The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(64)

“This is a military sweep!” a Guard yells into his megaphone. “Line up for inspection!”

The spotlights change course, and I sneak a single eye above the chipped stern. The sight overwhelms me.

My fingers clamp tighter around my knife as I take in the community farm besieged by armored vehicles, screaming State Guards, piercing searchlights, and hand-thrown surveillance drones flying above the dreaded silver nose of an unmistakable Scent Hunter. All radiate a lethal, manic energy that burns through the field and ignites my wooden hideout. It won’t be long now, they taunt. There are only so many places to hide.

I duck and cover, the drones circling above the surrounded farmhouse. Quickly, silently, I scatter the ashes of my measly fire and shoulder my pack. I pull myself overboard and sink to the ground, landing stiff on my hands and knees. A shaft of light passes over my head, and I drop to my stomach. Heat and sweat are trapped inside my clothes and boots, boiling me with the need to run.

My head and ears sting with a sudden chill, warning I’ve forgotten something.

My scarf.

I scour the grass but find nothing. The drones’ search area broadens. Their infernal blades drown out the shouts.

Leave it. Leave now.

I crawl, inch by inch, into the depths of exposed land, like a toddler trying to outswim a shark. To where? To what end?

The searchlight’s beams return, highlighting the sky above me, hunting, hungry for nocturnal prey scurrying in the dark. Rodents. Sheep. Me.

A shrill cry reaches me as I retreat. “Enough!”

Several voices join in, then I hear the taser guns. The raucous sounds of a scuffle, more stifled shouts, and then the beams of the spotlights disappear, blanketing me in darkness. The whirling hiss of the Scent Hunter falls ten yards behind me. It crashes to the ground right as the thundering boom of a sonic weapon shatters the night air.

I’m too far for its power to reach me. But the people from the farmhouses fall silent. All I hear now are the violent, amplified commands of the Guard.

“Search every house!”

“Search the fields!”

“Arrest any who resist!”

I escaped, leaving the people behind only to delay my fate.

Ava’s last words follow me as I run.

You’re a coward.

Maybe I am.





AVA

“Spaghetti.”

“I’m sorry, please repeat,” a serene, robotic voice replies.

“Spaghetti,” a voice restates doggedly.

Surrounded by soil—the soft earth a comforting stowaway companion—I lift the black tarp covering the top of the truck bed I’m stashed inside. A drive-thru food printer with a bright sign invites hungry customers to “Dine in Tuscany tonight!”

“I’m sorry, please repeat,” the machine says again.

“Spaghet-ti,” my driver enunciates slowly.

I was forced to abandon my first ride. When I heard the water truck’s autonomous system announce an upcoming highway change to I-15 South, I slipped off during a slow left turn. I waited outside another charging station for two hours before this farm truck pulled in.

The company logo across the back windshield told me the truck belongs to a local family farm. The bumper sticker shouting “Proud Father of a Wilson Bulldog” told me the truck belongs to a man from Wilson, Montana. After consulting my trusted map, I saw the route will likely head through land that used to be known as the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. Just east of Glacier County.

And right where I need to be.

“I’m sorry, please repeat,” the machine recites once more.

I silently scream with impatience. I can’t keep my legs still; my feet keep kicking up the dark soil, and I’m anxious for the truck to keep moving forward. The sun will rise in two hours, exposing me in dangerous light for the last twenty-five miles to the coordinates.

I peep my head farther out from the tarp and glare at the machine. My weary feet halt their simulated march when my eyes catch sight of Halton Roth’s face.

Wearing an elegant military uniform—a diminutive clone of his grandfather—he has Mckinley Ruiz’s arm tucked neatly into his elbow. She’s dressed in an elaborate ball gown, diamonds on her throat. Together, the couple looks absolutely regal. And powerful. With a royal wave, they greet the crowd assembled below. The advertisement excitedly invites the listener, “Join us live. A celebration seventy-five years in the making. One Child, One Nation.”

I watch Halton’s smug smile play again and again on loop. The prince of the ball and his second-place princess. White-hot anger blazes through my body. Anger that this unworthy boy brought down my family, anger at myself that I didn’t see it coming. Anger that my biggest problem used to be getting out of attending a stupid Gala with the arrogant governor’s progeny. I’d give anything to be back in that basement with Father and Mira right now.

That life doesn’t exist anymore. Focus on the task at hand.

I bring my attention back to the advertisement. “Join us live . . . One Child, One Nation.” And then it hits me.

The Anniversary Gala. The perfect opportunity for the Common to make their first strike. Everyone will be watching. We have to infiltrate the Governor’s Mansion. But how?

Together your faces can symbolize a revolution.

Another stab of anger pierces the open wound in my chest. Not anymore. My sister is gone.