Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(41)
He merely raises one shoulder, shrugging. His eyes rove back to the arena floor, to watch as the stoneskin rips the young oblivion apart.
Somehow, his reason grates on me more than anything else. It’s hard to hate him in a time like this, when I remember who he used to be. And then of course, I remember the rest. What he did to us, to our family. To my mother and sister, who were not so horrible as we were, who could not survive in the monster he made.
I wish he wasn’t my father. I’ve wished it so many times.
“How goes Shieldwall?” I murmur to keep my thoughts at bay.
“Ahead of schedule.” Not a hint of pride, just sober fact. “But transit could be an issue, once we set in on removal.”
Supposedly the second stage of my operation. The removal and transport of assets deemed useful to the Scarlet Guard. Not just Reds who would pledge to the cause but ones who can fire a gun, drive a transport, read, fight.
“I shouldn’t know—,” I begin, but he cuts me off. I get the feeling he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, if Baldy is any indication. Now that I’m gone.
“Command gave me three boats. Three. They think three boats can help get an entire island populated and working.”
Somewhere in my brain, a bell rings. And on the floor, the stoneskin raises his rocky arms, victorious. Skin healers tend to the oblivion girl, fixing up her broken jaw and crushed shoulders with quick touches. Crance will be happy.
“Does Command ever mention pilots?” I wonder aloud.
The Colonel turns, one eyebrow raised. “Pilots? For what?”
“I think my man inside Corvium can get us something better than boats, or at least, a way to steal something better than boats.”
Another man would smile, but the Colonel simply nods.
“Do it.”
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, COMMAND CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Colonel REDACTED.
Designation: RAM.
Origin: Rocasta, NRT.
Destination: COMMAND at REDACTED
-Contact made with LAMB. Her team still online, no losses.
-Assessment: CORVIUM worth an operation team. Suggest MERCY. Suggest a rush. LAMB will hand off and return to RED WEB.
-LAMB passing intelligence vital to SHIELDWALL and removal/transit.
-Returning to post.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: COMMAND at REDACTED.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED, LAMB at Corvium, NRT.
-CORVIUM suggestion under advisement.
-Captain Farley will return to RED WEB in two days.
-COMMAND split on punishment as is.
-Awaiting intelligence.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: Captain REDACTED.
Designation: LAMB.
Origin: Corvium, NRT.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED, COMMAND at REDACTED.
-Request a week.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
—You’re a special kind of stupid, kid. —RAM—
THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DECODED
CONFIDENTIAL, SENIOR CLEARANCE REQUIRED
Operative: General REDACTED.
Designation: DRUMMER.
Origin: COMMAND at REDACTED.
Destination: RAM at REDACTED, LAMB at Corvium, NRT.
-Five days. No more negotiation.
RISE, RED AS THE DAWN.
Somehow the farmhouse has begun to feel like a home.
Even with the collapsed roof, the tents wicked with humidity, and the silence of the woods. It’s the longest I’ve been anywhere since Irabelle, but that was always base. And while the soldiers there are the closest thing I have to family, I never could see the cold concrete and mazelike passages as anything more than a way station. A place to train and wait for the next assignment.
Not so with the ruin on the doorstep of the killing grounds, in the shadow of a grave city.
“That’s it,” I tell Cara, and lean back against the closet wall.
She nods and folds away the broadcaster. “Nice to see you all chatting again.”
Before I can laugh, Tristan’s neat knock jars the shuttered excuse for a door. “Got company.”
Barrow.
“Duty calls,” I grumble as I scoot past Cara, bumping her in the closed space. Wrenching open the door, I’m surprised to find Tristan standing so close, his usual nervous energy on overdrive.
“Spotters got him this time, finally,” he says. On another day, he might be proud, but something about this sets him off. I know why. We never see Barrow coming. So why today? “Signaled it’s important—”
Behind him, the farmhouse door bangs open, revealing a red-faced Barrow flanked by Cris and Little Coop.
One look at his terrified face is enough.
“Scatter,” I snap.
They know what it means. They know where to go.
A hurricane moves through the farmhouse, taking home with it. The guns, the provisions, our gear disappears in a practiced heartbeat, shoved into bags and packs. Cris and Little Coop are already gone, into the trees, to get as high as they can. Their mirrors and birdcalls will carry the message to the others in the woods. Tristan supervises the rest, all while loading his long rifle.