Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(49)

Chase came up beside us. His gaze flickered to mine, just for a moment, but I concentrated on the task. “Hell of a burn,” he commented.

“Thanks,” Sean said tightly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Chase stood silently for some time, watching me work, and I chewed my lip, remembering how stupid I’d been to kiss him in the truck.

Finally he said, “We should change the plates on the truck first thing tomorrow.”

I smiled as he walked away.

*

“WHOA.” Billy’s voice came from within the office, just as I was helping Sean back into his shirt. “They hooked you up! I had to build a machine out of spare parts and cruiser panels to access the mainframe.”

As I approached, I saw the source of Billy’s fascination: a computer, scanning equipment, and a printer atop a wooden desk. A shoulder-high gun safe was in the back corner, beneath a flat window revealing the bright blue afternoon sky. I shied away from the open area instinctively.

“Only the best for the FBR,” said Marco. Several people chuckled. It took a few seconds to realize he wasn’t joking.

“Don’t freak out.” Cara smirked. “They’re still on the payroll.”

“Soldiers and resistance?” I clarified.

“Article Nine, at your service,” said Polo, referencing the new Statute that would punish rebels to the full extent of the law.

“Turncoats,” grumbled Tucker. He snorted when every eye shot to him, and raised his hands in surrender. “Tough crowd. Not like any of us are any better.”

“Then why are you here?”

Sean laughed uncomfortably from the doorway. Obviously Tucker had told him nothing of why we hated each other.

“It was a joke,” he said. “A bad one.”

Was it just a joke? Directing Tucker to the largest safe house on the Eastern Seaboard felt like pulling the pin out of a grenade and throwing it into a playground. I felt a wave of responsibility that I should somehow stop him, but how could I, after he’d saved Sean and me in the fire?

Marco was eyeing me curiously. “You look familiar,” he said, taking a seat behind the desk.

“A lot of people say that.” I twisted the gold band around my ring finger.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Marco. “Hey, Polo, come look at this.” Needing to see exactly what they did, I skirted around the desk for a better look at the screen.

It was my picture from the reformatory that had been posted around the Square. My eyes were red and swollen from crying after the arrest, and my hair was a natural brown and long past my shoulders. I still had stretches in my school uniform from where Beth had tried to pull me away from the soldiers. I read the caption just below it, but it didn’t scare me as it had before. I guess the shock had worn off.

Ember Miller, it said. ARTICLE 5. Wanted in association with Region Two-fifteen sniper murders. My stats and charges were listed below.

“I figured they’d already closed your case,” said Polo conversationally.

“Oh, don’t play coy,” said Marco, big eyes bugging at me. “If I print out your photo, will you give me your autograph?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at how genuinely awestruck he sounded.

“Make sure you sign it Love, Sniper,” said Cara. The chill in her tone melted my smile.

“She’s not the sniper,” Chase insisted. “She doesn’t know the sniper. She’s being framed.”

He was right to put a stop to it; I’d seen what happened to the people who gave the MM information about me and it was no laughing matter.

“Told you,” said Polo, resigned. He shoved Marco’s shoulder. “You know, I met him once,” he added.

“Here we go,” groaned Marco.

“What?” Polo looked injured.

“He met this guy in Chicago like, ten years ago who said the way to break down the FBR was to go to a public place and take out one soldier at a time,” explained Marco. “As if no one’s ever had that idea before.”

“It was like … four … or five years ago,” Polo pointed out. “And anyway, he was tough. He’d fought overseas, before the War. He showed up at the FBR enlistment office in old army fatigues, spouting all this stuff about how President Scarboro and his Restart America buddies were behind the attacks.”

“What?” I stole another bottle of water. “Insurgents were behind the attacks.” I’d memorized the word from the news reports we’d watched in my living room, but it wasn’t until high school that I learned what it actually meant.

The people who had bombed the major cities weren’t terrorists from a foreign land, though many suspected that’s where they’d gotten their support. They were American citizens. They were born and raised in our towns, in our schools, and held jobs that weren’t particularly special.

But they were poor, even though they were educated, and even though they worked. They lived like my mother and I did, paycheck to paycheck, and when the money wasn’t coming in, on what assistance they could find. One of the Insurgents was the manager of a restaurant—a normal looking guy with a receding hairline—and when he gave his statement before execution he said that he was tired of sleeping in the back of the kitchen, feeding his kids rich people’s scraps. He just wanted to level the playing field.