I grab my wine glass, filled with water.
“Where’s Manny?” I ask, directing my mind elsewhere.
Uriah answers, “He’s somewhere in the compound. Probably talking with the Air Force, getting a feel for what they’re up to. You know Manny. He’s always got to be hanging around pilots.”
“Yeah, that’s a true story right—” I begin, cut off by an earsplitting bang. The wine glass in my hand shatters, sending small shards of glass across my cheek, into my hand.
I freeze. I comprehend the fact that something struck my glass, broke it, and kept traveling, hitting a man seated behind me at another table. He slumps forward and his head hits the table, blood spilling down the back of his white haired head.
I drop to my knees behind the table, speckles of blood appearing on my hand where the wine glass shattered. Uriah is on my right and Chris is crouched beneath the table. Yelling and screaming echoes loudly throughout the ballroom. I have already drawn my handgun. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins.
Chris yells, “KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!”
Uriah takes my arm, as if attempting to steer me away from the conflict. I jerk away, glaring. I don’t need to be led like a lost schoolgirl.
I turn my head, sensing movement behind me. I see another National Guard trooper push through the crowd and lunge at me. He’s brandishing a knife. I don’t have time to fire my gun. He is too fast and too close. I roll onto my back and kick upward, smashing the heel of my boot into his hand. The knife falls from his fingers and clatters against the floor.
He keeps coming. His one hand grabs my gun, wrenching my wrist sideways. The weapons falls to the floor. He is incredibly strong and determined to kill me any way he can. His hand closes around my throat and I feel the lack of oxygen immediately. I reach for the knife on my belt but I can’t get to it. I drive my knee into his gut with all my might. He heaves and his grip loosens. His hesitation allows me the split second I need to pull my knife from my belt.
My turn.
I grip the handle firmly and drive it up into his chest. He cries out in pain and I use the strength of my legs to push his body off mine. I pull the knife out, hot blood running down my arms. He is far from dead but he is wounded. Uriah places a boot on his throat and slams the butt of his rifle into his head, knocking him out.
I breathe hard, looking around for Chris. Where is he?
He has vanished into the chaos of the ballroom. There is a struggle in the far side of the room. I raise my head above the table just enough to see Chris take someone and slam their body against the wall. The poor sucker is crushed by the sheer power of Chris’s muscle mass.
“He’s down, he’s down!” someone shouts.
I stand up.
Chris is kneeling over a thin man in a National Guard uniform. Chris’s knee is on his chest, his hand around his throat. There is a gun just out of the man’s reach. Andrew picks up the weapon, examining it closely.
“Who is he?” I breathe.
Uriah shakes his head.
“No idea,” he says. “My best guess… an Omega spy.”
“Who are you?” Chris growls.
The man laughs. It’s a cruel sound.
“You’re going to die,” he says gruffly. “All of you. You can’t stop Omega.”
He jerks his head toward me. Even though he can’t see me — or touch me — I feel like I’ve been slapped. A dark, ugly feeling of foreboding squeezes my chest like an icy fist.
Chris punches the man in the face, and he goes out like a light.
“Take him,” Chris says, rising. He looks at Uriah.
I take a few steps closer as the guards gather the man’s limp, unconscious body. As far as anyone knew, he — and the man who tried to stab me — was a soldier in the militia just like everybody else here.
Not anymore.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “He shot the man behind me.”
I turn, seeing the dead officer at the table behind ours.
“No,” Chris replies, his voice dark. “He was aiming for you.”
He places his hand on my shoulder.
We’re not safe here, either. We’re not safe anywhere.
The shooter’s name is Luther. The man who tried to stab me is in critical condition, in a jail cell somewhere. Luther is sitting in a room with concrete walls and a one-way window. I stare at him through protective glass, watching his bloodshot eyes dart to the door.
“He’s not insane,” Devin says, standing there, arms crossed. “He’s an infiltrator. An Omega hack.”
Chris pauses. “We had an infiltrator aiming a laser at the Capitol Building dome in Sacramento,” he says. “And now you’ve got an assassination attempt on a California senator inside what should be an impenetrable compound.”
“It was impenetrable,” Devin replies. “This guy is a patrol, a grounds guard. Remember Commander Amal, the Mediator in the Negotiations? She’s the Commander of the militia group Seahawks. He’s one of her men. Supposed to be trustworthy.”
“Trusting people is the first mistake we make,” I murmur. “Trust no one.”
Devin and Chris remain silent. My words sink in and I watch the spy in the interrogation chamber. He is not a psych case. He is calmly, defiantly sitting there, fully aware of what he has done.
How is Omega doing this?
How are they planting people so blatantly within our ranks?
I say, “Let’s keep our priorities straight. We’ll find out if California was accepted into the Alliance by morning. This can wait.”
“The vote was delayed,” Devin replies. “You might not find out until tomorrow afternoon.”
I sigh.
Vera is right. How long does it take to come to a decision? California should join. Period. What’s there to talk about?
We exit the room — a dark, sterile place meant for observation of those being interrogated.
“Senator, this won’t happen again,” Devin promises. “I mean, since the EMP, we haven’t had anything like this happen here. This is a freak thing.”
“My security detail will take care of it,” I tell him, smiling slightly.
In the moments after the assassination attempt, my mouth went completely dry, my hands shook and I felt slightly faint. Something about nearly being killed in a place that I trusted to be completely safe rocked my core.
I have confidence that Chris, Uriah, and the rest of my unit will keep me safe while I’m here — and not for my sake. For the sake of California.
By the time we reach our hotel rooms, Devin turns to Chris.
“Hey. Can I talk to you for a second, man?”
Chris nods. I stand at my hotel room door and watch the two of them wander to the end of the hall, still in sight but out of earshot. Judging by the expression on Chris’s face and the way Devin gestures to me, I’m guessing that they’re talking about me.
Shocker.
I roll my eyes and take my room key out of my pocket, slip it into the lock and open the door. It’s cool inside, musty. The dark wood of the bed and the table blend in with the floor. A solar-powered lantern is sitting on the table. I flick it on, giving the room a soft glow. Someone has cleaned and stocked the room for me. There are bottles of fresh water on the table, along with some energy bars and what looks like basic items for the bathroom.
Nice.
I grab a water bottle and walk to the window, instinctively pulling the curtains across the window. Since the assassination attempt in the ballroom, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Waiting.
I pop the water bottle open just as Devin and Chris return to my room.
“Cassidy, come out in the hall for a second,” Chris says, holding his hand out.