I curl my right hand around the handle of the blade and casually remove my hand from my pocket, keeping the knife just under my thigh, the flat of the blade against my pants.
This will have to be quick, I think. Very quick, or I’m dead.
Despite the fact that Harry wants to keep me alive — for the sole purpose of hanging my kidnapping over Chris’s head — I know for a fact that these Omega guards won’t hesitate to kill me if I make a move.
So I’ll get one chance, and only once chance.
I realize that the drive to the crest of the hill was only about ten minutes, so I count to sixty over and over again until I reach five minutes. We are in the middle of fog, with no one around us or beside us.
I steel my nerves.
I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on the handle of the knife. I am still buzzing with adrenaline and anger from seeing the missile strikes on Monterey, so I take advantage of the fearlessness that comes from fury. I move quickly. I use my left hand to grasp the head of the guard on my left. I grip his hair, sliding my fingers under his helmet and slamming his head against the seat in front of him. I jam the blade into the base of his skull, where the brain stem connects to the spine. I feel the blade slice through flesh, crunch through bone.
I do it quickly, in a split second.
I pull the blade out as he slumps forward, paralyzed.
The guard on my left is a second too slow. He makes a move to grab the knife, but I turn my body and place my boot on the door of the pickup, using the flat of my back as a sort of shield. I use the leverage I have against the door to push back and turn, thrusting the knife in the back of his neck, as well. It is a painful, horrible injury and he is momentarily frozen with the shock. I jab again, compounding the lethal blow.
My hands are slicked with hot, sticky blood.
I wrench the rifle out of the guard’s hands — the one on my left — and shove the cold, steely muzzle of the weapon into the back of the driver’s skull.
“STOP THE TRUCK!” I command.
He veers off the road, diving into a chain link fence and a grove of weeds. I hit the center console as the truck runs its tires into the dirt and the driver throws the vehicle into park. Heart pounding, I say, “Get out of the truck and throw your weapon on the ground.”
The driver barely manages to stumble out the door, tossing his rifle onto the ground, along with his knife. He heaves and then pukes onto the grass, shaking. I crawl into the front seat and jump outside.
I sling the rifle over my shoulder and grab the driver’s weapon.
“Give me your ammunition,” I say.
He does. He is pale. Sick.
“See this fence?” I say, nodding to the chain link fence. “Put your hands flat against it and stare at the ocean. Count to five-hundred. You move and I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.”
He does as he’s told, wrapping his fingers around the chinks in the fencing, silent. I open the back door of the pickup and drag the dead guards on the ground.
I feel a twinge of guilt, of sadness.
And then it’s gone. I have no room for mercy in my heart today.
I take their guns and clips, too. I kick the side of the first guard’s boot.
“You’re wrong, by the way,” I say, turning to the guard grasping the fence. “The people with the stronger forces don’t win. The people with the stronger spirits do.”
I turn my back on the dead guards and the pitiful driver and slide behind the wheel of the pickup. I look at the fuel tank. Almost completely full. Finally, a stroke of good luck. I throw the truck into reverse and tear away from the fence, screeching onto the road, leaving hot, burnt rubber marks on the asphalt.
I see a sign that reads Cabrillo Highway, Highway 1.
I take the road, racing at breakneck speed through the fog.
My heart is still racing, my breath is short. I am covered in blood. It’s still warm, and it makes me sick. Sick that I have to kill people to save my own life. Sick that I have to kill people to save the lives of others.
I have so much blood on my hands.
The image of the Virgin Mary and the crucified Jesus flashes through mind.
“I’m not a murderer,” I whisper aloud. “I’m a soldier.”
I repeat those words until I believe them.
I hit the city limits of Seaside, just minutes away from downtown Monterey. I know that I am out of enemy territory when I see the United States Military vehicles driving down side roads. But the atmosphere is different, now. The calm structure of safety is gone. Black smoke is rising from the shorelines, smearing the sky with darkness. There are sirens. A pall has been cast over the city.
We are no longer safe. We are under attack.
We were never safe in the first place, I think.
I take the first exit, Del Monte, and floor it down the boulevard, around the corner. I reach a checkpoint and slam on my breaks. I’d forgotten about the checkpoints. Being blown up, kidnapped and barely surviving an escape rattled my brain a little more than I’d like to admit.
The checkpoint is made up of a barrier of sandbags and roadblocks. There is a guardhouse. Two National Guardsmen exit the building and walk to the window, weapons held tightly in their hands.
“Cassidy Hart,” I say. “Commander, Senator. I don’t have identification, I just—”
“Commander,” the first guy says. He’s fairly young with bright red hair. “We thought you were killed off the coast.”
“I should have been,” I reply.
“We’ll get you an escort into the city,” he replies. “This way, ma’am.”
I get out of the truck, toting the rifle and the ammo magazines with me. I leave the truck running and another National Guardsmen jumps behind the wheel, taking the truck away.
“You need a medic,” the redhead says. “Where are you wounded?”
“This isn’t my blood,” I answer.
He nods.
We walk into the guardhouse. It is a tiny building with a desk and a radio.
“I need you to get a message to Commander Young first,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell him that I’m alive, and that I’ll meet him wherever he wants.”
The guy picks up the receiver on the radio.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“That should do it.”
I look at the name tape on his uniform: O’Byrne.
“Thank you,” I say.
“They’re going to be happy that you’re alive,” he replies.
He squeezes the radio set.
“This is Eagle Eye to Home Run,” he says. “Come in, Home Run.”
A woman’s voice answers. It is Vera Wright.
“This is Home Run, Eagle Eye. What’s your situation?” she asks.
“Home Run, we’ve got good news,” O’Byrne says. “I’ve got Yankee One here in the guardhouse with me, alive and ready to get back in the game.”
A pause.
“Unbelievable,” Vera replies, matter-of-fact. “I’ll relay the news to the council and the officers.”
“Yankee One wants to know where she should meet Alpha One and the rest of his unit,” O’Byrne says, watching my face.
“The Wharf,” Vera answers. “Immediately.”
“Over and out, Home Run.”
“Over and out.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Vera didn’t say that Chris was dead.
He’s alive, he’s alive. Good news.
“Is there anyone else I should radio before we take you to the wharf?” O’Byrne asks. “Maybe Costas? He’s been going crazy trying to track you down. He was convinced you weren’t dead — he was even down here earlier this morning, asking us if we’d seen you.”