t ready for bad news, not after completing my first mission. I sped toward the supply room, netted by the gathering crowd blocking the way, and warmed at the sight.

Sean was standing just outside the supply room door, hands behind his head, stretching his back. He looked worn out and dirty, and as I pushed through the others I could smell the mud and sweat on him. It didn’t matter; I was glad he was safe. Without a second thought, I wrapped my arms around his waist.

“You’re back,” I said, relieved. “God you stink.”

He squeezed me tightly, ruffling my hair into knots. “Like you smell so much better.”

The greeting party made for a tight fit in the hall, and when he tried to avoid my punch he backed into Lincoln, who, when he saw me, said, “Hey, you’re alive,” and slapped me on the back. Houston, just behind him, offered his congratulations as well.

Sean pulled me off to the side. For the first time in weeks he looked genuinely happy about something.

“The new guy remembers Becca coming through the base,” he said. “He never saw her before she went to Chicago, but he remembers her name from the inmate roster.”

A smile spread across my face. Finally we had a lead.

The way cleared momentarily, revealing the recruit within the supply room. I could see only his profile, but his face was scruffy, his blond hair oily, and his muscular shoulders bowed. He wore donation-bin black slacks and a gray, long-sleeve thermal, rolled up to the elbows to reveal a scuffed cast half-torn off one arm. From where I stood I could see the faint pink lines of three parallel scars clawed from ear to collar.

Fingernails had scratched those marks.

My fingernails.

Tucker Morris.

There was a moment of fear. Crystallized, unbreakable fear, that congealed the blood in my veins and iced the breath in my throat. A moment where the frenzied images petrified me. The arrest. The hatred in his eyes. The taste of his breath. Those words I’d heard over and over again: I’m a damn good soldier. I did what needed to be done.

And then fury consumed me, and without another thought I pounced. He’d followed me. He’d come to finish the job. Well, I was going to finish it first. I was going to tear him to pieces. But Sean had grabbed me around the shoulders. I fought him like a cornered animal, no longer seeing my friend, only seeing danger. Feeling it rip through my limbs. My elbow swung back and connected with his jaw and a string of curse words tore from his mouth.